Lights of Friendship

"Hey Tara, can you pass me the matchsticks?" "Sure, Vikram," Tara replied, crouching by a cluster of Diya lamps. Diwali was her favorite festival, but ever since the family moved back from the States, she'd felt a bit disconnected. Vikram, wearing a simple, worn-out shirt, adjusted the lamps along the ledge of the modest balcony. Tara still marveled at how little he'd changed. School seemed eons ago in their small town. "I'm glad you called. It's been ages since I did this properly," he grinned, looking at the dancing flames. "Yeah," Tara chuckled, "you'll have to help me catch up with everything I've missed out on." "With pleasure!" Vikram leaned back against the wall, the soft festival lights playing on his face. They'd grown up in parallel worlds, each conquering their own challenges, yet every interaction seemed easy, as if no time had passed. "So," Tara nudged Vikram, "who's lighting off the rockets this year?" Vikram shrugged. "Things are quieter now. Dad isn't keen on the noise, and Mom's wary of fire. Today was actually my idea, Dad only came around last night." Tara nodded. "I get it. My parents, too. They've mellowed out over time. But Diwali without fireworks? Seems almost unthinkable." Later, over warm samosas and fragrant masala chai, Tara and Vikram lay sprawled on the floor—conversation flowing effortlessly through corridors of past schools, horrid crushes, and silly adventures. "How's work treating you over there, T?" Vikram asked thoughtfully. "Same old, same old," Tara sighed. "I keep thinking there should be more than just numbers and deadlines, you know?" His eyes lit up. "That yearning! That's the magic question. Tell me you still sketch; tell me you paint." "A little." Tara hesitated, memories of Artisan Street resurfaced with a vivid snap. "You always were the artistic one," Vikram mused, bumping his shoulder against hers affectionately. "And here I am, running an old bookstore, surrounded by dusty tomes. It's a wonder I'd be anything but a hermit, minus the beard." Tara laughed. "I suppose. It's curious how we end up where we are…but can I ask you something?" "Shoot." "That… bookstore. You filled every corner with stories that aren't yours. Are you happy, Vic?" He paused, visibly gathering each unspoken word. "It's hard to say. But sometimes it's nice to lose yourself in other worlds. It's… comforting." The words held both warmth and weight. Silence shifted through the air, released as tarpaulin swayed on the terrace. There was an honesty, a rare transparency that only seemed to flicker like these festive lights. Suddenly, the noise broke—an eruption of color and sparks skyward, setting the neighborhood ablaze with unintended joy. "Aw, now that's Diwali spinner magic," Vikram remarked, his voice cast aloft, entranced. Tara watched the sky reflect in his eyes, murmuring, "It's as if the fireworks decided on their own to show up." "Or maybe," Vikram grinned, "maybe they've always been waiting for us to notice." Later that evening, after Tara bid Vikram farewell, she found herself staring down at her own listless papers and sketches. Inspired, she unearthed half-finished dreams and fuzzy shapes. It felt good, it felt like home. For Vikram, a new resolve burgeoned within—a chapter still untold among dust-lined classics. As Diwali wrapped its comforting glow around the night, both friends—unraveled and tentative—felt the pulse of deeper connections. The familiar glisten of Diwali flickered not only on rooftops but within shared spaces and aspirational dreams.