A Parable of Light

A Parable of Light

By Arvindanabha Shukla

In a quiet house

lived a lamp-

small, delicate,

shivering whenever

the wind remembered its strength.

Two hands kept vigil beside it.

One gifted it fire.

The other cupped the flame,

shielding it from predatory air,

its own skin burning

without complaint.

Each time the flame trembled,

the hands surrendered

their portion of comfort,

in silence.

Seasons turned.

The lamp grew stronger.

Its flame learned steadiness,

its glow stretched

from wall to wall.

Rooms filled with light.

Voices rose

in praise of its brilliance.

One day, the lamp saw-

the hands that had never left

were shaking now.

Their shadows dragged across the floor,

long with weariness,

heavy with years.

The lamp thought:

I am enough.

My flame no longer needs guarding.

And in the severity of its own glow

it spoke:

“Stand away.

Your shadows

dim my light.”

The hands withdrew-

no protest,

no reproach,

only silence.

That evening

a mild wind wandered in-

no storm,

no fury,

only life,

arriving as it always does.

The flame wavered.

Its certainty thinned.

And then the lamp looked outward-

towards the edges of light,

where the shadows of two hands

were dissolving

into the horizon.

Leaving behind

a brightness

that had forgotten

how it was first protected.