A Candle in the Storm
By Baby K K
About the Author
Baby K K is a passionate storyteller rooted in the traditions and values of rural India. With a voice that carries the emotion and strength of everyday lives, Baby K K writes to honor the resilience found in ordinary people facing extraordinary challenges. This story is a reflection of the author’s deep empathy, understanding of rural culture, and belief in the quiet power of love, sacrifice, and perseverance. A Candle in the Storm is one of many heartfelt tales the author hopes to bring to the world, reminding us that even in the darkest moments, a single flame can guide the way.
Summary
A Candle in the Storm tells the touching story of Somanathan and Devika, a couple living in a small village where tradition, faith, and community shape daily life. Their simple yet fulfilling world is turned upside down when Somanathan is diagnosed with a progressive neurological illness. The burden of care, survival, and emotional strength falls upon Devika, whose quiet perseverance becomes the heart of the story.
Through financial struggles, sleepless nights, and society’s silence, Devika transforms pain into purpose. She builds a small business, empowers local women, and becomes a beacon of strength for the entire community. As time passes and seasons change, the flame she lit with love continues to shine in the hearts of all who knew her.
This is a story of love tested by adversity, of grief softened by hope, and of a woman whose silent courage inspires a generation.
A Candle in the Storm is more than a narrative — it is a tribute to caregivers, unsung heroes, and the enduring light of human resilience.
A Candle in the Storm
By Baby K K
Chapter 1: The Village Where Time Slept
In the southern stretch of India, nestled between soft hills and whispering coconut groves, there lay a village so quiet and serene that even time seemed to walk slowly there. Elanthoor, as it was called, was not marked on most maps, yet it held in its heart a world untouched by the noise of modern life.
The mornings in Elanthoor began not with alarms or traffic, but with the gentle toll of the church bell, mingled with the distant chant of temple hymns and the earthy sounds of roosters and cows. The air smelled of freshly ploughed earth, burning firewood, and the soft floral breeze from the banana plantations. Mist curled around the paddy fields like a mother’s shawl wrapping her child.
The village had just one dusty road running through its center, lined with tiny tea shops, a small tailoring store, a ration shop, and an age-old barber's hut where men still spoke of old political rivalries and cricket matches over a cup of steaming black tea. The barber, Varkeychettan, had trimmed hair across three generations and often joked that he knew every secret of the village because they all passed through his mirror.
People here lived close to the land. Most were farmers — of rice, tapioca, coconut, or vegetables that grew in backyard plots. Their hands were calloused, skin sun-kissed, and hearts generous. Festivals were shared like harvests — Onam, Christmas, Eid — each celebrated not by religion but by community. Women drew kolams and rangoli outside their thresholds, children played barefoot in the mud, and old men played cards under the banyan tree near the pond.
The school was a small, tiled building painted in faded blue. Its classrooms were filled with the chattering of dreams — some children hoping to become teachers, others soldiers, or tailors like their fathers. Life was not easy, but it was honest, and people carried their joys and burdens with quiet dignity.
Among these villagers lived Somanathan, a man known not for riches or position, but for something rarer — decency.
Chapter 2: A Life Built with Hands and Heart
Somanathan worked as an Accountant in a timber factory located on the edge of the village near the river. He was neither loud nor dominant, yet his presence was respected. Every morning, he would leave home in a crisp cotton shirt, carrying a small lunch wrapped lovingly by his wife. He walked to the factory along the same dirt path where he’d walked as a child, waving to passersby, stopping to lift a calf stuck in the canal or to chat briefly with a neighbor about the mango season.
He had a quiet pride in his simplicity — his house was not large, but its walls held memories. His earnings were modest, but his wealth lay in the laughter of his daughters, Reshma and Renjitha, and the unwavering companionship of Devika, his wife of nearly twenty eight years.
Devika was the silent pillar of their home. Slender, sharp-eyed, always in a neatly tucked sari, she managed the house, the kitchen garden, the children’s studies, and the emotional glue that kept everything from falling apart. She had once wished to become a teacher, but life had chosen a different lesson plan for her — one filled with unpaid work and unspoken courage.
