Diwali dawned bright and promising, but for Sumangali, it was just another day. She woke before the sun, as she always did, tending to her completely paralyzed husband. She never complained, nor did she entertain even a sliver of hope that he would ever recover. Fate, as she saw it, had dealt its hand, and she had long accepted it.

As she went about her chores, a persistent knock startled her. Opening the door, she found her elderly neighbor, Swarna Kaki, beaming with a tray of sweets.

"Happy Deepawali, beti! Here, take these sweets. But what is this?" Kaki asked, her eyes sweeping over the house. "No rangoli? No smell of sweets and savouries?"

Sumangali sighed, "Kaki, with my husband bedridden for so many years, I feel no joy—certainly no desire for celebration."

Kaki clicked her tongue, patting Sumangali’s arm gently. "Never let hope die, beti. Sometimes magic happens. Haven’t you heard? The legend of the Swarna Kamal is said to be true! And word is, it has bloomed in our forest! It is said that the celestial flower seeks the worthy and grants their deepest wishes."

Sumangali’s eyes widened. She thanked Kaki, quickly dressed, and after a fervent prayer to the goddess, set off towards the forest. For hours she wandered, her heart heavy with doubt. She cursed herself for believing an old woman’s tales and began to worry about leaving her husband alone for so long.

Just as she was about to give up, an impossibly bright light blinded her. She shielded her eyes, and through her fingers, she saw it—the Swarna Kamal, floating before her, glowing like the sun. Tears streamed down her face as she reached out, her heart swelling with the hope she had long buried.

But as her fingers closed around the golden petals, a voice broke the silence.

"Aunty!"

Sumangali turned to see a young girl approaching, her face streaked with tears. "A lion dragged my parents away months ago. Please, Aunty, give me the Swarna Kamal. I want them back… I want my parents."

Sumangali’s grip tightened around the flower. Her husband, the man she had loved and cared for all these years—how could she not use the flower to save him? Yet here was this child, young and orphaned, begging for the same hope.

She bit her lip, the weight of the decision pressing on her heart. After a long, agonizing moment, she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and handed the flower to the girl.

"Here, take it, child," Sumangali whispered, her voice trembling. "Bring your parents back."

The golden petals shimmered, and as the girl ran off, Sumangali stood in the fading light, her heart full—not with sorrow, but with a quiet, enduring peace.

Diwali had arrived after all…