It was like day at night. The soft glow of earthen lamps stretched across the streets, the riverbanks, and every courtyard. Ayodhya shimmered like a bride, bedecked in the resplendent anticipation of her long-awaited groom.

After an inordinate wait, Rama was returning. Diwali had arrived.

Six-year-old Maithili stood at the threshold of her home, her eyes wide with wonder at the celebrations.

“You haven’t lit the diyas at the door,” Maithili’s mother admonished from behind.

“Does it matter?” Maithili asked, her gaze still fixed on the dazzling horizon.

“Meaning?” her mother asked, wiping sweat from her brow, her hands red from hours of scrubbing and cleaning. 

“One diya less won’t dull Rama’s shine. Why aren’t we celebrating Sita’s return?” Maithili’s question hung in the air like the lingering scent of burning oil.

“But we are, girl.”

“The celebration is for Rama. Even if he had returned without Sita, Ayodhya would still rejoice. But what if Sita had come back alone? Would she have been as welcome?”

Clank. The utensils slipped from her mother’s hands, the noise reverberating through the house.

“Shhh, girl. Come inside before someone hears you,” her mother whispered with fear and disbelief. “How could Sita return without Rama?”

Maithili turned, her face illuminated by the flickering light. There was a luminous halo around her head. She stepped forward, and with each step, she seemed to grow taller, her presence filling the small room.

“Sita did return besides Rama, Ma,” Maithili’s voice echoed in a tone her mother didn’t recognise. “No one welcomed her for her sake. She was treated as Rama’s wife, never as Ayodhya’s queen. And in the end, she was cast out for a crime she did not commit.”

Her mother’s eyes widened in awe as Maithili’s figure touched the ceiling, her voice resonating with wisdom. “Ayodhya was always Rama’s home. It never became hers.”

Maithili stopped walking, her frame casting a long shadow.

“Now, ages and eras later, when a new grand temple adorns Ayodhya, we are calling it the Rama Temple. Why not the Temple of Rama and Sita? When will Sita be recognised?”

Tears brimmed in Maithili’s eyes. Her mother dropped to her knees as her daughter continued, “Will this house ever be my home?”

Was this her daughter speaking, or was it the divine Sita herself?

“Forgive me, Devi,” she whispered, her voice barely audible as she bowed, overwhelmed by the weight of the truth.

 “Ma, open your eyes.” Her eyes fluttered open at the soft touch of her daughter’s hand, her face damp with cool water.

Maithili stood there, concerned, looking like the innocent child she was.

Her mother rose shakily. “What happened?”

“You fainted,” Maithili replied. “You work too hard.”

“Did you light the diya?”

“Yes. We are set to celebrate Diwali and welcome Rama.”

“And Sita, too,” her mother added softly. “We’ll celebrate both their return.”

Maithili’s lips curved into a smile, her eyes glimmering like the rows of diyas that lined the streets outside.