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Diwali
Happy Diwali.
That's me in the background; that was Diwali in 2008. I took mithai into work today, and another lawyer stopped by my desk to wish me a happy Diwali, and to thank me because I had reminded her to write to her daughter's girlfriend to wish her a happy Diwali too. What a wonderful world.
As in previous years, I am sorry I cannot ask you all round to my house for food and sparklers and lights. Here are some stories, instead.
home
Vorkosigan, Ekaterin, gen.
Ekaterin is thinking that if she knew the rafters of this house as if they were her own bones, if she had learned to walk on its worn stones, learned to swim in its lake, she wouldn't have bumped her sleepless head on three different rafters between her bedroom and the verandah door. She hits another beam and swears, and grabs a light off the table as she goes past.
"It's hard to be almost, but not quite," Simon Illyan said to her apropos of nothing on a quiet evening in her garden; Ekaterin had seen nothing in his eyes but characteristic austere kindness, and suspected once again that rumours of his befuddlement were greatly exaggerated. Gregor had once said something similar on the evening of a sparkling banquet, watching the Count and Countess swirl gracefully around the ballroom floor. "They are my family, and yet…"
And yet, Ekaterin had tried to say, but he had drifted away. And yet.
As she steps onto bare earth, the light goes out. Ekaterin breathes in, breathes out, thinking about the domes on Komarr. The warmth of the night is close and comforting; she can feel the heat of the day still radiating from the ground beneath her feet. In that hot, clean, profound darkness, she realises: she isn't frightened of anything here.
By the lake, the light flickers softly back into life and she lets it go on the water. When it's drifted out of reach she turns and goes back to the house, over the land she's inherited and married into and planted; over the land that will hold her bones.
*
making light
Fringe, Peter, Olivia, Astrid, gen.
Peter is contemplatively eyeing up the jar of Red Vines when all the lights in the building go out. Olivia rushes to the window, giggling a little and knocking a folder off a lab bench. "It's the whole campus," she says, after a moment. "All dark."
"Guys, are you all right? Power's out halfway across the city." Astrid comes through the main lab doors. "Oh, Peter, you didn't."
Peter doesn't ask how she knew; she's spent enough time around Walter. "I never did when I was in high school or college," he says, a little petulantly. "Back then Walter wanted me to, he kept the weed in a jar labelled 'weed'. And besides it was Olivia's idea."
It actually was, at that; it was a quiet day that that somehow miraculously stayed quiet even as the sun slopped below the horizon, turning into a giggly teenage evening of takeout and laughing at nothing, and then Olivia said, "Let's get high" – and he's always done what she tells him. They found Walter's stash in less time than it took for the pizza to come.
"Come on, Peter," she says, now, and without waiting for any input from his higher brain functions he's out in the cold air following her, watching her run with her hair streaming out behind her, clapping her hands in delight.
She snaps her fingers. Above her head, a light comes on.
"Oh," Peter says.
"Come on," she says again, and he takes her hand. Through the blur around his head, he's thinking that this is how it works, all the time: step by step, moment by moment, with their shadows cut out like paper stars behind them and the world in front of them, Peter led on by Olivia making light.
*
all that you let in
HP, Hermione, gen.
Thank you for contacting me, she writes quickly and smoothly, clicking the pen while she thinks. I am so sorry to hear of your treatment by the Werewolf Registry.
Hermione gave up writing with quills when she walked out of Hogwarts the last time; by her desk, by the window, beneath the globe of magical light, she has a digital radio tuned to Radio 4; when they moved into this house the first thing she did was call her father-in-law and ask him to help her plumb in a washing machine. (Ron watched it for hours, the first few times they ran it, and she laughed; the next few after that Hermione sat there with him, holding his hand, breathing in the scent of soap. When he asked why she said they'd earned it: they'd earned the right to spin cycles and magic and microwave popcorn and Muggle-born lives.)
But they light the house with wands. Above her head, lightbulbs burn bright with incandescent glory and burn out the filament in hours; under the warmth of her hands the tungsten snaps like pencil lead.
Werewolf rights are a cause close to my heart but I do not feel that I can speak for those who have their own voices. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement maintains a werewolf-run constitutional jurisprudence commission and I shall be pleased to pass your letter on to them.
"You'll let the moths and pixies in," Ron points out, standing in the doorway. And, pausing: "You're working late."
"Yes." Hermione looks up at the light. "Let them in," she murmurs, and turns the page.
*
Extract from public meeting on Utopia Planitia budgetary requirements, 22 October 2364, Earth Shipbuilding and Public Works Commission, United Federation of Planets
Star Trek, gen.
Once, a long time ago, a humble washerwoman found a beautiful pearl necklace in the crook of an old tree. She took it to the palace, where the queen had been crying, because she had lost the necklace her husband the king had given her. It had been taken from her hands by a bird that flew away into the forest. The king was so grateful to the washerwoman that he said to her, ask me for anything in the kingdom and I shall give it to you as a boon. Would she like riches? Would she like jewels of her own?
