📅 October 21 – Morning After Diwali, Nandanpur
A Quiet Morning
The village was softer today. The echoes of fireworks had faded, and the air smelled of burnt wicks and sweets left overnight.
Cows wandered lazily near the riverbanks, and children ran barefoot collecting half-melted candles.
From the Sharma porch, Vaidehi squinted toward the Sudarshini.
"Abhay bhaiya… come see this!"
He jogged over, half-asleep. "What now? Another frog in your shoe?"
She pointed. "No—look there. Those two diyas…"
Floating side by side in the middle of the river, still glowing faintly even under daylight, were their diyas.
Abhay froze. "That's… impossible. They should've gone out hours ago."
At the Riverbank
By the time the others arrived — Ishanvi, Raghav, Vrinda, Aariv, Meera and Vivaan — a small crowd had gathered.
Villagers whispered prayers, some bowing, some just staring.
"See?" said old Keshav baba, tapping his stick on the ground. "Sudarshini blessed two hearts last night. Look how she keeps their light alive."
Ishanvi's throat tightened. "Two hearts?"
The old man smiled knowingly. "The river never lies, beti."
Abhay looked at her. Their eyes met for a heartbeat — that same unspoken pulse again, stronger this time.
Whispers and Wonder
Vrinda nudged Vivaan. "Now the whole village thinks they're some divine couple."
Vivaan smirked. "Well, they did light the only diyas that survived a thunderstorm last month."
"Shut up," Ishanvi muttered, but her voice lacked its usual sharpness.
Abhay bent down, cupping water in his hand. It shimmered faintly blue before fading. He blinked hard.
"Did you see that?" he whispered.
Ishanvi frowned. "See what?"
"The water—it reacted."
Before she could answer, a cold wind rushed through, and for just a second, every diya on the river flickered in sync—except theirs.
They burned brighter.
Evening Reflection
That night, both lay awake in their own homes.
The same thought kept circling their minds:
Why do these things happen only around us?
Abhay traced a droplet sliding down his window, watching it defy gravity for an instant before it fell.
Ishanvi stared at a candle on her desk—the flame swayed toward her hand, as if it knew her.
Neither spoke. Neither slept.
Outside, the Sudarshini whispered against its banks, carrying two small diyas toward the far bend of the river—still glowing, still together.
"Some lights don't fade because they aren't lit by oil or wick," the old legend said.
"They're lit by destiny."