Chandan pressed his palms hard against his ears, trying to drown out the relentless explosion of firecrackers. Diwali night filled the city with dazzling lights and loud celebrations, but it brought him little joy. Lying on a worn-out wooden bench in the corner of the small dhaba where he worked, Chandan fought the memories, tried to shut the world out, and longed for sleep. Diwali—the festival of lights—was a time of celebration for everyone but him. Yet tonight, he couldn’t escape the memories of a Diwali three years ago, when everything in his life had shattered.
Three years back, Chandan woke up to his mother yanking the quilt off him, her cheerful voice breaking through his sleepy haze. “Chandan, you lazy bones! It’s Diwali! Babuji’s waiting for you to go to the market. And don’t forget your precious firecrackers!”
At the mention of crackers, Chandan jumped out of bed, grinning. He’d already planned his list—rockets, Laxmi bombs, Knock-Out bombs, and even some sparklers to appease his sister Anjali, who was terrified of loud noises. Though they always fought over the crackers, she’d end up with more, with Babuji taking her side. Chandan didn’t mind. It was all part of the Diwali fun.
By the time they returned from the market, the sun was high, and Chandan’s stomach rumbled. His mother had made his favorite halwa and kheer. He devoured two helpings, beaming at her delighted smile.
As evening approached, the family prepared for Laxmi Puja. Just as they were about to begin, a neighbor brought news: Ratan Shah, the owner of Babuji’s shop, had suffered a stroke. Without hesitation, Babuji left for the hospital, taking Chandan’s mother and Anjali along to offer comfort to Ratan’s family.
“Stay here, Chandan,” Babuji had said with a gentle smile. “We’ll be back soon.”
Those were the last words Chandan ever heard from his father. On their way back from the hospital, Babuji’s moped collided with a truck. All three—Babuji, Ma, and Anjali—were killed instantly. That Diwali night, the lights went out in Chandan’s life. His once-bright world plunged into darkness.
Two weeks later, Chandan’s Uncle Birju arrived, bringing with him his wife and four children. “Poor orphan,” Birju Chacha would say to neighbors, a false sympathy laced in his voice. “I’ve left everything in the village to care for him.”
But Birju Chacha wasn’t the family savior he pretended to be. He took over Chandan’s house, squandered his father’s savings, and pawned off his mother’s jewelry. Soon, Chandan found himself reduced to a servant, forced to do the housework and run errands for his Chacha’s demanding family.
Unable to bear the torment, Chandan ran away. He boarded the first train he saw and eventually ended up in Baroda, where he found a job at Bakshi’s dhaba. The dhaba became his home and sanctuary, a place where he could sleep after a long day of grueling work. Yet, each Diwali reminded him of the life he’d lost.
This Diwali night, Chandan lay in his corner, wishing for silence. Suddenly, he heard a faint, pained cry— “Aah!” He jerked up, wondering if he’d imagined it. But there it was again, clearer this time.
Chandan scrambled outside and found an old man lying on the ground. His clothes were worn, his white hair unkempt, and his frail form looked exhausted. Chandan helped him up, guiding him to a bench. Under the streetlights, he noticed the man was blind.
“Thank you, beta,” the man said softly, a kindness in his voice that caught Chandan off guard.
“Baba, why are you out here alone so late?” Chandan asked.
The old man chuckled. “It’s Diwali, beta! The festival of joy, of lights, of love. How could I stay cooped up? I came out to enjoy.”
“But you can’t even see the lights, Baba,” Chandan said, realizing too late that his words might have hurt the man.
The old man’s smile didn’t falter. “Who says I need to see to feel Diwali? I can hear the crackers, smell the sweets, and feel the joy in the air.” He gestured to his bulging pockets. “See these? They’re filled with sweets. The whole year, I save every little bit I can. And on Diwali, I buy sweets to give to those less fortunate than myself.”
Chandan stared, astonished. Here was a man who had no sight, no family, yet he was out here spreading joy. For three years, Chandan had cursed Diwali, cursing the gods and his own fate. He had spent every Diwali in grief, letting the past steal his future. And here was this old man, who had every reason to be bitter, sharing happiness with strangers.
The old man stood up. “Thank you, beta. Here, take this,” he said, pressing a sweet packet into Chandan’s hand. “May Goddess Lakshmi always bless you.”
With a final smile, the old man hobbled off into the night, leaving Chandan holding the sweet, his words echoing in Chandan’s mind. Chandan’s heart swelled with emotions he couldn’t name—awe, gratitude, perhaps even hope.
Since that night, whenever despair crept in, Chandan would think of the old man. The gentle, blind stranger had shown him that joy could be found even in darkness, that life could still hold beauty even when everything seemed lost.
The festival of lights, Diwali, was no longer a reminder of his pain but a reminder of resilience and hope. The old man had rekindled a light in Chandan’s heart—a light that could never be extinguished.
Inspirational story. Thank you