The Last Street Lamp in the City

 

It was a beautiful autumn morning. Birds chirped, butterflies fluttered, and children trotted alongside their parents on the way to school. Winnie's Bakery had a line of office-goers waiting eagerly to grab breakfast to munch on during their walk to work. Across the street, in front of Sam’s Deli, the clock chimed eight times.

It was 8 o’clock. Jackson should have been here by now to clean the black stains off my glass. I wondered what was keeping him. In a short while, the street would be bustling with people, and then it would take him longer to do the job properly.

Just as these thoughts rushed through me, a little boy walking past with his grandfather gave me a tight hug and said, “Thank you.” His grandfather chuckled warmly.

“Jimmy, you’re so sweet! You did this because I told you my story — how this light helped me when I was a kid, all alone on the street. I used to read books thrown away by people. I worked all day and ate whatever little I could buy with the money I earned, and I saved up a little — right here under this light. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, months into years.

“I was a big boy by then, and I’d pretty much lived my entire life on the street, but I was never alone — this light shone bright in my darkest nights. Eventually, I had saved enough to go to college. It wasn’t easy for a coloured boy to get admission into a white college, but there was one kind soul, Professor Stottelmeyer. He had noticed me under this same light many times, reading at night after picking up his groceries from Sam’s Deli.

“I didn’t let him down. With the trust he placed in me, I completed my degree with distinction and found a place to live, along with a job at the local newspaper as a writer. Life got busy. I got married, had a son, and he grew up to be an outstanding man. I’m grateful to God for sending you into our family,” he said, gently combing the hair on his grandson’s forehead.

“Amid all the busyness, I never forgot this light.”

He patted me with love, looked up at me, dabbed his hat like a salute, and held his grandson’s hand. “Always be grateful for what you have — then you’ll be able to value what you receive.” And they walked away.

By now, I could only see dimly through the soot gathering on my glass. Jackson still hadn’t shown up to clean me or even turn off my flame. This worried me.

Just then, an old truck stopped by. A man stepped out, stood under me, and shook his head as if apologising for what he was about to do. He pulled a ladder from the back of the truck and placed it against me.

I noticed something familiar hanging from his workman’s belt — not just the hook to put out my flame, but also a wrench. Perhaps he had repairs to make. But instead, he began to unbolt my frame. Slowly, he removed my cover, looked at the flame, and said softly, “Sorry, old pal. Your time’s up. Goodbye.”

He snuffed out the flame — a few embers still glowed — and began installing the bright new light they called “solar,” like the ones I could see across the street.

Sam came out of his deli, and Winnie stepped out of her bakery. They tipped their hats toward me, as if bidding farewell to a warrior who had run his course.

I was the last street lamp in the city.

- Prayut Mandal