She never raised her voice, but her calm presence calmed storms. She was the first to wake and the last to sleep. Her daughters often wondered if she ever got tired, but if she did, she never showed it. Her strength was quiet, and her love was immense, expressed not in grand words but in small acts — the extra scoop of curry for Reshma after a tiring day, a warm towel for Somanathan when he returned soaked in rain.
Their home was modest, built with the savings of years — clay-tiled roof, walls smelling of turmeric and incense, a backyard with a mango tree, a swing made of coconut rope, and a small prayer shelf where a flickering lamp was never allowed to go out.
Sundays were special. Devika made special dishes — banana fritters, fish curry, or coconut chutney. The family would sit on the floor, share food, talk about school and work, and sometimes sing old Malayalam hymns together. It was these moments — not wealth or holidays — that stitched their lives into a fabric of faith and togetherness.
Chapter 3: The Whispering Signs
Somanathan’s job at the timber factory began when he was in his early twenties. Fresh out of school, he had impressed the factory supervisor with his ability to write clean accounts and manage ledgers with precision. The factory itself was a mix of rhythm and racket — saws slicing through giant logs, men shouting over the clatter of machines, and the rich, earthy scent of wood everywhere. It was hard work, but Somanathan liked it. He found a certain peace in numbers, a balance in order.
His desk overlooked the yard where logs were stacked like sleeping beasts. On most days, he worked quietly under the old ceiling fan, scribbling with his trusted pen, checking bills, sorting wages. He was punctual, respectful, and trusted — a rare man in a world where trust was growing thin.
As years passed, he became more than an accountant. He was a friend to the workers, a guide to the young staff, and someone even the factory owner turned to for advice. His salary was modest, but every raise was shared in celebration with his family. A new pair of slippers for Devika, a school bag for Reshma, a dictionary for Renjitha.
But life, like the monsoons, does not always announce its storms.
It began subtly. He dropped a pen and took a moment longer to pick it up. He forgot to sign a page in the salary book. One evening, he stumbled slightly while getting off the bus. At home, Devika noticed a twitch in his left hand as he poured tea.
"Did you hurt yourself at work?" she asked. "No, no... just tired," he replied, brushing it off.
But the tiredness grew. His handwriting began to tremble. He started slurring certain words. He lost his balance while stepping over the backyard drain. And then came the day he couldn’t lift his lunch box.
That night, Devika sat beside him and gently held his hands. "Something’s not right, Soman. We need to see a doctor."
The village doctor was kind, but puzzled. He recommended they visit a hospital in the town nearby. After a few anxious days and many tests, the answer came. A neurological condition — progressive, incurable, and cruel.
The man who had once walked ten kilometers to school in his youth, who carried bags of rice on his shoulders during hard times, who never missed a day of work in twenty years — was now facing a slow decline.
Somanathan's world began to shrink. First, he stopped going to work. Then, walking became difficult. Speaking turned into murmuring. Eating needed help. And through it all, Devika never wavered.
She bathed him, dressed him, fed him. She smiled even when her back ached. She stitched clothes late into the night to pay for medicines. She borrowed from neighbors without shame, cooked simple meals to save money, and learned to lift his body like lifting faith itself.
Their daughters began helping too — massaging their father's legs, reading aloud from books, singing softly to cheer him up.
Inside that small house in Elanthoor, the storm raged. But Devika stood as the candle that refused to die.
Chapter 4: The Storm Arrives
It began as a small tremble in Somanathan’s right hand.
At first, he brushed it off as tiredness. Then came the stiffness in his limbs, the slurring of speech, the moments of blankness. Doctor visits turned into hospital stays. Tests turned into a verdict — a progressive neurological disease with no cure.
Somanathan — the man who stood tall, who provided, who protected — was now confined to a bed, his voice fading like a song out of breath.
The news shattered Devika’s heart, but she never let her tears fall before him. While the world outside moved on, inside their home, time began to slow. Every day became a quiet battle — feeding, cleaning, lifting, comforting — tasks that Devika embraced without complaint.
She sold her wedding chain for his medicines. She stitched blouses at night by the dim yellow bulb. She became his voice, his hands, his feet. And through it all, she whispered prayers into the stillness of every night, her eyes never losing their light.
