Fifty Years After the Return – Yamuna Riverside Villa, Diwali Night
The twin butterfly-lotus trees have grown so vast that their canopy now shelters half the estate.
Their roots have woven themselves into the banks of the Yamuna, turning the river itself into a living necklace of pink and silver blossoms.
Tonight, on the fiftieth Diwali since Rajesh Kumar came home, the entire city of Delhi-NCR has declared a **public holiday**:
The Silver Lotus Festival is no longer just a family tradition; it is the heartbeat of the capital.
The villa's gates stand open.
Thousands walk the flower-lit paths in silence, leaving diyas at the water's edge.
No speeches. No VIP passes.
Just gratitude.
At the heart of the grove, beneath the oldest arch of intertwined branches, stands a simple marble platform.
On it: a single **eternal silver-pink lotus lamp** that has never once gone out in fifty years.
Rajesh Kumar, now ninety-two, sits on the same wooden swing that once creaked under a young father's weight.
His hair is snow, his back slightly bent, but his eyes still hold the galaxies he once ruled.
He wears the same cream kurta, faded soft from countless washings.
Anjali, eighty-seven, sits beside him, head on his shoulder, rose-gold saree now the colour of dawn.
Her hand rests in his; their wedding rings have worn thin, yet still shine.
Around them, four generations:
- **Priya** (53) – legendary filmmaker, three National Awards, grandmother of eight.
- **Arjun** (49) – Nobel in Physics for "Temporal Resonance Theory" (he never told them where the idea came from).
- Grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and one newborn great-great-granddaughter asleep in Priya's arms, tiny fist clutching a **mini silver lotus seed**.
Little Sheru, still a Pug, still immortal, lies across Rajesh's feet.
His bandana now reads in faded thread:
**"First Spark – Age 10,059 – Retired but Refuses to Fade"**.
No one speaks for a long time.
The trees do it for them, humming the lullaby Rajesh sang to Priya on her first night home.
At 9:09 p.m. exactly (the minute Rajesh stepped out of the lightning fifty years ago), the eternal lamp flares brighter.
A single petal detaches and floats down, landing in Rajesh's open palm.
He smiles, eyes wet.
Anjali squeezes his hand.
Priya kneels, voice steady:
"Papa, the city wants to rename the riverbank road after you."
Arjun adds softly, "And the new ISRO lunar crater—'Kumar Crater'."
Rajesh shakes his head, the same gentle refusal he gave empires long ago.
"Let the road keep its old name.
Let the moon keep its scars.
Names fade.
Love doesn't."
He lifts the petal.
It dissolves into silver-pink light that spreads through the grove, through the city, through every heart that ever watched their story.
The light settles on every forehead like a silent tilak.
Rajesh looks at the sleeping newborn in Priya's arms.
He reaches out one trembling finger and touches her tiny fist.
The baby's fingers open, revealing she has been clutching a **new silver lotus seed** all along.
He laughs, the sound young again.
"See? The story plants itself."
Anjali whispers, "Ready?"
He nods.
They have talked about this night for years.
Rajesh stands slowly.
The family rises with him.
He walks to the edge of the Yamuna, the same spot where the Debt Collector once demanded a daughter.
He kneels, places both palms on the water.
The river stills.
From the roots of the twin trees, two thin vines, one pink, one silver, snake across the grass and wrap gently around Rajesh and Anjali's wrists like living bangles.
The eternal lamp rises from its platform, hovers, then lowers itself into the water between them.
It does not sink.
It simply becomes part of the river, part of the trees, part of the night sky.
Rajesh turns to his family, eyes shining brighter than any immortality he ever owned.
"I was the Supreme Daddy for a moment.
I have been the luckiest father for fifty years.
Now I get to be the memory that keeps the lamp burning."
Anjali kisses him, soft and certain.
"Together," she says.
"Always together."
The vines tighten, not in pain, but in embrace.
Silver-pink light flows from the trees into their joined hands, then outward in a gentle wave that touches every person present, every diya on the river, every heart in the watching city.
Rajesh and Anjali close their eyes.
Their breathing slows.
The swing creaks one last time.
When the light fades, the swing is empty.
Only two things remain:
1. Their faded cream kurta and rose-gold saree, neatly folded on the seat.
2. A new **double-bloomed lotus** floating where they knelt, half pink, half silver, glowing with two heartbeats.
Priya picks it up, tears falling.
Arjun places an arm around her.
The children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren form a circle.
Sheru lays his head on the folded clothes and sighs, finally content.
Above them, the twin trees bloom brighter than ever.
A soft breeze carries Rajesh's voice, Anjali's laughter, woven together:
**"We never left.
We just became the light that keeps the family warm."**
The newborn great-great-granddaughter opens her eyes for the first time.
One brown.
One silver.
She smiles.
The city lights stay off a little longer this year.
No one minds.
Because on the banks of the Yamuna, beneath the eternal twin trees, the **Silver Lotus Lamp** still floats, still burns, still guides every lost soul home.
And every Diwali, when Delhi goes dark,
two silhouettes can be seen on the water,
hand in hand,
grey hair and rose-gold saree,
watching their family grow beneath the light they became.
**The Supreme Daddy did not die.
He became the flame that never goes out.
And the family,
the family became the keepers of forever.**