Lights of Longing

Tara was never one for the grand flourishes of festivals, though her lens captured them beautifully for others. Perhaps that was her comfort zone—watching from behind the camera, observing life in frames. It was in the heart of Diwali's buzzing evening, when the streets of Shanti Nagar were alive with strings of fairy lights and hearty laughter, that Tara found herself in an unusual pickled mess. Her brother had tasked her with finding "the most unique candles" for their family's Diwali puja. The twist? He conveniently forgot to mention his idea until an hour before twilight. "Tara! I forgot to mention," her brother had said with his usual cheeky grin, "Pick some fancy, artistic candles for the evening. Pronto!" Despite herself, Tara accepted the challenge, weaving through stalls bursting with sweets and chatter. And there, in the stray beams of a fortunate lantern, she found them—candles so finely crafted they seemed to sing lullabies of light. Curiosity led her up the cobblestones, where a soft-spoken man stood behind his booth. Aman had the warm, approachable aura of someone who knew how to listen to silence, and his candles reflected precisely that. "You made these?" Tara asked, gesturing at the intricate designs. He nodded, running a finger along the waxy ridged surface. "Every festival needs its own light language." Bleeding sincerity in his words and an almost-absent humility in his eyes, Aman's accidental poetry tugged at something in Tara’s chest. Finding simplicity was often the hoarded secret she pursued, and Aman seemed to possess it faultlessly. The exchange echoed far beyond candles. From apologies over a spilt coffee cup to musings about the contrast of photographing life's grand events, they wandered through any unspoken possibilities. Something in the air felt like finding missing parts of yourself in the unlikely contours of another soul. Tara returned home, candles wrapped snugly under her arm and Aman's words echoing in her thoughts. She soon learned that these lights weren't just for the night but for illuminating corners of fears she'd left unexamined. As days passed, their encounters became as natural as breathing, hidden beneath routine facades. Aman and Tara found themselves swept by the rhythm of life’s ever-unfolding possibilities. Tara observed Aman’s practice with an artist's eye, unexpectedly finding metaphors where wax met fire. One November afternoon, sharing chai by the street vendor they’d begun to frequent, Tara voiced what had been woven in the prelude of their shared tale. "You know," she began hesitantly, "I often live through my photos because they show beauty and permanence in life’s fleeting moments." Her voice softened. "Yet you... you make me see the moments that could be, rather than those that were." Aman pondered her confession, tilting his head as though absorbing the complexity of shadows and light. They were both artists in their own right, yet he realized that while her lens captured reality, he was busy crafting dreams. Frosted richer by the complexity of their perspectives, the mere idea of a budding connection seemed to suddenly outweigh their particulars—the fear of neglect, the restrictions of unspoken boundaries. In a place brimming with festival aspirations, Aman's quiet courage and Tara's unguarded openness had crafted a narrative of individuality that quietly embraced the chaos. Unexpectedly, there was now a 'they', and it was real.