Outside, the seasons changed — the monsoons came and went, flowers bloomed and withered, neighbors celebrated weddings and mourned deaths — but inside their small home, the rhythm was measured by medicine doses, doctor appointments, and the slow retreat of a man's strength.
Devika’s routine became sacred: warm water baths for him before sunrise, gentle meals mashed and cooled, soft cotton bedsheets changed every day. She learned how to recognize the signs of pain in his flickering eyes, how to speak to him without words, and how to hide her own exhaustion behind a smile.
Reshma and Renjitha took on new roles — Reshma stayed back from college to help at home, while Renjitha tutored younger students for a few rupees. Together, the three women formed a fortress around Somanathan, not of bricks or steel, but of unbreakable love.
And through it all, Devika lit the oil lamp each evening before the little prayer shelf, its flame glowing steady — a candle that, like her spirit, refused to flicker even in the fiercest storm.
Chapter 5: Unyielding Days
As Somanathan’s health deteriorated further, every movement became an ordeal. The cheerful man who once hummed while sharpening pencils now struggled to lift a spoon. Devika learned to read even the faintest signal in his eyes — a blink for yes, a half-breath for pain. Communication had become an art of silence.
Despite the crushing weight of despair, Devika never allowed sorrow to paralyze her. She treated the hours with discipline — waking before dawn, cooking soft meals, washing his clothes by hand, and attending to him like the sacred duty it was.
Neighbors offered help, sometimes food or a few rupees, but pride and privacy kept her from accepting too much. Instead, she earned what little she could through blouse stitching and selling pickles made from the mango tree in their backyard. The sewing machine’s rhythmic hum became the house’s heartbeat at night, just as Somanathan’s shallow breathing became her lullaby.
In the village, people began to speak of Devika with reverence. Children were told stories of her strength. Women envied and admired her patience. Yet, she never saw herself as a hero — only as a wife keeping a promise made long ago, in a simple temple with folded hands and hopeful hearts.
Reshma and Renjitha grew faster than time allowed. They matured through struggle, became fierce protectors of their father’s dignity, and remained forever changed by their mother’s silent example.
Though the storm had arrived, the candle still burned. And in its light, they found the meaning of love, the strength of sacrifice, and the dignity of endurance.
Chapter 6: A Thread of Hope
The summer that followed was unforgiving. The sun glared down with pitiless heat, and the ground cracked under its weight. But inside the modest home of Devika and Somanathan, another kind of heat simmered — not of the sun, but of relentless persistence.
Somanathan’s condition plateaued into a state where every day looked like the last — motionless, voiceless, but alive. It was a strange kind of survival. One that blurred the line between living and enduring. Still, the family refused to surrender.
Reshma had taken up a small job at a local printing press. The work was strenuous, the pay meager, but she bore it without complaint. Every rupee she earned was accounted for — some for medicine, some for rice, and some secretly tucked into an old tin box under her bed for the future she was still brave enough to imagine.
Renjitha, now in her final school year, woke up before sunrise to study and then tutored two neighborhood children in the evening. Her dreams of becoming a nurse flickered faintly but refused to die out. She had seen enough of suffering to want to ease it for others.
Devika, still the backbone of the household, began preparing small spice mixes and snacks to sell in the nearby market. Her pickles and curry powders slowly found favor with shopkeepers and customers alike. It wasn’t much, but it gave her a sense of dignity — to give, not just receive.
Their lives ran on a fragile clockwork of labor and love. Friends and strangers alike admired the women of the house — the silent resilience in their eyes, the way they carried on as if nothing was broken, even though everything had changed.
One day, a government health worker came for a routine checkup in the village. Hearing about Somanathan’s condition, she arranged for a monthly medical supply and some financial aid. It wasn’t a miracle, but it was something. A thread of hope woven into their otherwise threadbare life.
That evening, for the first time in many months, Devika sat in the backyard under the mango tree, looking up at the sky. The breeze was gentle, the stars just beginning to appear. She closed her eyes and whispered a prayer, not for riches or relief, but for strength — just enough to make it through tomorrow.
