The Diwali of Shadows

A memory from my younger years

Some nights do not pass.
They stay.

This happened many years ago, during my early working days, when I was living alone in a lodge in Thiruvananthapuram, in a small upstairs room near Aristo Junction.

I was young then, newly appointed in a government office. I believed in hard work, routine, and common sense. I did not believe in spirits, omens, or signs.

Those were the days when the English horror film Dracula was running successfully in town. On Diwali, a holiday, we went for a matinee show. It was my first proper horror film on the big screen. Dark halls, sudden sounds, shadows that moved when they shouldn’t.

After the movie and dinner, I went along with my friends to their rented house near the railway colony. A few of us gathered there to talk. Diwali sweets were shared. Tea was poured again and again. Someone switched on the radio softly.

Around midnight, the mood changed.

My friend from North India, Amit Srivastava, leaned forward and said, half joking, half serious,
“Shall we try a spirit call?”

“Don’t be silly,” I said. “Diwali night is not for such things.”

“Just for fun,” another friend laughed. “Nothing will happen.”

Curiosity has a soft voice.
It never pushes. It only invites.

A steel plate was placed on the floor. A pencil rested lightly on it. The tube light was switched off. Only a dim kerosene lamp burned, its flame trembling.

“If any spirit is present, give us a sign,” Amit whispered.

At first, nothing happened.

Then the pencil moved.

Slowly.

Scratch… scratch…

We froze.

“What do you want to say?” someone asked, his voice no longer steady.

The pencil wrote:

“Your time is close.”

My heart dropped.

“Repeat,” I said, trying to sound brave.

The pencil moved again.

“ Very Near.”

“Repeat… once more,” I said, fear now tightening its grip.

The pencil paused, then moved again.

“One hour.”

That phrase struck me like cold water.

“That’s enough,” I said, standing up. “I’m leaving.”

They laughed, but I did not look back.

The Walk Home

Outside, the night had turned strange.

The road was dark. Streetlights were off. Wind rushed through coconut leaves like whispering voices. A thin rain began to fall, not heavy, but sharp, needling my face.

No shops were open. No dogs barked. Even the usual late-night bus sound was missing.

Only my footsteps.

When the world becomes quiet without reason,
the mind begins to speak too loudly.

I walked faster.

I reached the lodge, climbed the narrow stairs, and unlocked my door.

Inside, my room was dark. Wind slipped through the gaps in the window. The cooker lid rattled softly. A faint smell of oil hung in the air.

I smiled nervously.

“See? Nothing,” I told myself.

I struck a match.

The blue flame flared.

And my breath stopped.

Inside the Room

Right in front of me,

My mirror was covered with a white cloth.

A flower garland hung over it.

Below it, on the floor, stood a nilavilakku,( A Traditional Lamp) its wicks recently extinguished. Thin smoke still curled upward, carrying the smell of oil and burnt cotton.

I could not move.

This was not decoration.
This was not a mistake.

This was a death ritual.

When a mirror is covered,
it means the house has decided not to see you anymore.

My hand trembled. The match fell and died.

In the darkness, the smoke continued to rise.

I ran.

Flight

Down the stairs. Out into the rain.

I leaned against an electric post, shaking. My heart pounded so hard I felt it could be heard.

“A lamp… a garland…” I whispered. “In my room?”

A thief would have made noise.
A madman would have left signs of struggle.

But this was calm.
Neat.
Prepared.

Fear grows fastest when someone else seems more prepared for your end than you are.

I could not go back.

Another Room, Same Silence

I decided to go to my friend Moorthy’s room, just one floor above mine in the same lodge.

I knocked.

No answer.

Using the spare key kept near the window, I entered.

The room was dark.

I struck another match.

And there it was again.

A covered mirror.
A garland, slightly wilted.
A nilavilakku, arranged exactly the same way.

I did not scream this time.

I ran.

The Doctor

Only one place remained.

Dr. Radhakrishnan Nair, my college friend, lived at the far end of another floor.

I ran there, rain soaking my shirt, slippers slipping.

Halfway up the stairs, someone came rushing down.

“Somebody come!” a voice cried. “Please!”

“Radhakrishnan?” I called.

He stopped.

We stared at each other in the dim stairway light.

Both pale.
Both shaking.

“Is it really you?” he asked. “Or am I imagining you?”

“What happened?” I asked.

He swallowed.

“My mirror,” he said. “Covered. Garland. Lamp.”

We stood there in silence.

Then we laughed.

A dry, broken laugh.

To make sure we were awake, we pinched each other.

It hurt.

So we went into his room together, along with the watchman.

The lamp was there.

The smoke was still rising.

The Truth

On the table lay a letter.

It read:

Dear friends,
My father-in-law conducts the last rites.
Tomorrow, we have three functions in the city.
We returned late tonight and had no place to keep the ritual lamps, cloth, and garlands.
In desperation, we placed them in your rooms.
Forgive us.
We will collect them tomorrow morning.

Your friend, Narayana Iyer

I sat down.

Radhakrishnan closed his eyes.

Neither of us spoke.

After That Night

I fell ill.

Not in the body.

In the nerves.

Even today, when I see a mirror covered,
or smell burning oil at night,
or watch smoke rise without wind,
my heart slows.

Some fears do not shout.
They light a lamp and wait.

And that, my young friend,
was the night that taught me
how quietly terror can enter a room.