The festival of Diwali filled the air with warmth and joy. A young woman, dressed in a stunning blue gown that perfectly complemented her graceful figure, descended the staircase. She looked ethereal, almost like an angel, her beauty captivating every gaze in the room.
Her tall, model-like frame carried an air of elegance. Her ocean-like eyes held depth and mystery, her nose was as delicate as a rosebud, and her hair flowed like a dark cloud in the night sky. Her long, slender fingers and well-manicured nails added to her charm. But beyond her mesmerizing beauty, she was simple, humble, and incredibly intelligent. Life had taught her many lessons, and she had learned to tackle challenges with grace and wisdom.
As she stepped down, time seemed to slow, as if even the universe wanted to capture her beauty in that moment. The room was filled with warm golden light from the flickering diyas placed in every corner, their glow reflecting in her deep eyes. While all eyes were on her, she was searching for just one person—someone very special.
Her gaze finally landed on a middle-aged woman draped in a rich Kanchivaram saree, her well-maintained figure moving gracefully as she lit the diyas around the house. The woman's face brightened when she saw the young girl coming down the stairs. With motherly concern, she cautioned, "Be careful, dear. There are so many diyas around. It's always better to be safe than sorry."
Meeting the woman's warm eyes, the girl smiled shyly and asked, "Mom, how do I look?"
The woman, whom the girl had addressed as "Mom," smiled fondly and replied, "You look absolutely gorgeous. If you don't believe me, just look around—every young man's eyes are on you."
Blushing, the girl pleaded, "Mom, please stop teasing me!"
Chuckling, she insisted, "Mom, I told you to go and greet your friends. Leave the decorations to me—I'll take care of everything."
Reluctantly, the woman agreed. "Alright," she said before heading off to welcome her guests, who were dressed in beautiful traditional attire.
Many guests had overheard the girl calling the woman "Mom" and naturally assumed she was her daughter. As the evening continued, the festival's main attraction, the Aarti, began. The younger generation gathered to perform the sacred ritual, filling the air with devotion and harmony.
After the Aarti, everyone indulged in an array of delicious sweets arranged for the celebration. The decorations and arrangements were admired by all. One of the guests complimented, "Meenuji, the festival arrangements are wonderful! You have an excellent taste."
Meenuji, the middle-aged woman, smiled and responded, "Yes, the arrangements are beautiful, but the credit goes to someone else. The diyas, the rangoli, and the floral decorations—all of it was done by her."
"Who?" the guest asked curiously.
Looking around, Meenuji pointed towards the young woman in the blue dress. Another guest, upon seeing her, remarked, "Is she your daughter? She's incredibly beautiful."
Before Meenuji could respond, a third woman, who had been listening to their conversation, interjected, "She's not her daughter. She's an orphan."
Upon hearing this, the second woman's interest faded instantly. No longer curious about the girl, she swiftly changed the subject to a major business deal that was making headlines, shifting the conversation to matters that, to her, seemed more significant.
Meanwhile, the young woman, unaware of this exchange, continued to radiate warmth, her heart untouched by the superficial judgments of the world.