[interjection from the floor]
No, at that time there was economic scarcity. The washerwoman said, sire, I ask you only this. Diwali is coming. On that night, let no one light their lamps and candles. Let every house in the kingdom be dark, except mine. The king thought it was a little eccentric, but it wouldn't cost anything near as much as granting a boon of pearls. He sent out his messengers and the thing was done. So then Diwali came, and the goddess Lakshmi descended to Earth in a golden chariot… look, it's a story. What are you, Vulcan?
[further interjection from floor]
Quite right. Vulcans tell stories from mythology and relate fables as part of long tradition. I apologise for my ignorant remark. What are you, an android?
[further interjection from the public gallery]
What does this have to do with shipbuilding? Everything, sir. You'll see.
Anyway. Lakshmi walked the earth, going from house to house, and finding nothing – no welcoming lights, nothing. She kept on and kept on, and found only darkness, and bleakness, and cold. And at last she began to grow desperate. When she came upon the washerwoman's house, an oasis of light in the centre of darkness, she banged on the door and shouted, "Let me in!"
"Is that you, Lakshmi?" yelled the washerwoman. "No! You can piss off!"
There was a pause, then Lakshmi banged on the door again. "Please!" she said. "It's freezing and my divine goddess little toes are freezing off! Let me in!"
"No!" the washerwoman yelled back.
"Please," Lakshmi said. "I'll do anything."
The washerwoman opened the door a crack. "All right," she said. "But if you come in, then I'm warning you: you have to stay for seven generations."
"Fine," Lakshmi said, jamming her foot in the door and the washerwoman let her in. And after that Lakshmi stayed in the washerwoman's house - and though the city crumbled and was rebuilt around them, though civilisations rose and fell, although the Vulcans came, although humanity discovered atomic power and warp travel and the existence of other worlds beyond their own, the washerwoman's children and their children's children and their children's children's children were prosperous and and joyful unto the seventh generation, and they carried their own light out to the stars.
In conclusion, ladies and gentlemen and beings of other genders: we do not merely want more ships to be built at Utopia Planitia. We need them, to bank the home fires, to take us beyond the edge of the Sol system, to keep our lights burning. The committee rests; sal mubarak.
In the spirit of that last story, here is an image that has been floating around Tumblr and Facebook as "India on Diwali night, as seen from space" and variations thereof. I can't find a source for it and to be honest I have my doubts about whether it really is that.
But - well. There are so many Indians - there are so many religions, there are so many languages, there is so much, there is even this chilly brown diaspora out here in Ultima Thule - that every day, on the ordinary days, we make a lot of light.
That's me in the background; that was Diwali in 2008. I took mithai into work today, and another lawyer stopped by my desk to wish me a happy Diwali, and to thank me because I had reminded her to write to her daughter's girlfriend to wish her a happy Diwali too. What a wonderful world.
As in previous years, I am sorry I cannot ask you all round to my house for food and sparklers and lights. Here are some stories, instead.
home
Vorkosigan, Ekaterin, gen.
Ekaterin is thinking that if she knew the rafters of this house as if they were her own bones, if she had learned to walk on its worn stones, learned to swim in its lake, she wouldn't have bumped her sleepless head on three different rafters between her bedroom and the verandah door. She hits another beam and swears, and grabs a light off the table as she goes past.
"It's hard to be almost, but not quite," Simon Illyan said to her apropos of nothing on a quiet evening in her garden; Ekaterin had seen nothing in his eyes but characteristic austere kindness, and suspected once again that rumours of his befuddlement were greatly exaggerated. Gregor had once said something similar on the evening of a sparkling banquet, watching the Count and Countess swirl gracefully around the ballroom floor. "They are my family, and yet…"
And yet, Ekaterin had tried to say, but he had drifted away. And yet.
As she steps onto bare earth, the light goes out. Ekaterin breathes in, breathes out, thinking about the domes on Komarr. The warmth of the night is close and comforting; she can feel the heat of the day still radiating from the ground beneath her feet. In that hot, clean, profound darkness, she realises: she isn't frightened of anything here.
By the lake, the light flickers softly back into life and she lets it go on the water. When it's drifted out of reach she turns and goes back to the house, over the land she's inherited and married into and planted; over the land that will hold her bones.
making light
Fringe, Peter, Olivia, Astrid, gen.
Peter is contemplatively eyeing up the jar of Red Vines when all the lights in the building go out. Olivia rushes to the window, giggling a little and knocking a folder off a lab bench. "It's the whole campus," she says, after a moment. "All dark."
"Guys, are you all right? Power's out halfway across the city." Astrid comes through the main lab doors. "Oh, Peter, you didn't."
Peter doesn't ask how she knew; she's spent enough time around Walter. "I never did when I was in high school or college," he says, a little petulantly. "Back then Walter wanted me to, he kept the weed in a jar labelled 'weed'. And besides it was Olivia's idea."
It actually was, at that; it was a quiet day that that somehow miraculously stayed quiet even as the sun slopped below the horizon, turning into a giggly teenage evening of takeout and laughing at nothing, and then Olivia said, "Let's get high" – and he's always done what she tells him. They found Walter's stash in less time than it took for the pizza to come.
