The Lamps of Ayodhya

For fourteen long years, the kingdom of Ayodhya had waited. Their beloved prince Rama, his wife Sita, and his brother Lakshmana had been sent away into the forest, and oh, how the people missed them. Fourteen springs came and went. Fourteen winters. And still they waited and hoped.

Far away, in all those years, Rama had faced great trials, and at last had rescued Sita from the demon king Ravana and set right a terrible wrong. And now, finally, finally, the fourteen years were over. Rama and Sita were coming home.

Word raced through Ayodhya like wildfire. “They are coming! Our Rama is coming home at last!” And the whole city burst into joyful action. They swept every street. They hung garlands of marigolds from every doorway. They scrubbed and decorated and prepared.

But there was one trouble. Rama would arrive on the night of the new moon, the very darkest night of the month, when there is no moonlight at all. How would they welcome him home through such darkness? How would he find his way?

So the people had a beautiful idea. Every family, in every home, made little lamps of clay and filled them with oil, and as the dark night fell, they lit them. One lamp, then ten, then hundreds, then thousands and thousands, set glowing in every window and along every wall and rooftop and path. And the darkest night of the year blazed up bright and golden and warm, a whole city of little flames, lighting the way home for their prince.

When Rama and Sita came at last, they found their kingdom shining to welcome them. And ever since, every single year, people light rows of little lamps on the darkest night, and that is the festival of Diwali, the festival of lights, when we remember that no darkness lasts forever, and that goodness always, always finds its way home.