The Lighthouse

By Aryashree

Not far off the coast of Port Blair, in the quaint island of North Bay lived Francis Richards, a simple, unassuming, kind man. Eighty years old he was, yet quite the robust man, just as he had been in his prime. Every morning he would wake up just in time when sunlight streamed in his lovely cottage. He would whistle merry tunes as he bustled about making tea. At the crack of noon, he would don his grey old-fashioned cap, brush his sweater smoothly and head out with a smile for everyone around. He would pass by urchins on his way, and indulge in frivolous shenanigans with them, laughing as his old eyes crinkled in mirth.

Nestled in a corner, just off the swivelling road in the heart of town, was a tiny bakery owned by a jovial octogenarian not unlike Francis himself. One would often find Francis parked on the little wooden bench in front of the bakery, with a tiny cream bun in one hand, a newspaper being flipped by the other. Some days the shopkeeper would join in, and the two would exchange stories with such elation, any passer-by that didn’t know otherwise would hope the two men needed medical attention for their bright red cheeks, breathless puffy faces, while the two wheezed and gasped in delight.

Following a long nap he usually took after lunch, Francis would carry his trusty umbrella, double check the lock on his doors like his wife used to, and make his way to the old lighthouse sitting atop a hilly terrain near the coast. One or two odd vehicles would wheel by with their high beams providing enough light for him. On some days, as luck would have it, the streets would be derelict of any vehicle, but the soft, warm glow of the moon beaming amidst the canopy of trees would sufficiently light his way. Nevertheless, Francis knew the way to the lighthouse like the back of his hand. Every step, each and every curve, bend and ridge was etched in his mind, and he could practically weave through the place in his sleep.

For as long as he could remember, the lighthouse had been a part of his life. Ever since he was five years of age, he had visited the lighthouse every single day, learning the ropes from the operator. Even on days when the little child had to stay in bed, ill and weary, his tiny hands fidgeting with anxious worry and thoughts constantly sweeping towards the little building, his mother would laugh and promise to let him go as soon as he got better. Through his teens, he had dedicated his time to being the lighthouse operator, promptly cleaning the old oil lamp and changing wicks. As he grew older, and technology took the old town by storm, Francis was left with little to do in his job. The old fading oil lamps were all replaced by high-end power operated light beam mechanisms. There wasn’t anything that had to be done, really, but Francis still held on to his dear key, travelled every night and spent much of his time dreaming of excitement. He would whistle sombre tunes on silent nights, thinking of sailors long at sea. During rough turbulent nights, he would clutch his tiny pair of binoculars and glance into them without a moment’s passage, eagerly hoping there would be some escapade on sea, a misfortune, an opportunity for him to swoop in and save the day. Although anything of such magnitude could never happen, his childish desires, along with the tiny amounts of guilt at even such a ghastly thought, evoked a whole fantastic realm, and he would entertain himself with such inimitable stories long into the night, before wistfully heading home with his furtive, treasured fantasies.

For quite some time now, a little girl, not more than seven years old, had been following Francis around. Francis had often caught glimpses of the girl at odd times in places he usually went to, but had never thought much of it. Until one night, in the midst of a heavy downpour, Francis’ age had gotten the better of him, and the steep slope that had borne the brunt of his ankle numerous times, finally betrayed his step. He groaned and grunted in excruciating pain, and he was quite sure that something or the other had broken. As he sat there cursing his bad luck, a tiny silhouette that was looming nearby came rushing to help him. The little girl helped the old man stand on one foot, and the two hobbled hurriedly to the lighthouse. Once safe inside, Francis took to berating her.

“What do you think you are doing here in the middle of the night?” he asked rather sternly.

The little girl seemed offended but was quick to defend herself.

“I saved you tonight, didn’t I?”, she retorted. “What does it matter what I’ve been doing?”

Francis raised an eyebrow. “Have you been following me?”

The girl hesitated, as though wanting to deny it. After a moment, she glanced down and quietly nodded her head.

