The Lamps We Carry

The Lamps We Carry

A story of love, memory, and the rituals that keep us alive.

This story took me a long time to finish... 10 months exactly! Life happened... health issues, big changes, days when everything felt too heavy. I left it halfway, thinking I might never return. But at my lowest, I found my biggest spark - writing. That’s how this little story found it's voice again.

If you’re here reading this, I hope you find something in it to hold close. Wishing you warmth, strength and lots of love. Hope you enjoy it. ✨

In a small forgotten village at the foot of a steep hill, where paddy fields occupied more land than the houses, and a huge ocean-like river bent gently along the land, lived an old and dainty woman named Kamla. She moved quietly through her days, tending to the little chores of her home, her footsteps soft and light as though she feared disturbing the silence around her. Once she completed her chores for the day she would sit by the doorway with red mud from her backyard, her petite fingers quietly shaping the red mud into small clay lamps. She did this every day. And when the evening turned to dusk, when the sky softened into violet and orange tones, and the shadows spread over the fields, she would release these small clay lamps upon the river. Their flames - gentle, fragile and bright.

The villagers watched from the riverbank and their houses. Children whispered that the lamps were tiny stars that had fallen into the water. The elders said they were prayers. Some claimed they were messages to the spirits. Nobody asked Kamla the truth.

Long ago, before her hair turned silver, the river had taken her Raghav. He was a fisherman, strong in his arms and gentle in his laughter, the kind of man who whistled when he worked and carried the smell of salt and wet earth like the first rains wherever he went. Every morning, he woke up before the sun to go catch fish. Kamla always made sure to rise before him and hand him a lovingly made cup of chai. One morning, as he rose before dawn as always, Kamla handed him the cup, flickering her eyelashes with a soft smile. She held the edge of her saree pallu over her face, biting it shyly, a quiet goodbye. He would always wink at her before leaving, whistling the tune of his favourite song. His figure slowly disappeared down the muddy path, the fishing net slung over his shoulder, while dark clouds gathered over the hills. By the time the storm broke, he was already gone. And by the time it cleared, he never returned.

The river had claimed him, and Kamla was left with silence. That year, she found she was carrying his child. It was both her sorrow and her salvation, a living piece of him that kept her standing. When her son was born, she pressed his tiny palms to her face and whispered, “You have his eyes. His smile too.”

Grief nearly swallowed her in those first years, but the ritual of the lamps gave her a way to breathe. Each one was a prayer, a memory, a sign of love she could send into the current which took him. She believed if she kept the lights alive, the river could never forget him.

Seasons turned, and the boy grew. He built a life of his own, but he always returned, bringing his little daughter by the hand. The girl’s eyes were curious, full of questions.

“Aaji,” she asked one evening, tugging Kamla’s sari as the lamps floated away, “why do you light these every night? Do they really find Aajoba?”

Kamla placed a weathered hand on her granddaughter’s hair and smiled faintly. “Maybe they do, maybe they don’t. But the river remembers him. And when we light them, so do we.”

The girl’s eyebrows furrowed with thought. “Then teach me. I want to remember Aajoba too.”

Kamla laughed softly, though her eyes glistened. “One day, these lamps will be yours to light.”

It was not only her granddaughter who asked. Another child in the village, Priya, would often linger near the riverbank, watching the small flames vanish into the dark. One evening, unable to hold back, she whispered, “Aaji, can I help too?”

From then on, Priya came every evening. The three of them would first sit together, pressing their fingers into the soft clay, shaping little lamps with quiet care. Later, they would kneel by the water, their faces touched by the glow of the flames and set afloat the tiny lamps. Kamla would often speak about Raghav then, her voice hushed and tender...

“Your Ajoba laughed at the rain,” she told them once, her eyes lost in memory. “He said storms were just the river’s way of singing. I hated him for saying that, but now I think maybe he was right. Perhaps he is a part of that song now.”

Priya’s small voice trembled as she asked, “Do you still miss him, Aaji?”

Kamla’s lips curved into a sad smile. “Every breath. But missing him keeps him alive in me.”

Years passed this way, the little lamps moulding the three lives together. Kamla grew weaker, her back bending with age, her hair silver like the river’s foam. Yet each evening, she still made her way to the bank, holding the hands of the girls she loved, as if they were her anchors.

One twilight, as the sun bled into the horizon, Kamla sat with Priya and her granddaughter beside her. The lamps flickered in their palms, waiting to be released. She took their hands into her own.

“You are my light now,” she whispered, her voice thin but steady. “Raghav gave me love. The river gave me grief. And both of you gave me hope. Promise me… promise me you will keep lighting these lamps. For Aajoba. For me.”

The girls nodded through tears. “We promise, Aaji,” they said together.

That night, Kamla slipped away peacefully in her sleep, her final breath quiet as a flame vanishing into the darkness.

The girls mourned her gently. They did not believe she was gone forever, but that she had returned to Raghav, their Aajoba, carried by the same current that had taken him years ago.

At the riverbank, her son stood silently as his daughter and Priya knelt by the water. They lit the lamps together, their small hands trembling but determined.

“Aaji wanted us to do this together,” Kamla’s granddaughter whispered.

Priya squeezed her hand. “Yes. For Aaji and Aajoba". 

Kamla's Granddaughter hooked her tiny pinky finger around Priya's and said softly, "And for us too."

The lamps floated away, two tiny flames drifting into the endless night. They were finally together. Everyone watched in silence, their hearts aching, their eyes glistening with tears. The river glowed with memory.

And in that moment, the girls understood. This was no longer just Kamla’s ritual. It was theirs now. It was a way of keeping love alive, even against the cruellest silences. The river would carry the light, but they would carry Aaji.

The flames swayed with the current, vanishing into the distance, yet leaving behind something no water could wash away - an unbroken promise! And the quiet truth that love, once kindled, never dies.