Written By Maureen Rampertab
SWEET is the sound of music, songs of love and devotion, like an intoxicating fragrance, the voice of the little girl. Her little fingers played the harmonium as devotional lyrics flowed from her lips in reverence to the Hindu deity, Mother Latchmi, the Goddess of Light. 

It was Diwali, the Festival of Lights, a celebration in prayer, song and dance on the darkest night of the Hindu calendar. Earthen lamps are lit in Hindu homes, and devotees of this old, rich religion and culture embrace the divinity of this immortal entity.
Like stars in the heavens, the golden flames of the diyas illuminated the night, a spectacle to behold; so was the spirit of love and sharing.
The little girl, Devi, never a night passed without her uttering a word of prayer, because it filled the emptiness in her heart, and the temple became more her home than the orphanage. Days for her were just countless numbers with no real meaning, for there was no one she could call her own who loved and cared for her.
Why did they go? Where did they go? Questions no one answered, that maybe only the Gods knew; and she lived with the hope that her sincere prayers would reveal a path for her mother and father to find a way to her.
She had made an earthen diya when she was just four, and kept it lit in her room, so the light would guide them to her. Now, at six, the light still burned, for they had not yet found their way, but she did not lose faith.
As the night closed, a few flickering diyas stayed lit a little longer, and Devi, standing by the window with her lighted diya in her hands, closed her eyes and whispered softly a little prayer, “Please, Mother of this Earth and Heavens, let the one who brought me forth come for me.”
That night, as the innocent child slept, the lighted diya by her bedside, burning low and casting a soft glow in the room, was, by the touch of something divine, refilled and the flame burned bright.

The lighted Diya
Months passed, and Devi’s singing, richer and sweeter as she grew, took her to cultural shows and religious functions, for she was a little singing sensation. Her voice brought out the true divinity of the songs that brought tears to the eye. Many wanted to take her into their home, so she could share in their family’s lives, but she would always tearfully ask the House-mother to wait just a little more.

Then one day, a young man came to the orphanage and spoke to the House-mother; Devi was in the temple, laying flowers at the feet of the Goddess, when a strange voice called her name. She turned around, her little hand filled with flowers, and an exulted feeling entered her heart as she looked at the man, almost as handsome as the Gods she worshipped.
“Devi,” the House-mother said with a warm smile, “the Goddess has answered your prayers.” She paused. “Your father has come for you.”
Devi gasped and looked up at the Goddess, with tears of happiness. “Thank you, Dear Mother.”
The child stepped forward from the altar and reached out her little hand to hold his, and smiling sweetly, she said, “Hello Daddy.”
The young man broke down in tears, hugging the child he had never seen, only knowing it was her when he heard her singing at a cultural show. The same sweet voice of the mother that never lost its richness in his mind, even though the years had separated them, and he could not see her beautiful face anymore. But now he had found their daughter, and the beautiful and sweet voice was the mother’s.
He broke down in tears all the time, and the child was the one with the strong mind to comfort the father. The story of her mother and father’s lives was a sad one, really.
He had been only sixteen, and she fourteen when a mistake they were both guilty of caused a child to be born in the world. That mistake fuelled a deep tension between the two families, and they had taken the mother away, far away.
The trauma and heartache had broken him, and his family also took him away, but he had never stopped wondering about the baby; and at eighteen, he had searched for her and the mother, but they seemed lost.
Devi went home with her father to a real home, real family to whom she belonged, but her diya stayed lit, because the answer to her prayers wasn’t complete, and she knew in her heart one day soon, it would.
Her father took her with him everywhere, truly proud of his beautiful, talented daughter. Then, one day, a letter from a psychiatric hospital came to Devi’s father, and a deep worry crossed his face.
“Oh God! No!” He looked at Devi, relief and sadness in his voice, and said, “It’s your mom; we have to go and see her.”
She sat in a dim room by the window, her long hair falling loosely down her shoulders, a blank look on her face. The years after the baby’s birth hadn’t been kind, and after a few years, the stress had taken toll, and she suffered a breakdown.
The doctors had done everything, but there was something that kept her mind in the darkness; something she had lost and yearned for.
It was truly a sad picture, and Devi cried softly, holding her mother’s hand. “Mommy!“
The mother looked at the child and father expressionlessly, and as they spoke with her, a little sparkle came alight in her eyes, and then it was gone. But just that little gave them hope, and together, father and daughter, guided her, day by day, step by step, through the dark path towards the light, with prayers, songs and love.
The year went by, and it was once again the Festival of Lights. They brought her home that day to be a part of the celebrations, hoping that tonight, the brightest light would shine in her life.
In the temple, Devi sat in the midst of the Kirtan group, rendering some of the sweetest devotional songs. Her mother, sitting among the devotees, suddenly stood up and looked around, puzzled, not sure where she was. And, seeing the child’s father, she whispered unbelievingly, “Amar!”
He nodded, tears in his eyes, knowing she had found her way out of the darkness, the earthen lamps, illuminating the way.
The child continued to sing, and, slowly, the mother joined in, two sweet voices in unison. “Our baby,” the father said to her quietly.
At the end of the song, Devi ran into her mother’s outstretched arms, her motherly scent, like a perfumed garden. The earthen lamp the child had kept lit, and her prayers, were now answered, with the blessing of the Goddess of Light.
It was a Diwali she’d remember forever.