THE SOUND OF THE LANTERNS

🌾 "The Sound of the Lanterns"by [shehzad ali]

In the village of Marul, time moved differently.

Mornings began not with alarms, but with the soft cooing of pigeons and the clatter of brass pots against stone. A breeze always drifted through the neem trees, shaking sunlight through their leaves like flickers of fire. Children chased goats in the narrow lanes, women sat under awnings peeling garlic into great copper bowls, and the air smelled like earth, spice, and firewood.

I grew up in the smallest mud-brick house at the edge of the village, where the mango trees leaned so low you could pick fruit without climbing. My grandmother lived with us then, her fingers always moving—stitching, cooking, massaging tired limbs. She was born in that village, raised three children there, and buried a husband under the banyan tree. She never left.

I once asked her, "Have you ever wanted to see the city?"

She smiled without looking up from her knitting. "Why would I? The city doesn’t hear birds the way we do. It doesn’t smell like rain before it comes. And it doesn’t know your name before you speak it."

Every evening, the village lit its lanterns.

Men returning from the fields would place them at doorsteps. Their soft orange glow reflected off clay walls and quiet faces. It wasn’t just light—it was a ritual. A reminder that though we were small in number, we were not alone.

There was one evening that changed everything.

It was the monsoon's end. My father hadn't returned from the market in the neighboring town, and the storm had been stronger than usual. The river swelled too fast, and the road washed out. Lanterns that night flickered restlessly in the wind, their flames bending like they, too, were afraid.

When the news finally came—he had been delayed, but safe—the entire village exhaled. Aunties brought sweets. Boys danced near the well. Grandmother tied a red thread on my wrist and whispered, "Now you know what the lanterns are for."

"They’re for waiting?" I asked.

"No, child," she said. "They’re for faith."

Years passed. I left the village, moved to the city, studied, worked, fell in love. The world grew wider. But every time I returned—usually in the monsoon—I would find the lanterns waiting for me.

And each time, the air smelled like home: like garlic, wet soil, woodsmoke, and jasmine. I’d find grandmother sitting in the same spot, her hands still moving, her face still lit by the same flame.

One year, the lantern outside her house was not lit.

And I knew.

Now, I’m the one who lights the lantern when I visit.

Not just for her, but for everyone who still listens to birds, who still feels rain before it comes, who still believes a flame on a doorstep can mean something more than just ligh