Isita Ghanta

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.

Isita Ghanta is a grade 11 student at Fleetwood Park with a passion for writing. As an extrovert, she thrives in social settings but also finds peace in life’s quieter moments. Her creativity and love for storytelling shape her unique perspective and inspire her to explore the world through words.