In a tiny village nestled between mustard fields and mango orchards lived Lata Baa, a grandmother with a voice like warm ghee and eyes that sparkled like the Diwali sky. She lived in a mud-brick house with blue doors, where her grandchildren stayed every summer.
But Lata Baa had one strange habit—she never lit electric lights after sunset. Instead, she used an old brass lantern that glowed with a golden warmth. “Why don’t you use the light switch, Baa?” the children would ask.
“Because this lantern doesn’t just shine,” she would say with a wink. “It listens.”
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