A Day Marked by Lamps
It was Deepavali week.
The college corridors smelled faintly of chalk and sweets. Girls compared bangles in hushed excitement, boys talked about firecrackers and train tickets home. Everyone carried the warmth of celebration in their bags.
Everyone except Ananya.
Festivals in her home were beautiful—but strict.
New clothes were worn only after elders approved. Visits were planned. Smiles were moderated. Laughter had to remain graceful.
That morning, she wore a simple cream kurta with a maroon dupatta. Her hair was neatly braided, jasmine tucked at the end—her mother’s touch, not her own choice.
When she entered the classroom, something felt different.
Arjun was already seated.
He wore a fresh, neatly pressed kurta—nothing flashy, but unmistakably festive. For the first time, Ananya noticed how deeply rooted his upbringing was in him, how celebration for him meant dignity, not display.
Their eyes met briefly.
A silent greeting passed between them.
The lecturer announced half-day classes. A collective sigh of relief followed.
Students rushed out, planning movies, outings, noise.
Ananya packed her bag slowly. She would go straight home. There was cleaning to help with, lamps to arrange. Responsibility waited.
As she stepped into the corridor, she saw Arjun near the notice board. He was holding a small paper bag from a sweet shop.
Their paths crossed.
He hesitated—just for a moment.
Then, carefully, he held out the bag—not towards her directly, but placing it on the bench between them.
“My mother made too many,” he said, eyes lowered. “Please… take some.”
Ananya froze.
Accepting sweets was harmless.
Accepting from him felt heavy.
Her parents’ voices echoed in her head.
Don’t create situations.
People will talk.
She looked at the bag.
Then at him.
Then she did something brave—but within limits.
She took one piece.
Just one.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
Arjun nodded. He didn’t smile. He didn’t watch her eat it.
That evening, Ananya lit lamps with her family. As she placed them carefully along the window sill, her fingers smelled faintly of sugar and ghee.
The sweet tasted like nothing special.
Yet it stayed with her longer than any firework sound.
In another house, Arjun sat with his parents, folding his hands during prayers. His mother asked, “Did you distribute sweets to friends?”
“Yes,” he said simply.
He didn’t mention her.
Both homes glowed with lamps.
Both hearts carried a small flame—steady, controlled, unseen.
Neither knew that this festival would mark a turning point.
Not because something happened…
But because something ended quietly that day—the innocence of believing this feeling could remain untouched forever.
Some lamps are lit to celebrate.
Some are lit to remember.
And some, unknowingly, are lit before the darkness arrives.
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