Light

Grandmother's trembling hands guided mine as we shaped the diya from clay. She whispered stories in Tamil, words my mother never taught me, yet somehow familiar. Each curve held generations—her mother's mother's mother. The oil lamp would burn bright during Deepavali, just as it had for centuries. My friends thought I was quick to abandon modern decorations, perhaps gullible to tradition. But when the warm glow illuminated our home, something awakened inside. Grandmother smiled, seeing herself reflected in my newfound devotion. That light wasn't just flame. It was heritage breathing through us, community roots strengthening with each grateful glance.