“Why?”, asked Francis calmly.

“I like the lighthouse. People say you’ve been working here for all the years they can count. I want to be like you”, she said, gesturing all around with her tiny hands.

Francis smiled. He leaned so that he could look at the lass directly. “Well young lady, why do you like the lighthouse so much?”

The girl’s eyes lit up. “Because from up there, all the way at the top, you can see the whole world, listen to the calming waves as they hit the shore and recede, feel the wind in your hair all while looking at ships docking faraway.”

Francis was impressed. This could be his protégée, someone he could pass on to, all the stories and bits of wisdom he had accumulated over the years. For a second, he felt a surge of pride wash over him. After the haze passed, he cleared his throat and spoke softly. “You can come with me, but not each day. You must go out, play and generally be a good student in school, and as a treat, you can tag along and spend time at the lighthouse every weekend”

The girl pouted as if to protest, but quickly pursed her lips. “Deal”, she said, holding her little hand out, to which Francis laughed and shook it.

Every weekend after that, the two would get together and spin yarns of fantasies. Sometimes, the little girl would carry a tiny notebook with her and simply draw stick figures on it, squealing with wide-eyed wonder, while Francis narrated animatedly. Often times, they would put on novice skits, just the two of them running around the narrow confines of the lighthouse in scrapes and flows of fabric- sometimes pirates, sometimes do-gooders- while the whole of aquatic life stood as the only audience. They spoke of all the unexplored coves of treasure the sea hid in its mighty pleats, legends of sea fairies and mermaids, of ghosts and ghouls haunting the portholes of desecrated ships.

Francis would often narrate stories of the place to her, just as his grandfather had told him. North Bay was resplendent of stories itself, and people of all walks of life had once been there.

“You see that island over there”, he said, pointing to a mass of land at a distance. “That’s Ross Island. In my grandfather’s time, the British had made that island their paradise. They would throw incredible parties with such dance, music and celebration-- the high notes would travel all the way across the water to other islands”

“Did your grandfather go to any of these parties?”, she asked.

“Oh no, not at all. But he had a sepoy friend who used to tell him of all the festivities there. The Commissioner, Sir Charles Waterfall lived there in a huge bungalow surrounded by vast lawns with green grass and mango trees. The Bungalow itself was made out of tiles brought all the way from Italy!”

“They had ballrooms carved from ornate wood, and bands that would play jolly music while the British and Indian aristocrats danced through the night in the bedazzling electric lights”, he continued, swaying his hands as though he were dancing.

“They would play tennis and cricket, and host sailing competitions. The island came to be known for its lavish life there, and people even called it ‘The Paris of the East’”, he beamed.

“What happened to it?”, she asked, curious.

“An earthquake in 1941 ran a crack throughout the island, destroying the structures. Later, in the midst of the Second World War, Japanese troopers came to occupy the land, owing to which all of Ross Island’s inhabitants quickly dispersed, leaving the whole area deserted”. He sighed, as though he was one with the island himself.

“Fortunately, the deserted island bore the brunt of the Tsunami catastrophe that struck in 2004. In its wake, the island is left with dilapidated structures, and nature took over. Now, overgrown boughs and sanctimonious moss adorn the entire land”

“Imagine the lives of all those who lived there, oblivious to the world around them, and passing every moment in mirth”, he continued wistfully.

The two of them sat silently then, their thoughts wallowing in the times of history, glory and ramifications. The little girl later made vivid sketches of all those they spoke of, with a wild array of colours and gaudy features and Francis chuckled and proclaimed that she would be a great artist someday.

Once in the dead of the night, while the two were engrossed in fencing with dried up sticks, a familiar and furious face popped up at the lighthouse. The titillating figure just stood there, her hands on her hips, her breath caught in her throat after the arduous climb, until she regained composure and sternly said, “Sakshi Serone, just what do you think you are doing here?”

