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As dusk began to settle over the village, Aarav stepped outside, the cool evening air bringing a sense of peace. He lit the lantern, just as he had done countless times before when he was a child. The flame flickered to life, casting a soft, golden glow that danced in the twilight.
For a moment, it was as if nothing had changed. The world was quiet, the stars just beginning to twinkle in the darkening sky, and the little lantern was once again the center of his world. He closed his eyes and let the memories wash over him—he could hear Dadi’s voice, soft and melodic, as if she were right there beside him.
“There was once a little lantern,” she would begin, “that hung outside a small cottage on the edge of a village. It wasn’t the biggest or brightest lantern, but it had a special gift. You see, this little lantern had the power to hold stories—stories of the people who lived in the village, stories of love, loss, and adventure. And every night, as the villagers slept, the lantern would glow softly, whispering these stories into the wind.”
Aarav smiled, remembering how captivated he had been by the idea of a magical lantern that could hold stories. He had believed, as only a child could, that the little lantern outside Dadi’s cottage was that very lantern, that it held within it all the tales she had ever told him.
But now, as an adult, he wondered if there was a different kind of magic at play—the magic of memory, of connection, of love passed down through generations.
The next morning, as the first rays of sunlight touched the village, Aarav found himself unable to leave. He had come with the intention of saying goodbye, of closing this chapter of his life. But something held him back.
He spent the day walking through the village, greeting old neighbors and friends who were surprised but delighted to see him. Many of them shared their own memories of Dadi—the time she had nursed a sick child back to health, the stories she had told at village gatherings, the warmth she brought to everyone she met.
It became clear to Aarav that Dadi had not just been his storyteller; she had been the storyteller of the entire village. Her stories had woven the fabric of this community, binding people together with shared experiences, lessons, and laughter.
As evening fell once again, Aarav returned to the cottage, his mind swirling with thoughts of the past. The lantern, still glowing faintly from the night before, seemed to call to him, its light steady and reassuring.
He sat on the porch, staring at the flame. And then, without fully understanding why, he began to speak.
“There was once a little boy,” he said softly, “who lived in a small village with his grandmother. She was the wisest woman he had ever known, and she told him stories that filled his heart with wonder. Every night, under the light of a little lantern, she would spin tales of courage, kindness, and magic. And as the boy grew older, he realized that these stories were not just entertainment—they were lessons, passed down from generation to generation, teaching him how to live, how to love, and how to remember.”
The words flowed easily, as if they had been waiting for this moment. And as he spoke, Aarav felt a sense of peace settle over him. He wasn’t just telling a story; he was honoring the legacy of his grandmother, keeping her memory alive in the same way she had kept the stories of their ancestors alive.( TO BE CONTINUED)
Rajat Chandra Sarmah
Guwahati , Assam , India
01/11/2024
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