Aadyabir Singh

The moon, hanging low and full tonight, casted a silver glow that brushed softly against the hills of Suzhou, where my hometown resided. That night was the Mid-Autumn Festival, and the town came to life under the dark blanket. My eyes glisten as they drift across the alluring vermilion lanterns, contrasted against the pitch-black sky. My feet involuntarily follow my nose’s guide, each stride closing the distance between me and the heart of the night. The harmonious symphony of the chatter of vendors, punctuated by bursts of laughter brings me to serenity.  Routinely, I return every year to my hometown to celebrate with Wai Po, a promise I made after my parents passed. She had raised me, her love enveloping me like the scent of osmanthus flowers that lined the courtyard. Tonight, though, something felt different.This night however, something felt different. Wai Po was being unusually quiet, and her movements seemed slow as she prepared offerings for Chang’e, the moon goddess, almost as if time was decelerated. The house, once bustling with family and neighbours, was strangely silent. I observed noiseless as she placed the fruits and mooncakes on the altar, her hands trembling slightly. The scene had a feeling of familiarity, yet poking out was an unsettling sense of detachment, as if I were watching through a hazy veil. “Wai Po,” I called out softly, breaking the heavy quiet. “Remind me again of the legend of Chang’e.” She turned to me with a faint smile. “Ah, the legend,” she began, her voice drifting like a melody in the wind. “Long ago, in a world where gods walked among mortals, there was an elixir of immortality. Chang’e drank it, rising to the moon, leaving her lover, Hou Yi, behind. Every year, on this night, he would offer mooncakes and gaze up at the moon, hoping she could see him from the sky.” I nodded. I knew the story as well as my own name. Her words surrounded me, filling the empty spaces, however tonight, they felt…different. Almost faint, as if spoken from a great distance. She continued, her eyes fixed on the lanterns. “People think the story is about regret, about loss. But maybe it’s about finding light in the darkness, holding onto love even when it seems far away.” Her words settled in the air, resonating within me. I glanced at the sky, staring at the solitary beacon of light. “Why are you telling me this now?” I asked, an uneasy feeling curling in my chest. A weight lifted as her eyes sunk into mine. “Because tonight, we will light the lanterns for the last time.” The statement struck me, and I felt a strange chill run through me. “The last time? What do you mean?” My voice sounded small, uncertain, as if it belonged to someone else. Turning back to the altar to arrange the fruits, “Some things are meant to be released into the sky, to drift on their own,” she whispered. “It’s not about holding on but remembering the light.” My chest started to tighten as her words wrapped around me. I wanted to say more, to ask her what she meant, but the air grew thick, pressing against my thoughts. I reached for one of the lanterns, tracing its delicate red paper with my fingers. It felt cold and fragile, like it might crumble if I pressed too hard. Her voice barely audible “Are you ready?” My mind raced uncontrollably, swirling with doubts and questions. Slowly shifting my gaze to the courtyard, I took in its emptiness. Something felt off, the way the shadows stretched across the stones and the deprivation of something in the quiet rustle of the leaves. I looked back. A faint tremor passed down my body, head to toe. Wai Po’s form was blurred at the edges, almost translucent in the moonlight, as if she were merely a reflection on water. My heart skipped. A memory resurfaced, one that was shoved down deep inside my head.  A dark room.  The looming scent of incense.  My voice breaking as I whispered goodbye. No… I had buried that moment, wrapped it in layers of ritual and routine. She had passed away, hadn’t she? Months ago? The memory grew sharper, painful, and I felt the truth settle in like a stone in my stomach. Glancing around the courtyard, it felt vast and unfamiliar. The fruits lay still on the altar, untouched. The lanterns lined up, waiting. I had prepared everything myself, alone. I stumbled back, catching my breath as the realization washed over me. Wai Po wasn’t here. She was never here to begin with. The entire evening I’d been reliving a ritual with a figment of my imagination. The lantern trembled in my hands. Slowly, I lifted it, feeling its weight—a weight that was mine alone to carry. The air around me was silent, the kind of silence that comes after a storm has passed. I raised the lantern to the sky and let it go. It drifted upward, hesitating for a heartbeat before catching the wind, its glow growing fainter as it ascended. As the lantern floated higher, merging with the stars, a quiet warmth spread through my chest. She was gone, yes, but not lost. Her light, the essence of her, lived on in every lantern, in the glow of the moon, in the scent of the osmanthus flowers. I realized then that I hadn’t been lighting the lanterns for her; I had been lighting them to find my own way through the darkness. A whisper escaped my lips, carried off by the breeze. “Your light lives on.” The moon watched silently, casting its glow over the courtyard, now empty except for me. And yet, in that emptiness, I felt her presence—an echo, a flicker of light that would never fade. By: Andrew Miao

Appa stopped talking to me years ago. But when he did, it was always the same, quiet accusations. “You killed her.” And the saddest part? He wasn’t wrong. I was the reason Mama was dead. But I was only seven then, so forgive me for hoping my grown father might offer a little grace. Mama loved Diwali. I never understood the fuss, but back when we lived in our little house in Kerala, she lived for the festival. She’d wake up before dawn, drag me to wash my hair, and dress me in a bright, new outfit. She’d spend the day in the kitchen, cooking enough food to feed half the village, while I sat cross-legged on the floor, watching festival specials on TV. And in the evening, she would drape herself in a saree, sit me down for pooja, and then we’d go light the diyas together, her laughter lighting up the night. But that Diwali, when I was seven, was different. Mama wasn’t herself. She and Appa fought all the time that year—money was tight, and my school and dance fees weren’t helping. That evening, Mama let me light the diyas on my own, her usually watchful eyes absent, her spirit drained. Appa, eager to get out, dragged me to my aunt’s house for firecrackers. When we came back, the house was gone—swallowed in flames. All that was left was the bitter smoke, curling up toward the dark sky like an offering. Someone said the diya by the front door caught Mama’s saree. The diya I lit. It’s been 15 years since that night. I’ve seen therapists, tried to forgive myself.  Appa remarried and had another child, leaving me behind like a ghost. Every year, around Diwali, I sink into a fog, quitting my part-time jobs, spending days limp in bed until Riya, my best friend, drags me out of my stupor. But this year was different. “What’s your daughter’s name?” a friend asked. “Meenakshi,” I said. “She’s named after my mother.” For the first time in years, I woke up at the crack of dawn on Diwali. I woke Meenakshi, washed her hair, and dressed her in a little red langa. I cooked enough food to feed a small army, just like Ma used to. And as I sat there, watching my daughter kiss my cheek and call me pretty, my heart felt strange—heavy and light all at once. My husband helped me into my saree,with a tenderness I didn’t know I needed. In the evening, Meenakshi ran around with sparklers, her laughter ringing through the air, just like mine had all those years ago. She lit the diyas, grinning up at me with eyes that mirrored my own. As I watched her, exhaustion settled into my bones, but so did something else—a warmth, a peace I hadn’t known in years. I wondered, is this how my mother felt? That bittersweet blend of love and weariness? For the first time since I lost Mama, I understood. Even through the flames, through the grief and guilt, love endured. And as Meenakshi hugged me goodnight, her small arms wrapped tight around my waist, I whispered a quiet prayer to my mother–I hope you felt this too. By: Isita Ghanta