Inside, the lamp by the prayer shelf still burned. Its small flame danced against the dark, just like their lives — trembling, flickering, but never extinguished.
Chapter 7: The Weight of Tomorrow
Monsoon arrived late that year, dragging behind it thick clouds and the scent of wet earth. The villagers, long accustomed to waiting, welcomed the rains like an old friend. But in the home of Somanathan and Devika, the storm outside only mirrored the one that had settled within.
Each morning began with the same ritual — warm water baths for Somanathan, light porridge, and medications lined up on the table like soldiers waiting for battle. Devika had learned to read the silent language of her husband’s eyes. A slight flutter meant pain. A glance to the window meant he missed the world outside.
Sometimes, on better days, she would sit beside him and hum old melodies they once danced to in their youth. Her voice would crack, not just from age, but from the weight of holding it all together. In those moments, the silence between them felt like both a goodbye and a promise.
Reshma began to feel the strain. Her shoulders ached from long hours at the press, and her eyes grew weary. Yet she never stopped smiling at her mother, never complained. Instead, she would place her day’s earnings in Devika’s palm with the same respect a devotee places an offering at a temple.
Renjitha started visiting the local public hospital more frequently, volunteering whenever she could. She wanted to learn, to feel prepared. Perhaps a part of her believed that if she studied enough, she could stop time or at least understand the illness that stole her father inch by inch.
One afternoon, while Devika was returning from the market, she saw a group of women discussing a new government welfare scheme for caregivers. Something stirred within her. For the first time in years, she allowed herself a moment of hope — hope that the world hadn’t forgotten people like her.
She applied for the scheme and was later informed that her application had been approved. The modest monthly stipend wasn’t life-changing, but to Devika, it was more than money. It was acknowledgment. A sign that her sacrifices had not been invisible.
That night, for the first time in many weeks, the family gathered on the veranda. Rain fell gently, drumming on the tiled roof. Reshma shared a joke from work. Renjitha brought home some sweets. Even Somanathan’s eyes glistened in the soft light, as if he too felt the warmth returning.
Life didn’t change dramatically. The struggles remained. But there was laughter again — small, hesitant, but real. In the quiet war they had been fighting, this laughter was their victory song.
And so, the candle burned on — a little brighter, a little steadier.
Chapter 8: The Festival of Lights
The festival season arrived like a breath of fresh air, coloring the village in bright hues and the scent of fresh flowers and ghee lamps. It was time for Deepavali, and though their home was modest and their means few, the spirit of celebration refused to be extinguished in Devika’s family.
Reshma brought home a small packet of sparklers from her first festival bonus. Renjitha painted tiny diyas with leftover school colors, smiling more freely than she had in months. Devika, despite her aching back and calloused hands, made a simple sweet dish from coconut and jaggery, just like her mother once made.
That evening, the family lit their lamps together. The soft glow bathed their faces in gold and memory. For a few moments, they were not a family battling disease and poverty — they were simply a family, bound by love and light.
Somanathan, with Renjitha’s help, sat upright on a chair near the doorway. Though his body remained frail and stiff, his eyes sparkled when he saw the flicker of diyas dancing on the verandah. He looked at Devika, and for a moment, something passed between them — a shared strength, a silent gratitude.
Devika turned to the small shrine in the corner of the room and lit an extra lamp. She didn’t pray for miracles. She prayed for moments like these — the laughter of her children, the steady breath of her husband, the courage in her heart.
Neighbors passed by, offering sweets and warm wishes. One elderly couple even brought a new shawl for Somanathan, saying it was a gift of respect. The gesture brought tears to Devika’s eyes, but she quickly wiped them away, smiling as she tucked the shawl around her husband’s shoulders.
Later that night, as fireworks lit up the distant sky, the four of them sat close — a picture of quiet resilience. No riches, no grandeur. But love in abundance.
Outside, the village hummed with celebration. Inside, a deeper celebration took place — one of survival, of unity, of quiet triumph.
And the candle — ever flickering, ever faithful — glowed as if it too had found new strength.
