In the small village of Sonapur, lived Meera. She was kind-hearted, always the first to help a neighbour, feed a stray, or sing lullabies to crying children. But despite her goodness, a silent ache lived in her heart—she longed for love, a love that never seemed to find her.
Every evening, as the village settled into the night, Meera would sit outside her small mud house, watching the flickering flame of her grandmother’s old lantern. She often whispered her pain to it, hoping the dim glow would understand.
“Why does no one truly love me?” she asked one evening, her voice barely above the rustling of the neem tree nearby.
The old lantern swayed gently as if sighing in the night breeze. But it was not the lantern that answered her.
A raspy yet kind voice spoke from the shadows. “Child, why do you beg for something that cannot be begged for?”
Startled, Meera turned to see Amma, the village healer, standing near the fence. The old woman’s wise eyes glowed in the lantern’s light.
Meera lowered her gaze. “I have done everything, Amma. I care for people, I help them, yet… I feel invisible.”
Amma chuckled softly and sat beside her, pointing at the lantern. “Tell me, Meera, what happens when you light this lantern?”
“It glows,” Meera said. “It spreads light in the dark.”
Amma smiled. “And does it cry out, asking others to notice its glow?”
Meera frowned. “No… it just shines.”
“That’s love,” Amma said, her voice gentle but firm. “A lantern does not beg for attention. It does not ask the darkness to acknowledge it. It simply glows—and those in need of light come to it on their own.”
Meera stared at the lantern, her heart pounding. She had spent her whole life waiting for love, pleading for it silently, believing that if she did enough, someone would finally see her. But love was not something to be asked for—it was something to be.
The next morning, a change stirred within Meera. She no longer sought love outside herself. Instead, she poured it into everything she did—not to be noticed, but simply because love was her nature. She sang while drawing water, laughed with the village children, cared for her plants, and let her heart shine like the lantern at night.
And soon, something strange happened.
People noticed. The elders blessed her, the women sought her company, and even Ravi—the quiet potter’s son—began lingering by her home, watching her with a new warmth in his eyes.
One evening, as Meera sat beside her lantern, Ravi approached. His voice was hesitant, yet steady. “Meera,” he said, “Your light never asks, but it reaches everyone. I feel it too.”
Meera looked up, and for the first time, she did not feel the old longing, the silent ache for love.
She smiled, not because someone had finally noticed her, but because it no longer mattered.
Her heart was already full.
And like a lantern, she would keep glowing—whether anyone saw it or not.