Terrors of the Night

Terrors of the Night.
When you are away from home it’s the nights that get to you. Sleep patterns are askew.
Especially during a Hindu festival week. No noise ordinances here. Not that the night firecrackers were overpowering. They were just relentless—like a toothache that is not that excruciating but it just won’t let up.
On my early morning walk the day previous I noticed the crescent moon coming over the mountains just before dawn. Must be new moon tomorrow, I said to myself. I did not have the wit to know that many cultures center significant events around the new moon. Tonight I figured it out—at 3AM. All day yesterday crackers were banging away, echoing off the hills that circle the college in a green crescent opening to the south.
Stumbling out of bed I fire up my trusty MacBook to call up Wikipedia from the digital deep. Ms. Wiki had this to say about Diwali. (Or Divali – have you noticed Indian speakers of English pronounce all v’s as w’s and vice versa?)
"Festival of Lights," where the lights or lamps signify victory of good over the evil within every human being. Diwali is celebrated on the first day of the lunar Kartika month, which comes in the month of October or November. In many parts of India, it is the homecoming of King Rama of Ayodhya after a 14-year exile in the forest, after he defeated the evil Ravana.[4] The people of Ayodhya (the capital of his kingdom) welcomed Rama by lighting rows (avali) of lamps (deepa), thus its name: Deepavali. This word, in due course, became Diwali in Hindi. There are many different observances of the holiday across India.
Firecracker Concerns
Nowadays there is a significant growth in campaigns on creating awareness over the adverse impacts of noise and air pollution. Some governments drive to keep the festival less noisy and pollution-free. The Tamil Nadu Pollution Control Board has banned production of crackers with noise levels of over 125 decibels.[14] In survey of UP Pollution Control Board, it was revealed that the emission of smoke was found more in the light illuminating fire crackers. Levels of SO2 (Sulphur dioxide) and RSPM (respirable suspended particulate matter) was found marginally higher on Diwali day. Crackers, which use large quantities of sulphur and paper, spew out sulphur dioxide and charcoal into the air, also lead and other metallic substances are suspended in the air causing respiratory problems.[15] Considering these facts, bursting of crackers is prohibited in silent zones i.e. near hospitals, schools and courts.
Notice it does not mention theological colleges nor monasteries. Just over the wall from this house there is a Tibetan Buddhist monastery. So we are not in a quiet zone. “Good over Evil—my foot! Robbing a man of his sleep!
OK. No problem. It’s not much different from Fourth of July back home on Liberty Street where the Mahoney’s next door light the sky for an hour or two—except here there are only “bangs” with nothing to see in the night sky. And they go on for hours—in many homes and hovels of the Hindus surrounding us. Background noise all day and into the night. You’d think you were in a Los Angeles gangland.
Then the neighbors all went to bed, I guess. The noise stopped and woke me up. That’s a strange phenomenon—but it happens. At home I hear the refrigerator every time it stops, but not while it’s running. Bizarre.
So what goes through the mind in these night watches?
Let’s start with prayer. OK – but I’m not trained as a monk, so that lasts only a few minutes.
We move on to people. Nice. People back home like you. Family. And then there is my wife, the idol of my life, singing, “Roll a ball a bowl a penny pitch.” You’re too young to remember that silly ole top ten tune from last century. But my brain is idling and things like that pop up from the depths of one’s depravity.
I think how my dear Ellie is facing the stealthy encroachment of winter in New England all alone. Heavy frosts creep into her garden each night to nip another rose bloom. She is stoking fireplace and wood stove, hauling wood from the porch. All my jobs, piled onto her sagging back while “her man” is basking in Indian summer in his shirt sleeves and T’s.
How come I am smiling now? I should be feeling guilty. But I’m not as good as I should be at guilt. More depravity, I guess.
Ah, Ellie. Whatever things are noble and praiseworthy, think on these things the Good Book says. So I think….
Her new novel, already in the womb of the publisher and scheduled for a C-section the first of the year, brings to mind scenes from the life of King David as she so colorfully portrays him—warts and all.
I meanwhile am lying alone in bed. I should be in bed with my mate-with-the-icy-feet. Another opportunity for guilt—but it doesn’t quite break to the surface. I recall her portrayal of David when the old guy was my age, shivering in what would be his death bed. They had to bring in the young Abishag to be the king’s hot water bottle. That sounds good—but my hot water bottle is a continent or two away.
I begin to muse on age—a cheering thought. We all try to deny it. Botox, face lifts, emoluments of all kinds, enriching the entire vanity industry. Go on. Spend your money—it won’t stop the ravages of time.
My mind goes one more step down into the cellar of the soul.
If Ellie were to write a sequel to her David novel (The Stones), I wonder if Abishag would show up? What became of that girl who warmed the dying king? My drowsy mind comes up with a poem Ellie can use to portray the once ravishing Abishag as she suffers (as all protagonists in novels do) rejection and sinks into a tragic last chapter. Her cruel husband looks at her at his side in bed. He’s no king, but he is a guy. And all guys (in this sequel’s view) are the same, right?
Turn to the last page. He is looking at her as dawn breaks after a dark and stormy night.
“What becomes of Abishag/now that she’s a shriveled hag? She no longer warms my bed/Better off if she were—DEAD!”
That’s a true-to-real-life ending if ever there was one. I can’t wait to see how Ellie will build up to this immortal climax in Bible novel II! Maybe she can title it “The Pebbles.” Law of entropy in one hot water bottle’s life and all that….
See what I mean by the terrors of the night?
And you, dear reader, are the beneficiary of this diseased mind, the Phantom of the Guest House. Blame Diwali.