The Flame That Waited

The goddess Saraswati is said to have once adorned the soil of Rupnagar, according to legends. Within the school that blossomed in her angelic shadow was a girl named Nira, who was born with a voice so ethereal that it made stones cry when she sang. An oil lamp burned every full moon beneath a revered banyan tree at the village's outskirts. According to the villagers, the blessings of the goddess would cease the moment that lamp was extinguished, and a great love that had not yet been realized would start its eternal wait. The same lamp went out during the 1947 monsoon. The following evening, Nira vanished.

The ruins of the once-holy school were in front of Aditya, a scholar of architecture and ruins, seventy years later. He consulted locals in an attempt to find design plans that had been lost to time. "Don't go near after dusk, Babu," was the identical warning they all gave him. Despite the absence of any singers, the place continues to sing. Aditya erupted in laughter. Educated in science and born in the city, he never thought ghosts existed. "As long as this locket stays close, you'll never lose your way," his grandfather once said of the copper relic that hung around his neck. That night, Aditya went inside the ruins under a foggy sky and a veiled moon.

And there she was. Sitting next to a damaged harmonium, a girl is hardly noticeable, her presence like a faint odor in the air. Her voice was a melancholic lullaby, her hair loosened, and her face darkened in moonlight:

"Sometimes I believe you arrived,

Why don't you remain, or at the very least, never leave,

like a breeze through my ruins?

She raised her gaze. "You arrived... but why so late?"

Aditya returned night after night. And every time Nira came out, she was not a ghost but rather the personification of desire—of a love that had been trapped in the ages. They conversed through glances, music, and stillness. The old ragas were taught to him by her. There is more than ruins, he said. A connection between their worlds—of now and of once—began to form gradually. Nira gently questioned one evening, "Are you aware of what love is? It occurs when your own shadow leaves you, but you continue to wait for someone who might never come back. "If love endures, what does it seek in life?" Aditya retorted. A slight grin came on her face, and a shimmer of grief entered her eyes. "Don't you sense it? Beyond this skin and this breath, we have already met. His copper locket pulsed warmly that night when Nira grabbed for his hand. As if aroused, it shone dimly.In startled stillness, she gazed at it. "This locket, this. The night before he disappeared, Devjyoti gave it to me. Aditya stopped. Was his granddad really simply a Calcutta man?

Nira muttered, "The lamp will burn again tonight," beneath the once-holy banyan tree that evening. You can stay, and I'll be free. If you decide to love me, I will eventually disappear. He grasped her hand. The locket had stopped burning. Like calm water over ashes, it was cool. The remembrance of someone else weighed heavily on his heart. He remembered a tune he had never heard before, yet his breath matched it. Under the tree, they sat together. New notes rang on the harmonium. Together, their voices rose: "I discovered you again after it, but not in life. And let this lamp burn forever if love is a light.

The ancient school was engulfed in flames that night. Locals hurried and looked on helplessly. Everything was ash by daylight. A harmonium, that is. And there was a dimly flickering lamp beneath the banyan tree. A copper locket and a page torn from a notebook that said,

"If rebirth is real, I will love you again," were found next to it.

If not, let this lamp remain lit indefinitely.