Lightbulb

 

The herald arrived at our door mid-afternoon. She had a Sinhalese name meaning Practical. Her name dangled on a lanyard. I didn’t catch the surname. She came to foreshadow the gift of lights. To be more specific, lightbulbs. If we were so inclined, she heralded, two men will appear within the hour and replace all of our current bulbs with new bulbs. That which was old technology will be upgraded to new. Her name may well have meant Graciousness, or Inspiration. The lights in question were light emitting diode lights. This was, explained Practical, a government initiative. We pay our taxes and behold there is light. We expressed a preference for warm rather than bright bulbs, having given it some thought. Kindly light passed unexpressed through our minds. Thanking Practical for her offer, we thought it a happy day when light is offered for free. In fact, individual lights to replace each existing bulb in house and environs. One hour later the men of light arrived, as promised. They carried ladders and cameras. They started photographing each bulb that was to be replaced, whilst yet in its fitting. This is where business meets state bureaucracy, explained one of the men of light. His name was the same as a central character in Jane Austen. Upon me saying that will be a lot of pictures of lightbulbs for someone to look at, the other man responded: someone in India. His name sounded Sinhalese, but I couldn’t catch the name, nor pronounce it. They must message our bulbs to the subcontinent, I thought to myself in wonder. Cheerfully they went about the house replacing mercury-laden bulbs in chandeliers and standard lamps with cheaper longer-lasting energy-efficient LEDs. Vanilla whip bulbs out, luminous nose bulbs in. More pictures were taken of the grand array. The men of light noticed how every room had walls of shelves of books. They remarked on the sheer number of books. I explained that I run libraries, my wife bookshops, and then we come home. What is your favourite reading?, asked the Sinhalese. Poetry, I replied, wondering in my mind what favourite reading means. My favourite is Patterson, said the man from Jane Austen. Banjo!, I exclaimed, I love Banjo and started reciting “There was movement at the station …” at which he joined in and we finished the verse. Incandescent halogens were unscrewed, accumulating for the recordkeepers of India. In return, energy efficient lumens found their place. Soon the men of light had balanced old with new, hoisted their ladders through the front door and were onto their next mission. First though, they photographed all the extracted bulbs and I signed off with my fingernail on the Sinhalese’s business screen. As evening fell in late October, our house glowed with a new inner glow, warmly, in preference to brightly, efficiently in preference to costly.