The two, lost in their epic spectacle, stood frozen in their crouched gait like statues. In the soft glow of the moon-lit night, Francis mouthed, “Do you know her?”. The girl nodded yes. She whispered ferociously, “That’s my mother”

Francis’s eyes travelled back and forth mother and daughter and after a moment, he stood up straight and smiled up at her. Mrs. Serone’s frown creased to a tight smile, and she nodded curtly. “You come here at once”, she bristled at her daughter, wiggling her index finger. Sakshi sighed loudly and rolled her eyes, but stood next to her mother nevertheless. “She will not be coming here anymore”, the mother said stiffly, dragging her daughter out.

For the next few days, a dull haze fell on the lighthouse. Francis still went there every night, and each week, his heart would flutter in anticipation, hoping by some miracle, that Ms. Serone would stride in grinning, and jubilantly declare she had permission. Without her, he would sit quietly all by himself, their spiels and acts fading slowly. When boredom got the better of him, he would pick up a bunch of stray stones, arrange them neatly and narrate stories to them. Without any reciprocation from them, he would admit poignant defeat and sometimes nod off restlessly.

The miracle he had hoped for came knocking one day. Not exactly like he wanted, but Mrs. Serone, little Sakshi’s mother came by to visit him at the lighthouse.

“I wanted to see just what the fascination was all about”, she said pleasantly, sitting cross-legged next to Francis. “Sakshi will not shut up about it. For weeks now, all she can speak about is the lighthouse. And the tales she narrates about mermaids, pirates and silly legends! It is certainly amusing”

Francis laughed heartily. “That sounds like little Sakshi. Have you seen her drawings yet?”

Mrs. Serone scorned. “Yes, those stick figure doodles she carries in that book. I don’t know what to make of it”

They sat there silently, just listening to the sound of waves. “I appreciate what you told her about the islands though. She makes it a point to tell it to everybody she meets”

“This place does carry an enchanting history”

“It is. And it’s beautiful in the way it lives. One might get lost in what the place has to offer”, she trailed.

Francis raised an eyebrow, not quite comprehending where the conversation was heading.

“I want you to scold her about these whimsical pursuits she always seems to engage in. She is an impressionable child, and she does not understand now that this lighthouse has nothing more to offer her than a glimpse into some fantasy world she has fashioned in her own mind”

“And aren’t whimsicalities a great respite these days?”

“Not when this respite turns to a full time obsession”, she said, gritting her teeth. “She must have a definitive direction in life, pursuing a career in the real world”

“Like you?”

“Like me and every other person that has their head screwed on straight at this point of time”

Mrs. Serone lit a cigarette and offered it to Francis.

“She is quite talented. You should see how her mind drifts in these tales”, he said, taking a big puff.

“What good would the drifting mind do? I would rather have her visit the islands, see and learn history on her own, than be transported with no inkling as to what lies in the real world”

“The real world does not always offer what the imagination does”, he beamed softly. “Do you know something? I’ve never set foot on Ross Island.”

She turned to look at him. “How would you know what the place looks like without actually seeing it?”

“Ah”, he chuckled, “That is the beauty of learning, isn’t it? We talk to people, we listen to stories, we read books; we dream of distant lands, worlds beyond our own, as resplendent with people as our minds deem them to be. The songs of great men travel in the wisps of air between two corners of the world and evoke feeling in you, though you never met them nor will. It is innate- this thirst to learn and wonder. And in its cocoon lies our capacities to imagine, to go beyond everything that exists- in our minds, these stories live and thrive. Tell me, what is more alluring than to spend one’s life trapped in the expansion of one’s mind?”

Mrs. Serone sighed softly. “It doesn’t always work that way”

“It does, but only for those brave and courageous”

“Courage only gets one so far. What happens when that spirit dies and one is left with nothing to salvage?”

“Ah but courage ensures the spirit never dies. Neither can exist without the other”

Mrs. Serone smirked “Anyone can throw words around loosely, Mr. Richards”

“Yet only some make good of the words”, he said, gesturing a finger to her cheek.

