When Lights Transcend

"Look at this place," Amrita murmured, her eyes sweeping over the lantern-draped yard as familiar scents of incense and sweets drifted by. Her mom, bustling around a table loaded with plates of shimmering ladoos and warm jalebis, cast her a teasing look. "Glad you can see it," she chuckled. "These old eyes have been asking for help all day!" With a feigned rueful laugh, Amrita rolled up her sleeves. Yet in the familiar task of threading strings of marigold across the doorway, the act of returning to her childhood home seemed to dim the laughter that was once lost amongst mushrooming deadlines and a city too busy to pause. The Diwali celebrations were as mesmerizing as they were every other year. With streets aglow in a riot of lights, children still darting about with sparklers in hand, and neighbors dropping in with laden pots of homemade sambhar. Yet, Amrita felt a shade disconnected, sitting at an island of warmth she was still reacquainting herself with. There was a lingering tug around the edges of her thoughts, a whisper she couldn't quite snuff. Absently, Amrita wandered out the backdoor, her feet stepping over generations of footprints, drawing her to an old wooden bench where she would perch as a child, dreaming up her future masterpieces. That's where she found him. "Hey, stranger," he greeted, sitting there with an easy smile, just as he had in their high school art class. "Isn't it a small world?" It was Rohan, her best friend from a lifetime ago — although nothing stirred the air between them but the fragrance of time well spent and days gone by. They slipped effortlessly into conversation like no time had passed, speaking of nothing and everything in breathless tones beneath the fireworks as they painted visions with words. To soulfully connect broke through the concrete of life's urgency with warmth. When the commotion of the evening softened towards midnight, they found themselves standing near the old easel Rohan had rescued for her. "You used to love painting, Amrita," he nudged. "I still do...I think," Amrita replied, sheepishly. That's when he started a tentative brushstroke on the canvas. "Come on, let's see if you've still got it." It had been too long since she'd felt the fuzz of paint against the canvas beneath her fingertips. Yet here she stood, coaxing whispers of abandoned dreams into brilliant explosions of color. "That feels good," she marveled, with a fledgling smile that broke free like the delighted firecrackers clawing at the sky. "You know what else feels good?" Rohan chuckled, pointing at the spread of deserted sweets. "Sharing those ladoos!" they both laughed, the air expanding with shared stories as they munched amidst the flickering glow of lamps and lanterns. As they parted ways past midnight, plans already set to meet again, Amrita realized Rohan hadn't just reminded her of art; he reminded her of how life's little luster demands to be cherished, not postponed in pursuit of perfection. At that moment, she understood the festival of lights was not about the twinkling filigree woven through air, nor explosions painting the night. It was something deeper — a glow that rises like a quiet hunger for brightness deep within. Past the porch, as her parents' dreams drifted with the pull of the night, Amrita stayed on the bench just a while longer — welcoming the morning and the call of a canvas that was patiently waiting. And when she finally closed her eyes on the tender hearth of yesterday, she knew it wasn't just one dream that had been rekindled, but two: one of paint, and the secret joys of returning home to herself.