Chapter 9: The Turning Tide
The chill of winter settled over the village, bringing with it a stillness that seemed to seep into the very bones of the land. Mist hung low over the fields in the early mornings, and smoke spiraled gently from the chimneys of modest homes. Life moved slower, wrapped in woolen shawls and steaming cups of tea.
For Devika, winter meant added struggles. Her joints ached, the cold made it harder for Somanathan’s stiff limbs to be moved, and the water for daily routines took longer to heat. Yet, each morning she rose before the sun, kindled the kitchen fire, and began another day with quiet resilience.
One such morning brought a letter. A thick envelope, delivered by the postman with a knowing smile. It was addressed to Reshma, and bore the letterhead of a government office. With trembling fingers, Reshma opened it, and as her eyes scanned the page, her face transformed. She had passed the clerical exam she had once written in secret, hoping but never expecting. A government job offer — small, clerical, and far away, but stable and real.
Devika wept silently, holding the letter close. It wasn’t just a job — it was a door opening, a horizon stretching.
But joy came with hard decisions. The job was in another town, and accepting it would mean leaving home — leaving her father, mother, and sister behind. Reshma struggled with guilt. How could she go when her mother needed her most? But how could she not, when this opportunity might change everything?
Somanathan, though wordless, communicated his blessing with a gentle squeeze of her hand. Devika, proud and pained, nodded through her tears. "Go," she said. "Not away from us, but forward for all of us."
Preparations began. Neighbors pitched in with clothes, tiffin boxes, and small gifts. Renjitha ironed Reshma’s clothes with an almost reverent care. Somanathan watched it all with tired but content eyes, sensing the world was shifting — not away, but upward.
When the day came, Reshma touched the feet of her parents before boarding the bus. Devika handed her a cloth pouch of rice, turmeric, and a small diya — symbols of home and blessing. As the bus pulled away, Renjitha held Devika’s hand tightly. They didn’t wave; they watched until the bus became a speck in the horizon.
Back home, the silence was different — not heavy, but full. Full of love, of hope, of change. Devika sat beside Somanathan, her head resting gently on his shoulder. "One more light," she whispered, watching the diya flicker beside the window.
And so, the candle in the storm glowed — now brighter than ever.
Chapter 10: A New Beginning
Days rolled into weeks after Reshma’s departure. Her absence left a quiet space in the household, one filled with both longing and pride. Devika would often pause by Reshma’s empty cot, her fingers gently tracing the edges of the pillow. She missed her daughter dearly, yet every letter that arrived, filled with Reshma’s neat handwriting and hopeful words, was a reminder of the sacrifice they had all made to keep moving forward.
Reshma’s life in the new town was not easy. The job was demanding, and the unfamiliar surroundings often made her feel like a stranger to her own journey. But she held on — to the values instilled by her parents, to the strength she had witnessed in her mother’s silent battles, and to the candle she had lit before leaving home.
Meanwhile, Renjitha blossomed into a young woman of quiet intelligence and strong will. She had passed her board exams with distinction and was now preparing for entrance tests to nursing school. Every evening, she sat by Somanathan, reading out loud from her textbooks, explaining each word as if speaking to a fellow student. Though he could not speak, the pride in his eyes was unmistakable.
Devika’s spice business gained more attention. A local women’s self-help group approached her, impressed by the taste and consistency of her masalas. They offered her a chance to collaborate, expanding her reach beyond the village. It was the first time Devika had ever considered herself more than a housewife — now, she was an entrepreneur in her own small way.
One morning, the village Panchayat invited Devika to speak at a meeting about women’s resilience. Shy and hesitant, she initially declined. But Renjitha encouraged her, saying, “Amma, your story is not just ours anymore. It belongs to every woman who thinks she cannot rise.”
Devika stood before the gathering that week, her voice trembling at first, but soon steady. She spoke of illness, hardship, dignity, and hope. Of how a woman who once never stepped out of her kitchen now managed sales, accounts, and family — all at once. The applause she received was not for the words alone, but for the spirit she carried.
Back home, that evening, the family celebrated quietly. Somanathan was wheeled outside to the veranda, where he could feel the breeze and watch the sun disappear behind the hills. Devika sat beside him with a cup of ginger tea, while Renjitha brought out her acceptance letter to a nursing college.