Mrs. Serone gasped, embarrassed, and attempted to hide the black gash on her cheek. She wondered how he could have possibly seen it in the dead of the night, but the thought of him knowing shamed her somehow.

“Are you saying I am not courageous?”, she asked, now getting up, anger seething in her.

Francis merely looked at her, not saying anything. That angered her further. “My husband and I fight- no marriage is perfect. That gives you no right to judge him, or me”, she said.

“I never said anything about your husband”, Francis whispered softly.

Mrs. Serone seemed to ponder about it for a while. She finally cleared her throat and brushed the creases on her dress. “Stay away from my daughter”, she said tightly and left without another word.

Several days later, late in the evening as Francis was about to head out, Mrs. Serone appeared at his doorstep. She gave him a bright smile and asked to come in. The wound on her face was lighter; her spirit too, it seemed. Her eyes swept over the neat tiny house, and stopped at the picture frame on the mantle.

“Is this your wife?”, she asked, picking the lithe frame.

“Yes. She passed away six years ago”

“How long were you wed?”

“Great many years-- we lost count after the first five or so”

Mrs. Serone smiled. She looked at Francis, her eyes tired and weary, and sighed. “I know what you’re thinking. You could be right even, but I can’t leave my husband”

Francis nodded slowly. “Do what you think is right”, he said softly.

She gently placed the frame back on the mantle and clapped her hands. “I have a surprise for you”, she said, taking his arm and leading him out. She motioned for him to get inside her car, and drove to the port.

“Where are we going?”, he asked, when they reached the port. She asked him to climb on to a boat docked in the bay.

“Wait and you’ll find out”, she grinned, as the boat plunged forward.

“Okay, close your eyes”, she said, as they neared an island, taking a small blindfold out of her pocket.

Francis rolled his eyes but complied nevertheless.

She held his hand, leading him inside, guiding his steps.

“I give to you, Paris of the East”, she said, removing the blindfold in a grand flourish.

The island was flooded with a litany of incandescent lights. They hung in streams, low on the ruins, entwined with the hubris. Several people stood near a broken down building, now well lit up and decorated with drapes, cheering and clapping for him. Drinks flowed, music swayed in the wind and there was plenty of food-- Ross Island was having a party!

“What . . how?”, he gasped, staring at it all in disbelief.

“I have a friend in the Navy, and he was happy to pull a few strings”, she winked. “Is this how you had always imagined it to be?”

Francis nodded, and chuckled slightly. He ran up to the building and touched one of the pillars. “The Commissioner’s Bungalow”, he whispered. The coarse structure felt coarser in his papery fingers.

Several people strode by and congratulated him on having such a grand spectacle in his honour, to which he nodded kindly. He glanced around, taking in the celebrations going around him, letting it sink in. But somehow, all his excitement seemed to dissipate. He tried to study the structure closely, each ridge and etching. He tried to feel like he belonged there, just as he felt while he would think about the Island endlessly. However much he tried, he felt rather stifled at being there, in the company of a horde of people, the bright lights almost blinding his eyes.

As quickly as he had come, he managed to slip away from the chatter of people and softly rowed back to North Bay. Docking the tiny boat, he hurried to the lighthouse, some inkling of dread catching up to him. Just as he reached the top, he laughed heartily with relief. Sakshi was sitting there, her eyes glued to the binoculars watching the scene across at Ross Island. She smiled as he came and sat next to her.

“Couldn’t take it for even a few minutes now, could you?”, she asked knowingly.

“No”, he chuckled.

“Me too”, she whispered.

The two of them sat there in the lighthouse, taking turns to see through the binoculars, making up the most hilarious conversations for all the people that thronged there. The party went on in Ross Island, one of its kind, with people chattering away, oblivious to the world around them. The party in the lighthouse had resumed too, filled with stories and tales, oblivious to the existence of the real world around them. The lighthouse had never been more content.

By Aryashree