the light in the lamp

It seemed like it was barely a few months back that the entire kingdom had been plunged into an unprecedented collective gloom when news was brought in by pigeon-post of the abduction of their beloved princess at the hands of that almighty Asura from  south of the mighty ocean.  And not just any Asura, but one who had been blessed by Lord Shiva himself, and who was considered mightier than even the Gods in their heaven.  We knew that he ruled over a fabled land of gold where even the houses were roofed with real gold, and golden smoke arose from the cooking fires of ordinary citizens, and we also knew that he was still undefeated in battle, and many a notable worthy had tried.  We had all heard of his humiliation at the hands of our prince at the Swayamwar and we feared his revenge now.

People like us who had thronged the streets in their thousands just yesterday (or so it seemed) to welcome their princess-bride after her grand wedding to their beloved crown prince now huddled in their homes and wept.  They had marveled at her beautiful clothes and expensive jewelry and they had loved her delicate beauty and grace, her sparkling doe eyes and her flawless complexion, but most of all they had fallen in love with her as a woman, like their prince had been, for her wonderfully open and warm personality and unbounded charm.

After the long celebrations we had all been shocked and saddened just as suddenly by the turn of events that forced our prince to leave the kingdom and roam the jungles like an unknown and unsung commoner, and our grief had been multiplied many fold when we found out that his beautiful young bride had chosen to accompany him into hardship and danger rather than enjoy the luxuries of the royal household.  While our love and admiration for her loyalty and courage had soared to new heights, we were also terribly worried and scared.  Most of us had never seen the real horrors and dangers lurking in those vast stretches of dense jungles, tall mountain ranges and twisted and broken ravines in the south, but we all knew dangers were aplenty and our overactive imaginations made them appear far worse.  But as time went by without any incident we had even started to think that it would soon be over and they would be back to claim their rightful place on the throne.

And now this.  We feared for her honor and we feared for her life if she refused to compromise that honor.  And we feared for the life of our prince because we were as sure as night follows day that he would fight for her.  The Asura was vastly experienced in battle, had a huge and well-trained army with sophisticated weaponry, and he had all of his mighty brothers and sons to help him.  Our prince was very young, not even battle-hardened yet, and he had at his side only his even younger brother and a motley group of monkeys and bears led by a defeated and deposed monkey-king.  And yet, come what may, he would go to battle.  Of that we had no doubt.  That was the warrior’s code.  What we didn’t realize then was that he had some intangibles on his side.  He had the blessings of his gurus, he had the prayers of an entire kingdom and he had the Truth.  Of course, we should have known that the outcome was only to be expected.

It was dashami, the tenth and last day of the annual Puja for Goddess Durga but this year the celebrations had been muted – most of us choosing to pray for the safety of our prince and princess in the privacy of our own homes rather than celebrate on the streets.  Towards the end of yet another sad and depressing day a lone pigeon flew in with the news, and our whole world changed in that instant.  The Asura had been defeated and killed, our prince had emerged victorious, and he was already headed home with his bride.  The Goddess had heard our prayers and the plain old dashami had just become Vijaya Dashami.

It has been almost three weeks now since that momentous occasion.  Every house, courtyard and street has been paved with rows and rows of oil lamps since that day but they have not been lit yet.  All these days the holy flame of the Niraanjan has been our only source of light and we are all waiting with bated breath to finally transfer that flame to the public lamps.

It is getting on toward dusk when the first runners approach the outskirts of the town, shouting the good news -

The prince has reached.  He is finally home.  It is Diwali.

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