“The Lamp of Chandanpur”

Nestled between green hills and golden fields of mustard lay the quiet village of Chandanpur. Life moved slowly here, like the rhythm of a folk song carried on the wind. The village had no supermarket, no concrete roads, and no streetlights—but it had something rarer: peace, and a tight-knit community that thrived on trust, tradition, and shared memories.

In this village lived Masterji—officially known as Mr. Hariprasad Mehta. He was a retired schoolteacher, now in his seventies, with silver hair, a stooped back, and a walking stick that clicked against the earth like a metronome. Masterji had taught generations of villagers, and his house stood beside the banyan tree near the village temple. Though retired, he still gave free lessons to children under that very tree.

Among his students was a boy named Raju—a curious 13-year-old with wide eyes and endless questions. Raju’s family was poor; his father worked as a carpenter and his mother stitched blouses for village women. But Raju’s thirst for knowledge was richer than any treasure, and he had an unshakable respect for Masterji, whom he saw as more than just a teacher—he was a guide, a friend, and a window to a world beyond the fields of Chandanpur.

Every morning, Raju would arrive early at the banyan tree, even before the birds began their songs. He’d sweep the area clean, arrange the low stools, and wait patiently for Masterji. The old man would come, wearing his white dhoti and kurta, carrying a cloth bag full of worn-out books and hand-written notes. Together with a few other children, they’d dive into the world of literature, arithmetic, and stories of freedom fighters, often pausing as Masterji weaved in tales from his own youth.

But it was Raju who lingered after the others left, peppering Masterji with questions.

“Masterji,” he once asked, “why do stars twinkle?”

“Because they are far, far away,” Masterji replied, “and the air around us bends the light, just like water bends your view of a stick dipped in it. But do you know what twinkles more brightly than stars?”

Raju shook his head.

“A curious mind,” Masterji smiled.

Raju’s dream was to become a scientist—an idea that seemed absurd to many in the village. “What will you do with science, boy?” the local grocer once scoffed. “Better learn carpentry like your father.”

But Masterji believed in him.

As months passed, Masterji noticed something else—Raju’s notebooks were becoming thinner, and his clothes more worn. One evening, after class, he called the boy aside.

“Raju, is everything alright at home?”

The boy hesitated. “Amma is sick, Masterji. Baba says we can’t afford to buy all my school books this year.”

Masterji looked at him for a long moment. Then, quietly, he reached into his bag and pulled out a stack of old, yellowed books—tattered but filled with knowledge.

“These are yours now,” he said. “They helped me become a teacher. Let them help you become what you wish to be.”

Raju took them as though he had been handed a treasure chest. “I’ll make you proud, Masterji,” he whispered.

From then on, Raju worked harder than ever. He’d study under the light of a kerosene lamp late into the night, the crickets singing outside as he scribbled formulas and read about the solar system. Masterji continued to guide him, even giving up his own savings to buy Raju a second-hand geometry box and a model of the solar system.

Then, one day, a letter arrived.

It was addressed to Raju. It bore the emblem of the State Scholarship Board. With trembling hands, Raju opened it—and screamed with joy. He had secured the top rank in the district’s science exam. A full scholarship awaited him at the city’s best science academy.

The whole village gathered to hear the news. Some were skeptical. Others clapped politely. But none were as proud as Masterji.

On the day Raju was to leave for the city, Masterji took him aside again. He held out a small brass lamp.

“This lamp,” he said, “belonged to my father. He lit it every evening when he studied under his own teacher. I want you to take it