The Flame of Kindness

• Ravi Ila Bhatt

Ten-year-old Reyansh sat cross-legged on the porch of his ancestral pol house in Vadodara’s Mandavi, his fingers furiously tapping against his smartphone screen. The city was aglow with festive warmth. From the majestic gates of Laxmi Vilas Palace down to the bustling lanes of Mandvi and Nyay Mandir, every corner was wrapped in fairy lights, the fragrant breeze carrying whispers of cardamom from freshly fried ghughras and mathiyas.
"Reyansh, put that screen away and come help us arrange the clay kodiyas," his elder sister, Dhara, called out, wiping red vermilion powder from her hands. Beside her, their grandfather, lovingly called Dada, was carefully trimming cotton wicks.
Reyansh sighed, not looking up. "Why do we have to clean and light dozens of oil lamps every single year? It's so repetitive! A string of LED bulbs lights up the balcony in one click, and I’m about to beat my high score!"
Dada smiled gently, his eyes crinkling. He set his brass tray aside and tapped Reyansh’s shoulder. "Come with me, dikra. Let me show you what Diwali really means."
Reyansh reluctantly pocketed his phone and followed Dada to the terrace. Below them, Vadodara looked like a sprawling sea of golden stars. The cool evening breeze carried laughter from neighbouring rooftops where families gathered.
"Tell me, Reyansh, why do we celebrate Diwali?" Dada asked softly. "Because Lord Rama returned to Ayodhya after defeating Ravana, and the people lit lamps to welcome him," Reyansh answered promptly, recalling his school lessons.
"Spot on," Dada nodded. "Every clay lamp represents the triumph of light over darkness, good over evil, and knowledge over ignorance. But think deeper. What is the real darkness we face today?"
Reyansh paused, looking down at his pocketed phone.
"The modern world is bright with neon and digital screens," Dada explained, pointing toward the shimmering city. "Yet, loneliness, selfishness, anger, and distraction are forms of darkness that creep into our hearts quietly. An electric bulb only brightens a room, Reyansh. But when you pour your own care into shaping a wick, pouring oil, and sheltering a fragile flame against the wind, you learn patience and devotion. The flame of a diya teaches selflessness—it burns gently to give warmth and light to everyone around it without asking for anything in return."
Dhara joined them on the terrace, carrying a warm platter of sweets. "Just like our city," she chimed in with a grin. "Vadodara isn't called the Sanskari Nagari just for palaces and gardens, Reyansh. It’s special because during festivals, we open our doors, share sweets with our neighbours, and make sure nobody feels forgotten."
Reyansh looked at the tiny clay diya Dada held in his palm. The fragile wick stood tall, resisting the breeze. He suddenly remembered Kanti Kaka, the elderly watchman who lived alone at the end of their lane, sitting by his gate with no family nearby.
"Dada," Reyansh said, his eyes lighting up with genuine enthusiasm. "Can I take some sweets and diyas to Kanti Kaka first?"
Dada’s face beamed with pride. "That, Reyansh, is the true beginning of your Diwali."
Running downstairs, Reyansh left his phone on the dining table. Together with Dhara, he filled a wicker basket with homemade mohandthal, fresh sweets, and beautifully painted kodiyas. When they reached the lane’s gate and lit the lamps alongside the watchman, the old man’s face broke into a radiant smile that outshone any screen Reyansh had ever seen.
That night, Reyansh dipped his fingers in oil, prepares and set every earthen lamp along the railings, and watched their golden glow illuminate his home. He understood that the real spirit of Diwali wasn't just fireworks or bright lights—it was lighting the lamp of kindness inside one's heart.
Moral : The brightest light of Diwali is the kindness we share with others. A single act of sharing dispels the darkest gloom.