It was a moment of perfect imperfection — a man whose voice was lost, a woman who found hers, and two daughters chasing dreams born out of struggle.
As night fell, the candle at the prayer corner flickered gently, its flame strong and steady. Devika looked at it, then at her husband, and whispered, “We’re getting there.”
And indeed, they were. Slowly, surely — guided by love, lit by resilience, and held together by faith.
Chapter 11: The Farewell and the Promise
The morning Renjitha left for nursing college, the house felt both heavy and proud. Devika woke early to cook her daughter’s favorite breakfast — rice puttu and kadala curry. Though she smiled, her hands trembled slightly as she packed Renjitha’s clothes into the neatly stitched bags she had borrowed from a neighbor.
Somanathan was dressed early that day, his shirt freshly ironed and a soft woolen shawl draped over his shoulders. He couldn’t speak, but his eyes searched for Renjitha as she moved through the house, carefully placing her books and framed photos into her bag.
Before leaving, Renjitha sat next to him, holding his hand. “Acha, I will study hard. One day, I’ll return as a nurse… and I’ll take care of you, just like Amma does.”
Devika watched them, her heart full and aching. This was the second daughter to step out into the world, leaving behind a mother’s lap and the security of home. But what they took with them — strength, grace, and purpose — was far more valuable than anything they left behind.
Renjitha’s journey to the city was not just academic — it was symbolic. It marked the fulfillment of everything Somanathan and Devika had ever hoped for, even if they never voiced it aloud. As the bus rolled away, Devika stood at the gate, one hand holding onto the fence and the other gripping the edge of her sari. She didn’t cry this time. She smiled.
Inside, silence returned. But it was not the silence of emptiness — it was the silence of prayers answered, of dreams in motion.
That night, Devika sat beside Somanathan, her hand on his. “Both our girls have taken flight,” she whispered. “Now we wait and watch them soar.”
He blinked, slowly, his way of saying he understood. He had lived a life of toil, of quiet sacrifice. Now, he watched the fruit of that labor bloom in the lives of his children.
And the candle — as always — remained lit.
Chapter 12: Letters from Afar
With both daughters now away, the house had grown quieter, but it was not empty. Devika poured her energy into the rhythm of everyday life — tending to the garden, preparing spices, caring for Somanathan. Each day had its own rituals, and though solitude visited often, loneliness rarely stayed long.
Then came the letters. First from Reshma, then from Renjitha. They arrived with regularity, addressed in the girls’ distinct handwriting, scented faintly of hostel soap or ink from a government office desk. Devika would read them aloud to Somanathan, sometimes laughing at the stories, sometimes pausing as tears blurred her eyes.
Reshma wrote of her work — the files, the people, the challenges — and how she longed for the simple noise of the village evenings. Renjitha shared tales of her hostel life, of the strict matron, the early morning hospital rounds, and her first experience helping deliver a baby.
“Amma,” one letter read, “the woman held my hand so tightly during the delivery, and afterward, she cried and kissed my fingers. I thought of you then. Of how you held our home together when everything else was falling apart.”
Each letter brought warmth, strength, and pride. It was a reminder that the seeds they had sown were now bearing fruit in distant fields. Devika kept all the letters tied in a cloth bundle in her prayer corner, beside the candle that had never been allowed to go out.
One day, a postman arrived with a registered envelope. Devika, slightly worried, opened it with trembling hands. It was from a local women’s cooperative society — her masala business had been selected for a small state-level award for rural entrepreneurship.
She was invited to attend the ceremony in the nearby town. She looked at the letter, then at Somanathan, unsure if she should go. He blinked once, then twice — his way of saying yes. That evening, she replied with a simple acceptance note, written in the same strong hand that had once written only grocery lists.
The home had grown quiet, yes. But in its silence, it echoed with strength, growth, and promise — with letters from afar, and dreams ever near.
Chapter 13: The Award
The invitation letter from the cooperative society sat on the edge of Devika’s kitchen shelf for days. Every morning, she would glance at it while boiling water for tea, her mind running over the possibilities — What would she wear? Who would take care of Somanathan? What if they asked her to speak?
