The Little Lantern

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Instagram: @rajatchandrasarmah5

The little lantern hung from a hook outside an old cottage, its glass stained with years of soot, and its metal frame weathered from seasons of rain, sun, and snow. Though small and worn, it held a unique charm—a memory of simpler times when it illuminated the world around it, casting warm, flickering light on the cobblestone path that led to the door.

In the village, people often passed by the cottage without giving the lantern much thought. To most, it was just another relic, a fixture that had outlived its purpose. But to Aarav, the lantern was far more than a forgotten object; it was a symbol of his childhood, of stories told under its glow and the comfort it brought during long, lonely nights.

Aarav’s grandmother, Dadi, had lived in that cottage for as long as he could remember. She was the heart of the village—everyone knew her, and they would come to her for advice, herbal remedies, and stories of the past. Her stories were like magic, each one told with such passion that they seemed to come alive under the soft flicker of the lantern’s light.

Now, as an adult, Aarav stood at the edge of the overgrown garden, staring at the little lantern swaying gently in the breeze. The cottage had been empty for years, ever since Dadi passed away. Life had taken Aarav far from the village, to the bustling city where he had built a career, started a family, and made a new life for himself. But despite the distance, he often found his thoughts drifting back to this place, to the warmth and safety that Dadi’s stories had once provided.

He had returned to the village today, not for a reunion or a celebration, but because he had decided to sell the old cottage. It was time, he thought, to let go. Time to move on from the past. Yet as he stood there, the memories flooded back, and with them came a pang of guilt. How could he let go of something that had meant so much to him?

Aarav walked slowly towards the cottage door, his hand grazing the weathered wood as he pushed it open. The familiar creak of the hinges echoed in the silence, and the musty smell of the long-abandoned house greeted him. Everything inside was exactly as he remembered—Dadi’s old armchair by the fireplace, the embroidered cushions she had made by hand, the faded rug that had once been vibrant with color.

But it was the little lantern, hanging just outside the door, that drew his attention again. He could almost see Dadi sitting there on the porch, her knitting in her lap, the lantern glowing beside her as she told him stories of faraway lands, of brave kings and clever queens, of talking animals and magical forests.

“Dadi, tell me more,” he would say, his young eyes wide with wonder.

“Ah, beta,” she would reply with a twinkle in her eye, “there are so many stories, but we must let them out one by one, like fireflies. Otherwise, the magic will escape.”

Now, standing in the empty house, Aarav couldn’t help but feel that the magic had already slipped away, lost with Dadi’s passing. Yet the lantern remained, its small flame long extinguished, but its spirit somehow still alive.( TO BE CONTINUED)

Rajat chandra Sarmah

Guwahati , Assam , India 

30/10/2024