"Come on, Peter," she says, now, and without waiting for any input from his higher brain functions he's out in the cold air following her, watching her run with her hair streaming out behind her, clapping her hands in delight.
She snaps her fingers. Above her head, a light comes on.
"Oh," Peter says.
"Come on," she says again, and he takes her hand. Through the blur around his head, he's thinking that this is how it works, all the time: step by step, moment by moment, with their shadows cut out like paper stars behind them and the world in front of them, Peter led on by Olivia making light.
all that you let in
HP, Hermione, gen.
Thank you for contacting me, she writes quickly and smoothly, clicking the pen while she thinks. I am so sorry to hear of your treatment by the Werewolf Registry.
Hermione gave up writing with quills when she walked out of Hogwarts the last time; by her desk, by the window, beneath the globe of magical light, she has a digital radio tuned to Radio 4; when they moved into this house the first thing she did was call her father-in-law and ask him to help her plumb in a washing machine. (Ron watched it for hours, the first few times they ran it, and she laughed; the next few after that Hermione sat there with him, holding his hand, breathing in the scent of soap. When he asked why she said they'd earned it: they'd earned the right to spin cycles and magic and microwave popcorn and Muggle-born lives.)
But they light the house with wands. Above her head, lightbulbs burn bright with incandescent glory and burn out the filament in hours; under the warmth of her hands the tungsten snaps like pencil lead.
Werewolf rights are a cause close to my heart but I do not feel that I can speak for those who have their own voices. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement maintains a werewolf-run constitutional jurisprudence commission and I shall be pleased to pass your letter on to them.
"You'll let the moths and pixies in," Ron points out, standing in the doorway. And, pausing: "You're working late."
"Yes." Hermione looks up at the light. "Let them in," she murmurs, and turns the page.
Extract from public meeting on Utopia Planitia budgetary requirements, 22 October 2364, Earth Shipbuilding and Public Works Commission, United Federation of Planets
Star Trek, gen.
Once, a long time ago, a humble washerwoman found a beautiful pearl necklace in the crook of an old tree. She took it to the palace, where the queen had been crying, because she had lost the necklace her husband the king had given her. It had been taken from her hands by a bird that flew away into the forest. The king was so grateful to the washerwoman that he said to her, ask me for anything in the kingdom and I shall give it to you as a boon. Would she like riches? Would she like jewels of her own?
[interjection from the floor]
No, at that time there was economic scarcity. The washerwoman said, sire, I ask you only this. Diwali is coming. On that night, let no one light their lamps and candles. Let every house in the kingdom be dark, except mine. The king thought it was a little eccentric, but it wouldn't cost anything near as much as granting a boon of pearls. He sent out his messengers and the thing was done. So then Diwali came, and the goddess Lakshmi descended to Earth in a golden chariot… look, it's a story. What are you, Vulcan?
[further interjection from floor]
Quite right. Vulcans tell stories from mythology and relate fables as part of long tradition. I apologise for my ignorant remark. What are you, an android?
[further interjection from the public gallery]
What does this have to do with shipbuilding? Everything, sir. You'll see.
Anyway. Lakshmi walked the earth, going from house to house, and finding nothing – no welcoming lights, nothing. She kept on and kept on, and found only darkness, and bleakness, and cold. And at last she began to grow desperate. When she came upon the washerwoman's house, an oasis of light in the centre of darkness, she banged on the door and shouted, "Let me in!"
"Is that you, Lakshmi?" yelled the washerwoman. "No! You can piss off!"
There was a pause, then Lakshmi banged on the door again. "Please!" she said. "It's freezing and my divine goddess little toes are freezing off! Let me in!"
"No!" the washerwoman yelled back.
"Please," Lakshmi said. "I'll do anything."
The washerwoman opened the door a crack. "All right," she said. "But if you come in, then I'm warning you: you have to stay for seven generations."
"Fine," Lakshmi said, jamming her foot in the door and the washerwoman let her in. And after that Lakshmi stayed in the washerwoman's house - and though the city crumbled and was rebuilt around them, though civilisations rose and fell, although the Vulcans came, although humanity discovered atomic power and warp travel and the existence of other worlds beyond their own, the washerwoman's children and their children's children and their children's children's children were prosperous and and joyful unto the seventh generation, and they carried their own light out to the stars.
In conclusion, ladies and gentlemen and beings of other genders: we do not merely want more ships to be built at Utopia Planitia. We need them, to bank the home fires, to take us beyond the edge of the Sol system, to keep our lights burning. The committee rests; sal mubarak.
In the spirit of that last story, here is an image that has been floating around Tumblr and Facebook as "India on Diwali night, as seen from space" and variations thereof. I can't find a source for it and to be honest I have my doubts about whether it really is that.
But - well. There are so many Indians - there are so many religions, there are so many languages, there is so much, there is even this chilly brown diaspora out here in Ultima Thule - that every day, on the ordinary days, we make a lot of light.