It was Renjitha’s call that finally gave her the push. “Amma, this is your moment. You’ve earned it. We’re all proud of you.”
With Somanathan’s approval silently blinking in the background, Devika packed her sari and her courage. The journey to the town was filled with unfamiliar sights — tall buildings, honking traffic, and people moving with purpose. Yet she walked with quiet grace, her eyes searching for the hall where the ceremony was to be held.
Inside the modest community center, women from across the region had gathered. Some were dressed in colorful silks, others in simple cotton sarees like hers. Stories flowed — of pickles made in tin cans, bamboo crafts sold at bus stands, and tailoring businesses that stitched not just clothes but self-respect.
When Devika’s name was called, she stood up, hands trembling but smile firm. The applause that followed was thunderous, not because she was famous, but because she represented every woman who had chosen not to give up.
The citation read: “For exceptional perseverance and inspiring entrepreneurship in rural India.” But to Devika, it meant something deeper — that her journey, born in struggle and shaped in silence, had found its voice.
After the event, a reporter approached her for a small interview. “What kept you going all these years?” he asked.
She looked into the camera and said, “My family. My husband who never complained. My daughters who dreamed bigger than our walls. And a candle I kept lit through every dark night.”
When she returned to the village, she brought back not just the award, but a new sense of possibility. The neighbors gathered at her gate to greet her, clapping as she stepped down from the jeep. Even the grocer across the street called out, “Devika chechi, now you are our pride!”
That night, she placed the plaque near the prayer corner, beside the candle, now surrounded by photos of her daughters and the framed photo of her and Somanathan from their younger days. She didn’t need to say anything. Her journey had already spoken.
As the wind whispered through the trees and the house settled into its usual calm, Devika looked around and smiled. She had started with nothing but love and ended up lighting the way for many.
And somewhere deep inside, she knew — the storm had not broken her. It had revealed her strength.
Chapter 14: A Quiet Celebration
The days following Devika’s award ceremony were filled with renewed energy. People from nearby villages began reaching out — some came to buy her masalas, while others came just to meet the woman they now referred to as “amma with fire in her spirit.”
The self-help group offered her a small stall space in the weekend market. With the help of a young girl from the village, Devika set up her products: neatly packed masala sachets, small bottles of pickles, and hand-written labels that carried a story of resilience in every word.
On the first day of the market, a soft breeze rustled the trees as early morning sunlight filtered through the tall palms. Devika sat on a wooden stool, her products neatly arranged in front of her. She watched people browse, ask, buy. For every packet she sold, she shared a smile — a silent reminder of how far she had come.
That evening, after returning home, Devika was surprised to see a small group gathered in front of her house. Neighbors, relatives, the schoolteacher, and even the Panchayat member had assembled. A makeshift arch of coconut leaves and flowers framed the gate.
Renjitha had secretly planned a surprise celebration with the help of the village youth. A cake, made by the local bakery, stood on the table beside a handmade card signed by everyone in the community. The girls from the tailoring center sang a folk song in her honor. Tears welled in Devika’s eyes — not because of the applause, but because of the love.
Somanathan, wheeled to the front, sat quietly, his eyes moist. Devika knelt beside him and held his hand tightly. “This is all because of you,” she whispered.
The candle in the prayer corner burned brightly that night. But this time, it wasn’t alone. The house glowed with the soft light of diyas placed by friends and well-wishers, a reflection of the fire Devika had ignited in every heart.
In that moment, she wasn’t just a caregiver, or a mother, or a wife. She was a symbol of perseverance. A story that no longer needed to be told — because it now lived in the eyes of everyone around her.
Chapter 15: When Seasons Change
As the years passed, change began to ripple through the village — slowly, like the shifting of seasons. The dusty lanes saw the first signs of tar roads, mobile phones found their way into every household, and young men who once worked in paddy fields now returned with stories from the Gulf.
But inside Devika’s home, the changes were quieter.
