LAMP

In a quiet town, hidden between ancient hills, there lived an old man named Vedan. He wasn’t rich, nor famous — just the owner of a small tea stall tucked away in a dusty alley. Yet, every day for 40 years, Vedan lit a small lamp outside his shop before dawn, and brewed tea for anyone who came — rich or poor, young or old.

People often asked him, “Why waste oil on a lamp? The streetlights work just fine now.”

Vedan would simply smile and say, “This lamp isn’t for light, it’s for memory.”

One day, a journalist passing through the town heard of the strange old man and visited him out of curiosity. Over a steaming cup of tea, she asked, “Memory of what?”

Vedan looked at the flickering flame and said, “Of Satyug — not the age itself, but the spirit of it. People say that time was filled with truth and goodness. Now they say we live in Kalyug — a world of greed, deception, and selfishness. But I believe Satyug never ended. It lives in those who choose kindness, even when the world doesn't.”

The journalist scoffed gently, “That’s poetic, but a little naive, don’t you think?”

Vedan chuckled. “Maybe. But let me tell you a story.”

He spoke of a rainy night, twenty years ago, when a runaway boy, soaked and shivering, stumbled into his tea stall. His clothes were torn, eyes hollow from hunger, and trust long gone. Vedan didn’t ask questions. He wrapped the boy in an old shawl, handed him hot tea and food, and let him sleep in the storage room that night.

The next morning, the boy hesitated before leaving. “Why did you help me?” he had asked, barely audible.

“Because someone once helped me,” Vedan replied, “and I’m just passing it on.”

The boy vanished without a name. Years passed. Life in the alley continued as always. Vedan never searched for him — he believed in planting seeds and letting time do the watering.

Last year, a man in a crisp coat stepped into the stall. His face was older, but his eyes were still searching. He sat across from Vedan, placed a stethoscope on the table, and said, “You saved my life that night — not with food or shelter, but with belief.”

He had lived on the streets for weeks after escaping an abusive home. That single night of warmth gave him the strength to go to an orphanage, attend school, work through college, and eventually become a doctor. “I treat children now. Lost ones. Just like I was.”

Vedan looked at the lamp beside them. “One night of kindness,” he whispered, “can echo through a lifetime.”

The journalist sat silently, as if the lamp’s glow had reached her soul.

Vedan leaned back, eyes gentle. “We can blame the Yug & the time we live in. Or we can light a lamp.”