In the summer of 1985, as dusk crept over my childhood home, a 15-watt incandescent bulb flickered to life in the center of our main room. It was an unassuming moment—a light switching on—but it signaled the end of an era that had defined my earliest memories. From that day on, the kerosene lamp—so central to our lives—began its slow retreat into history, eventually vanishing like the shadows it once barely pushed away.
Though many years have passed, the memory of that kerosene lamp remains vivid, etched in amber across the pages of my mind. Unlike the piercing brightness of electric lights, the flame from a kerosene lamp was gentle, warm, and alive. Its glow could only illuminate a modest radius, leaving most of the room shrouded in comforting darkness. That flickering pool of light, however small, was enough to cast long shadows of memory that would never dim.
Evenings in those years followed a quiet rhythm. As the sun dipped below the horizon and the first hints of dusk settled in, the kitchen lamp would be lit. I can still see my mother moving gracefully under its light, her silhouette enlarged and dancing across the walls like a scene from a shadow play. She would carry the lamp to the stove while she cooked, then to the dining table for our modest evening meal. The lamp’s flame, so sensitive to wind, would tremble and threaten to die with the slightest breeze, prompting a small flurry of activity from everyone in the family to shield it.
After dinner, I would hunch close to that tiny light, squinting to complete my homework. Beside me, my mother would mend clothes or sew soles onto old shoes. I liked to be near the lamp so I could see better, but my enthusiasm came at a cost—I singed my eyebrows and hair more than once. I still remember the soft clink of my mother’s sewing needle as she adjusted the wick, tapping against the glass with a precision that felt musical in its familiarity.
We were a generation raised beneath that gentle glow. With no electricity to extend our day, the limited light defined our nights. People would sit together around the lamp, sharing stories, mending tools, or simply enjoying each other’s company. The darkness outside made our small circle of light feel all the more intimate. I loved those nights when neighbors gathered, their faces half-lit as they shared stories—some fantastical, others terrifying. Ghost tales were particularly chilling; one shift in the lamp’s shadow could send a shiver up your spine.
That flame, however faint, was our window into the world and into each other’s lives. It was under that modest light that we read, wrote, and dreamed. Many times, lulled by the gentle cadence of my father’s voice recounting village tales, I fell asleep with my schoolbooks still open.
As we grew older, we learned to make our own lamps. I remember the thrill of crafting my first one—a simple device fashioned from an ink bottle, the cut end of a toothpaste tube, and a bit of cotton for a wick. I learned by watching my older sister. When I finally managed to light the tiny flame myself, I felt as though I had created a star. I treasured that little lamp even as electricity began its slow march into our village.
Each kerosene lamp had a scent—a blend of crude oil, faint smoke, and scorched wick—that lodged itself deep in memory. That smell became the signature of our nights. Even now, the rare whiff of that combination can instantly transport me back to those long, quiet evenings. That, too, was part of the magic.
We also had a special kind of kerosene lamp known as the “Ma Deng” or hurricane lamp, reserved for ventures beyond home: a late-night walk to the fields, a visit to a neighbor’s house, or even an open-air movie screening in a nearby village. Compared to our handmade glass lamps, the Ma Deng was sophisticated: it had a fuel tank, an adjustable wick, a windproof glass chimney. It gave us confidence to face the darkness beyond our courtyards.
Our generation stood at the crossroads of two eras: the flickering warmth of oil and the cold surge of current. Our earliest memories were bathed in the amber hues of kerosene, while our youth was marked by the clarity of electric bulbs and telephone dials. With electricity, the nights no longer stretched endlessly; time seemed to quicken, and the pace of life accelerated.
Now, looking back, I marvel at how far we’ve come. Modern lighting is efficient, cheap, and bright—but it lacks the poetry of those older flames. The kerosene lamp may be gone from my home, but never from my heart. Those evenings, lit by a fragile flame and surrounded by voices and stories, remain among the most precious chapters of my life.
Today’s world is better, undoubtedly. But I remain thankful for what came before. For the glow that once lit our tables and our hearts. For the darkness that brought us closer together. And for a simple lamp, whose light still lingers in the corners of my soul.
