Episode 4: The Clay Lamp

That evening, a cool breeze drifted through the window, carrying with it the faint aroma of wet earth. It had rained—just a drizzle—but enough to make the world smell like home. I stood by the balcony, watching the golden light of the setting sun mix with the dark clouds, and something in me stirred.

The maroon runner still lay on the small wooden table, with the flowers now slightly wilted. I replaced them with fresh ones and sat beside it, sipping tea from my steel tumbler. The tea had that extra sweetness that comes from quiet satisfaction. But as I looked around, I realized something—the house was changing, yes, but only in parts. The living room corner had warmth; the kitchen now had life. Yet, the rest of the house still felt like it was holding its breath.

I wanted to change that.

When my husband returned home that night, he placed his bag near the door and smiled, “Aaj phir kuch naya kiya kya?” I smiled back, “Abhi soch rahi hoon.” He chuckled softly and went to freshen up. But in my mind, the seed of an idea had already taken root.

The next morning, as I was folding the laundry, I found a small brass diya wrapped in a newspaper. Maa had slipped it in too, I realized. My heart tightened a little. It was old—its golden sheen faded, edges darkened with time—but it was hers. I traced its curves with my fingers and smiled. This diya had lit up countless evenings in her pooja room. I could almost hear her voice, chanting softly while she lit it.

I decided I would light it too. But not just for ritual—for meaning.

That evening, I cleaned it with tamarind and salt, rubbed it gently till it gleamed again, and placed it in the center of the living room. I poured oil into it, placed a cotton wick, and waited for dusk. When the sun began to fade, I lit it.

The flame flickered at first, then steadied itself—a small, confident glow. It filled the room with a golden calmness, and for the first time, I felt the house breathe. Not as a stranger’s structure of bricks and tiles, but as something living, something that held my heartbeat.

Just then, my husband came out from the bedroom, towel around his neck, and paused. “Tumne diya jalaya?”
“Haan,” I said softly. “Maa ka hai.”
He looked at it for a moment, then nodded. “Sundar lag raha hai.”

It wasn’t much—a diya, a flicker of light—but it was a start.

Over the next few days, I began lighting that diya every evening. Slowly, I added more—one in the kitchen, one near the window, one in the hallway. Soon, the house looked like it was wearing little smiles in every corner.

And then came Sunday.

The local market was buzzing with pre-Diwali energy. I had gone there to buy vegetables, but a small stall near the temple caught my eye. Rows of handmade clay diyas sat neatly stacked—some plain, some painted in red, green, and gold. The artisan, an old woman with kind eyes, was arranging them carefully.

“Kitne ka diya hai, Maaji?” I asked.
She smiled, “Das rupaye ka chaar.”

Her hands moved with practiced ease as she wrapped them in old newspaper. I watched her closely—the care, the precision, the affection with which she handled her craft. It felt familiar. That quiet pride of creation.

I bought twelve diyas, but not just for decoration. I wanted to try something.

That night, after dinner, I spread an old newspaper on the floor, brought out my paints—leftovers from my fabric stitching—and began colouring the diyas. One in deep maroon, one in golden yellow, another in soft green. The brush moved slowly, carefully. It felt like painting emotions—warmth, hope, belonging.

As I finished, I looked at them lined up on the floor. Each diya was different, imperfect, and yet—together, they looked beautiful. Like life itself.

When my husband saw them, he smiled, “Tum toh kalakar ban gayi ho.”
I laughed, “Kalakar nahi, ghar banane wali.”

He chuckled, but I saw the admiration in his eyes.

The next morning, when I placed those diyas on the window sill, sunlight danced upon them, making their colours glow. The house looked radiant. But more than that—it looked alive.

That day, as I wiped the kitchen counter and arranged my spice jars again, something clicked inside me. I wasn’t just filling this house with things—I was filling it with memories, with love, with stories.

Maa had once told me, “Ghar sirf deewaron se nahi, roshni se banta hai.”
I finally understood what she meant.

Each diya I painted wasn’t just for light. It was a piece of my journey—a symbol of how warmth is created, not bought.

That evening, as the diyas glowed softly across the house, I sat near the window, watching them flicker. I thought of Maa, of her kitchen, of her gentle smile. And for the first time, I didn’t feel homesick.

Because home was here now. In every jar, every stitch, every flame.

And as the lights shimmered quietly in the golden dark, I whispered to myself,
“Maybe this is what I was always meant to do—create light, wherever I go.”