Mira sat cross-legged on the floor, her fingers nervously tracing the outline of the last clay diya. Outside, laughter and chatter filled the air as the village of Aruna burst with the spirit of Diwali. The sweet scent of jalebi wafted through the open door, mingling with the distant sounds of fireworks. But inside their home, a heavy silence hung like a storm cloud.
“Mira,” her father finally spoke, breaking the quiet, “what if we can’t light the diyas this year?” His voice trembled, laced with doubt.
“Why not, Baba?” Mira replied, her heart racing with determination. “We have one diya left.”
He sighed, staring at the corner of the room, where shadows seemed to cling. “It won’t be the same without your mother.”
Mira felt a pang in her chest. Memories flooded her mind: her mother’s laughter, the way her eyes sparkled as they prepared for the festival. Last year, their home had been alive with light and love. But now, darkness felt suffocating, wrapping around them like a heavy blanket.
“Let’s light it together,” Mira insisted, lifting the diya with trembling hands. “We can honor her memory. She would want us to celebrate.”
Her father hesitated, then nodded slowly. Mira grabbed the matches and approached the small wooden table. With a deep breath, she struck a match. The flame flickered to life, casting a warm glow that danced in the dim room.
“See?” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. “This light represents her love, Baba. Even in darkness, we can find joy.”
As she lit the wick, the flame steadied, illuminating her father’s face, softening the lines of worry etched there.
“Maybe you’re right,” he murmured, his eyes reflecting the glow. “This light can guide us.”
In that moment, Mira felt the weight of grief begin to lift, if only slightly. “Let’s celebrate for her,” she suggested, her heart racing with hope. “We can make her favorite sweets and share stories about her.”
A smile tugged at her father’s lips. “Yes, let’s do that.”
They rose together, leaving the diya flickering in the corner—a small beacon of resilience. Stepping outside, they were greeted by bursts of color as fireworks lit the night sky, each explosion a reminder of joy and love.
Mira gazed up at the stars, feeling her mother’s presence. “Every spark is like her laughter, echoing in our hearts,” she whispered.
Her father squeezed her hand, a tear rolling down his cheek, but this time, it carried a sense of relief. Together, they stood illuminated by their shared light, ready to embrace the celebration, knowing that even in darkness, love would always guide them home.