A Flash of Light

The marketplace buzzed like an excited hive as stalls displayed their dazzling ornaments and multicolored sweets, all part of the ever-festive Diwali celebrations. Hari, the chaiwala, slammed down his stall with the enthusiasm only Diwali could muster, watching the town humineratively. He never considered himself a hero, just the guy from the chai stall who knew everyone's favorite brew. Since his patch of land was where news and gossip were brewed faster than his tea, he was bound to find himself wrapped in the town's latest spectacle every now and then. It all began when a stranger dropped a package next to Hari's stall and vanished into the merry crowd. Dark mahogany with golden carvings, the box looked out of place amidst the chai cups and steel thermos, like an enigma waiting to be sprung. Hari dismissed it as someone's mistake -- perhaps too much Diwali cheer in the air. Until the second, then the third package appeared. "Hey Hari," Sona, a regular visitor and part-time curiosity seeker, casually asked over a steaming chai. "What's with the boxes?" Deciding his curiosity couldn't brew any longer – after all, life's spices came in different blends — he decided to break open one of the mysterious things. It felt almost criminal at first, unwrapping another's possession, but his curiosity was insatiable. The surprise wasn't all that grand, just a set of old photographs with the year's edge curling like memories wrapped tightly in a dusty vault. But there was one photograph tucked in the corner that made his chai-scrolling heart skip more than a beat. It was a barely visible shot of a scene from his youth — himself, as a kid, sitting alongside an elderly figure, aglow with a mystical charm. Baba, his long-forgotten mentor. "Ah, I remember those eyes, so full of life," came a sneaky voice beside him. It was Mohan, keeping his job as the local postman between intense Diwali shopping sprees. "Baba, that old trickster! He did love mysteries." Even the revelation made Hari think, remembering Baba's laughter that could fill a thousand empty cups. One Diwali night, illuminated with more than diyas, the puzzle reached its peak. Packages tugged at more hearts; they were messages from Baba from the heavenly cities. But something darker loomed, for another photograph showed Hari's friend, Priya – though younger – in a strangely familiar setting. The true twist fluttered gently. Everyone assumed Priya's family came during a migration surge from Mumbai, but this photograph revealed otherwise. Her roots intertwined with his own, and her Baba once walked the same lands, crafting tales before the townspeople surrendered to new lights and lives. When Hari recounted this to Priya over a cup of steaming masala chai, there was a long pause before laughter erupted between them, ornate with the Diwali spirit. "Hari," Priya said, wiping joyous tears, "We will sort this, or the gifts of our long-lost family may never unravel." Each photograph thereafter told a story, and every cup of chai unveiled pages to that mystery. That Diwali, the air was thick with more than the worry of crackers mingling with the holy bonfires. It ended where all Indian tales gloriously commence: back in the warm circle of laughter, revelation, and secrets that now lay forgiven yet celebrated, with Priya, now no longer shrouded in mystery, settled snuggly with friends turned dear. As another day in the vibrant market unwound, Hari couldn't help but smile at the gathering crowd. It wasn't often a chaiwala became a herald of family ties. As for the last package yet delivered, its mystery could wait till after another round of chai.