THE MISCHIEVOUS DIYAS

The brass bowl felt heavy in Abhiraj's small hands as he scraped away the stubborn wax from yesterday's diya.

- Abhinav Kumar

His nani hummed an old Hindi song while expertly cleaning three diyas to his one, her weathered fingers moving with practised ease.

"Nani, why can't we just use those electric lights like Rohit's family?" Abhiraj groaned, watching his friend's house across the street already twinkling with LED strings.

"Arey beta, diyas have souls. They've been lighting up our festivals for thousands of years. Electric lights are just ... lights." Nani's eyes crinkled with mischief. "Besides, your great-grandmother always said diyas choose their own spots."

Abhiraj rolled his eyes. Choose their own spots? He wished these boring clay lamps would just light themselves and save him the trouble.

As if responding to his thoughts, the diya in his hands suddenly grew warm. Very warm.

"Ouch!" He nearly dropped it.

“Finally!” squeaked a tiny voice. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for someone to actually listen?”

Abhiraj’s jaw dropped. The diya was ... talking?

“Oh great,” muttered another voice from the pile of cleaned diyas. “We got ourselves a real genius here.”

“Shush, Tejas!” scolded a third voice, this one more refined. “The boy is clearly in shock. I am Deepika, and we are your diyas. We’ve been trying to get your attention for three Diwalis now.”

Nani continued humming, completely oblivious to the chaos unfolding right beside her.

“You... you can all talk?” Abhiraj whispered.

“Of course we can talk! The question is, can you LISTEN?” snapped Tejas, the grumpy one. “Because we have DEMANDS.”