Somanathan’s health, though stable, required constant care. He had grown thinner, his eyes sinking a little more each day. Yet every morning, he insisted on being wheeled to the veranda where he could see the trees sway and hear the familiar chirping of sparrows. Devika never missed a moment to sit with him, a hand on his shoulder, speaking softly — of news from the market, of letters from Reshma, or about Renjitha’s plans to return for a festival.
The masala business, once a whisper of survival, had now become a name in the local area. Orders came not just from the neighboring town but also from nearby cities. Young women started joining Devika — some abandoned by fate, some looking for purpose. Devika trained them with the same gentleness that had once nurtured her daughters.
One of them, a bright-eyed girl named Meenu, often asked, “Aunty, did you ever dream of this life?”
Devika would pause, smile, and say, “I dreamed only of love and peace. Everything else came wrapped in prayer.”
The house had aged, just like its dwellers — walls faded, the roof patched here and there. But inside, it buzzed with laughter, stories, the sizzle of frying spices, and the crackling of radio tunes that still played old Malayalam songs.
On one particularly breezy evening, Somanathan held Devika’s hand a little longer than usual. “You’ve carried us through everything,” he whispered.
Devika, blinking back tears, replied, “No, we walked together. Even when one of us couldn’t walk.”
As the sun set behind the coconut trees, their shadows stretched long across the earth — like memories, reaching back into time, stitched with love and resilience.
Chapter 16: The Final Light
One monsoon morning, as the sky wept and the earth soaked up its tears, Somanathan quietly slipped away. There were no last words, no dramatic partings — only a soft exhale, as if the wind had finally settled after a long journey. Devika sat beside him, holding his hand, whispering prayers even as her heart broke.
The village came together, not in mourning alone, but in remembrance — of a man who once walked miles to provide, who taught them that dignity was found in quiet labor, and who fought a silent battle with grace.
Reshma and Renjitha returned immediately, their steps heavy with sorrow, as though the earth itself recognized their loss and tried to pull them back. The embrace with their mother, Devika, was no longer just an embrace—it was desperation, a futile attempt to bridge the chasm that had opened within them. Time did not move as it should; the minutes felt like eternity, stretching and shrinking between gasping sobs.
The funeral pyre stood before them, its presence both sacred and unbearable. Their trembling hands reached forward, carrying the flame that would turn their father’s mortal form into memory and ash. The fire flickered and hesitated for a moment, mirroring their wavering hearts, before it surged forth, consuming everything. The flames swallowed his form, but it was not destruction—it was passage. Smoke curled towards the heavens, carrying whispers of a life lived with love, sacrifice, and quiet strength.
Reshma and Renjitha stood frozen, their bodies shivering not from the cold, but from the rawness of their grief. Tears blurred their vision as they gazed upwards, searching for the stars their father once pointed to, the stars where he now belonged. Devika, holding onto them as though they were her last tether to sanity, whispered his name into the wind.
And in that moment, as the fire crackled and the sky stretched wide, they felt it—his presence, lingering in the air, woven into the breath of the night. Not gone. Just beyond reach.
After the ceremonies ended and the house returned to stillness, Devika did not crumble. She lit the candle once more at the prayer corner, now surrounded by garlands, photos, and a new photo frame — Somanathan’s gentle smile immortalized in silence.
The days that followed weren’t easy. Loneliness often crept in like mist through old windows. But Devika remained steady. The masala business continued, now expanded through a cooperative model she helped design. She took under her wing more girls, more women, and even a few widows who reminded her of her younger self.
One evening, a reporter who had once interviewed her returned. “What would you say your journey means?” he asked.
Devika looked toward the candle, its flame dancing in the breeze. “That storms may come,” she said softly, “but if you guard the flame with love, it will never go out.”
Epilogue: A Candle in Every Home
Years later, a book would be written about Devika’s life. Not by a journalist or scholar — but by Meenu, the young girl Devika once mentored, now a social worker and teacher. The book was titled, fittingly, A Candle in the Storm.
In every village Devika once touched, small lamps were lit on the anniversary of her husband’s passing. Not out of sorrow, but in gratitude. For Devika had taught them that resilience is not loud — it is a quiet flame that refuses to die.
And somewhere in that quiet village, now bustling with dreams and paved roads, stood an old house with a prayer corner. The candle still burned.
The End
