The Lantern in the Rain

The mountain village of Dharpur was a quiet, forgotten place nestled between steep cliffs and thick forests. The people who lived there were simple, hardworking folk who lived by the rhythm of the seasons. In the winter, snow blanketed the fields. In the summer, the hills turned green and the air carried the scent of pine. And in the monsoon, the rains came hard and fast, turning narrow footpaths into fast-running streams.

In the very last cottage on the edge of Dharpur lived an old man named Bhola. He was thin and stooped, with a long white beard and sharp eyes that had seen many seasons come and go. Bhola had spent most of his life as the village lamp-lighter. Long ago, before electricity reached the hills, he would walk the winding paths at dusk, lighting the oil lanterns that stood along the main road. His job was simple, yet essential. On foggy nights and stormy evenings, those lanterns guided travelers safely home.

Even after the government installed electric poles and wires in Dharpur, Bhola kept lighting one small lantern outside his home every night. People chuckled and called it a silly habit, but Bhola didn’t mind. He often said, “A single light in darkness can save more than one soul.”

The villagers respected him, though they didn’t always understand him. He had no family, no possessions worth speaking of, and he rarely asked for help. Yet, his door was always open, and his heart even more so.

One night, during the peak of the rainy season, a terrible storm rolled into the valley. The wind howled like wolves, rain fell in heavy torrents, and the power flickered before finally going out. Most families huddled indoors, lighting candles and staying dry. Outside, the paths had disappeared under water and mud. It was not a night for anyone to be on the road.

Bhola sat beside his small clay stove, warming a bowl of thin lentil soup. The firewood crackled softly, and the little lantern outside his door glowed through the sheets of rain. Just as he reached for his shawl, there was a loud knock.

He opened the door to find a woman, drenched from head to toe, her arms tightly wrapped around a small boy. Her lips were pale, and her voice trembled with fear and exhaustion. “Please,” she said, barely audible over the rain, “my husband is hurt. We were trying to cross the forest trail. He slipped and fell near the river bend.”

Bhola didn’t ask questions. He grabbed his lantern, threw on his patched coat, and told the woman to wait inside where it was warm. Then, lantern in hand, he stepped into the storm.

The wind pushed hard against him, and the rain stung his face, but he pressed on. He knew the trail well—it was narrow, slippery, and dangerous on a good day. Tonight, it was a death trap.

After nearly twenty minutes, he found the man. He was lying on the muddy path, soaked, shivering, and unconscious, with a bleeding gash on his leg. Without hesitation, Bhola tore part of his own shawl, wrapped the wound tightly, and hoisted the man onto his back.

Step by heavy step, Bhola carried the stranger through the storm, guided only by the warm yellow light of his lantern. By the time he reached his hut again, his knees were trembling, and his breath came in gasps. But he said nothing of his pain. Instead, he helped the man lie down, dried the woman and child’s clothes by the fire, and offered them bowls of soup.

The family stayed with Bhola for three nights while the storm raged on. Slowly, the man recovered. His name was Ratan, a farmer from a village over the next ridge. He and his family had been walking for days, hoping to reach a relative in Dharpur when the storm caught them by surprise.

“We would have died out there,” Ratan said, gripping Bhola’s hand with tears in his eyes. “You saved us.”

Bhola simply smiled and replied, “If you see someone in the dark, light them a path. That’s what the lantern is for.”

When the storm passed and the sun returned, the family offered Bhola all the money they had—just a few crumpled notes and some coins. He gently pushed their hands away.

“Use it to buy food for your child,” he said. “I’ve lived many years. I have enough.”

The family left, but they told everyone they met of the kind old man who had risked his life for strangers.

Soon, the story spread through Dharpur like fire through dry grass. People who had barely spoken to Bhola began to visit him. Some brought food, others helped fix his leaking roof. Children came in the evenings to hear his stories about the time before electricity and about what it meant to live with compassion.

Inspired by Bhola’s selflessness, the villagers began lighting lanterns again—not because they needed the light, but to remember what that light represented. At every door, a flame flickered in the night, a silent promise to help those in need.

Years later, when Bhola passed away peacefully in his sleep, the entire village mourned. They carried his body down the winding path he used to walk, every turn lit with lanterns.

To honor his memory, the village built a tall stone lantern in the center of Dharpur. They named it “Bhola’s Light.” It was kept burning every night, even when storms came, as a symbol of the man who reminded them that compassion doesn’t take wealth, only a willing heart.

And so, long after Bhola was gone, the people of Dharpur kept the lanterns lit—not just to light the roads, but to light their lives.

Moral of the Story:

A single act of kindness, done in silence and humility, can illuminate hearts far beyond what we can see.