The village of Somapur came alive each year during the Festival of Lights. For days leading up to the celebration, a quiet excitement would ripple through the community as preparations began. Small huts were swept clean, and the dusty village lanes were lined with tiny earthen lamps waiting to be lit. For most families, this was a time of joy and togetherness, but for Kempa's family, it was also a reminder of their poverty. They couldn't afford the new clothes or sweets that others enjoyed during the festival. Yet, Kempa's excitement was undiminished. For him and his best friend Krishna, the festival wasn't about material wealth but about the magic of light and hope.
Kempa and Krishna decided to contribute to the festivities in their own way. They came up with the idea of making clay lamps to sell at the market. With boundless enthusiasm, they borrowed a small lump of clay from Krishna's father, who was a potter. Over the next few days, the boys worked tirelessly by the riverbank, shaping and smoothing each lamp. Their hands were caked in mud, and their faces streaked with determination. It wasn't easy work—many of the lamps broke or cracked before they could be fired—but the boys refused to give up.
"These lamps will light up the whole village," Kempa said with a grin, holding up a finished piece. Krishna laughed. "And maybe we'll earn enough to buy sweets for our families."
As the festival approached, they carried their carefully crafted lamps to the bustling village market. The stalls were filled with vibrant decorations, fragrant flowers, and colorful fabrics. Kempa and Krishna set up a small corner stall, arranging their lamps in neat rows. At first, the villagers were skeptical. Why buy lamps from two young boys when they could get them from seasoned potters? But Kempa's infectious enthusiasm won them over. He spoke passionately about how each lamp was made with care and how their purchase would help light up not just homes but hearts.
By the end of the day, the boys had sold all their lamps. The small pouch of coins they earned felt like a treasure. Kempa and Krishna used the money to buy a handful of sweets and some jaggery for their families. "This is for you," Kempa said, handing the treats to his mother, who beamed with pride. "You've done well, my son," she said, her voice thick with emotion.
That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, the village transformed into a sea of flickering lights. Every home, no matter how humble, glowed with the warmth of a thousand tiny flames. Kempa and Krishna sat by the riverbank, watching the lamps they had made float downstream. The shimmering reflections danced on the water, carrying their wishes and dreams to the unknown.
"Do you think our wishes will come true?" Krishna asked softly.
Kempa nodded, his eyes fixed on the glowing lights. "They have to. That's what festivals are for to remind us that even in the darkest times, there's always light."
As the night deepened, the boys lay on the grass, gazing at the star-filled sky. For a moment, their worries seemed far away, replaced by the simple joy of knowing they had made a difference, however small. The Festival of Lights wasn't just a celebration; it was a symbol of hope, unity, and the unbreakable spirit of Somapur.