When the Light Went Off: A Childhood Memory of Family, Fear, and Warmth

When the Light Went Off: A Power Cut, a Child’s Fear, and a Family Moment That Lasted Forever

The smell of hot oil and fresh coriander drifted from the kitchen into the room, curling around the edges of the evening like an invitation.

Sahil closed his book faster than usual.

“Dinner!” he shouted, already halfway off the bed.

His stomach had been growling since the last bell at school. Homework forgotten, he rushed to the dining area where the steel plates were already being placed on the floor mat. The sound of spoons clinking and the hiss of fresh parathas filled the room.

Without waiting for anyone, Sahil grabbed the TV remote and switched it on.

“Oggy and the Cockroaches,” he announced proudly, as if he had made an important decision for the whole family.

The cartoon’s bright colors danced across the screen. Sahil sat cross-legged, eyes glued, one hand already reaching for the pickle jar.

“News,” his father said calmly, extending his hand for the remote.

“But Papa—” Sahil protested.

Before the argument could begin, something else happened.

The light went off.

The fan slowed, groaned once, and stopped. The television screen went black. The room sank into sudden darkness, broken only by faint streetlight slipping through the window grills.

“Arre!” Seema exclaimed from the kitchen.

Sahil froze.

The paratha was in his hand, but he couldn’t see it anymore.

“Amma…” he whispered, his voice small, “I can’t see my paratha.”

His mother laughed softly. “Stay still. I’ll bring the lamp.”

She started walking carefully, barefoot, counting steps from memory. The house had witnessed so many power cuts that her feet knew every corner.

Suddenly—

“Ghost!” Sahil screamed. “Someone touched me!”

Everyone burst out laughing.

“It’s me,” Seema said, chuckling. “Relax.”

But Sahil wasn’t laughing.

He hugged his knees closer. “I don’t like darkness,” he said softly. “It makes my heart beat fast.”

The laughter faded.

For a moment, the house was quiet—not because of the power cut, but because of something heavier.

Then a voice came from the dark.

“Me too,” Sahil’s father said. “I just don’t say it.”

Everyone froze.

“Papa?” Sahil asked.

“Yes,” his father continued. “When the lights go off suddenly… even my heart jumps. But adults pretend we’re brave.”

There was a pause.

Not awkward. Not uncomfortable. Just honest.

Sahil felt something loosen inside him.

Just then, Seema bumped into her husband in the dark and nearly lost her balance.

“Oh!” she gasped.

Instinctively, he caught her arm.

“Careful,” he said.

“I told you not to stand there,” she replied, half annoyed, half smiling.

A small flame flickered.

The lamp finally glowed.

The room came back slowly—faces appearing one by one. Sahil’s mother, her dupatta slipping. His father, glasses slightly crooked. Sahil himself, still holding the paratha like it was a treasure rescued from darkness.

They all laughed.

Relieved. Alive. Together.

They resumed eating under the soft yellow glow of the lamp. Shadows danced on the walls. The fan was still silent. The house felt older somehow—like it had stepped back into another time.

Outside, a dog barked. Somewhere far away, someone cursed the electricity department.

Sahil took a bite of his paratha.

It tasted… different.

Warmer.

Slower.

More real.

After a few minutes, the power returned with a sudden click. The fan roared back to life. The tube light flickered, then shone bright white. The TV blinked and restarted, Oggy frozen mid-chaos.

Without saying anything, Sahil’s mother stood up and blew out the lamp.

“No light,” she said firmly. “Eat together like this sometimes.”

“But TV—” Sahil began.

His father smiled. “Let it rest.”

Sahil hesitated, then nodded.

He tore another piece of paratha and dipped it into sabzi. He looked around.

Everyone was there.

No screens.
No noise.
No rush.

Just family.

Years later, Sahil would forget the episode number of Oggy and the Cockroaches he missed that night. He would forget what chapter he had closed so eagerly.

But he would never forget the darkness.

Or the honesty it revealed.

Or the warmth of a paratha eaten slowly, under a lamp, with people who shared not just food—but fear, laughter, and love.

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