The Woman in a Green Saree

Karan boarded the Shatabdi Express from Jaipur to Delhi with a heavy heart. That evening, the platform buzzed with excitement: families pulling their trolley bags, some children tugging at balloons, and some eating sweets from a mitai box. The vendors shouting - chai… samosa…thanda… chai… thanda…samosa… chai… thanda le lo. Diwali was only a few days away, and the whole country seemed to be rushing home to light up the darkness.  

Karan took a seat by the window, breathing a heavy sigh. Amidst the bubbly chaos, everything felt dull and dim. Nothing seemed to be going the way he had planned over the past two weeks. He had been having sleepless nights and bad dreams. The stress had taken over his entire being. His head was filled with constant questions of why’s… how’s… where’s and what if’s. Diwali was supposed to have been about abundance and light - yet he carried only worry. 

Karan settled down after placing his bag under his seat and leaned against the window, wishing he could just disappear into the darkness of the night. 

The train was bustling, filling up with passengers, rushing, pushing, trying to find their seats. 

Just then, an older woman approached the train compartment. She was dressed in a pale green cotton saree with a thin gold border, her grey hair neatly tied in a bun, and a shawl draped across her shoulders. Her presence radiated warmth, as if the saree itself carried the comfort of home.

“Beta, do you mind if I sit here? I can’t seem to allocate my seat.”

Karan looked up to see an elderly woman; she had a soft smile on her face and carried a worn jute bag along with a small steel tiffin. She was the splitting image of his late mother. He nodded silently, shifting to make space.

As soon as she settled down, she began chatting, her voice full of life and warmth. 

“Where are you off to?” she asked. 

“Delhi,” Karan replied, his voice cracked. He cleared his throat, hoping the elderly woman wouldn’t spend the rest of the journey gossiping about every single minute detail going on in her own life.

“Oh, I’m off to Delhi too. My daughter finally convinced me,” she laughed. “By the way, I’m Mrs. Sharma, Savita Sharma.”

“Karan,” he stuck to giving her a one-word answer. 

“I’m so excited. I’m going to be meeting my grandchildren after so many months,” she continued. “My daughter insisted that I come this time. She said Ma, Diwali is all about family. The diyas don’t shine the same way without you. So I agreed. I booked my ticket. I packed my bag. And here I am.”

Karan smiled faintly but wasn’t too keen to continue the conversation. 

The train lurched to a halt at a small station. Outside, the platform was dimly lit, but children ran about selling paper packets of diyas, their little voices calling, “Le lo diye, le lo diye, le lo diye!”

A child stopped at Mrs. Sharma’s window. “Please le lo na aunty,” the little boy’s eyes were filled with hope. 

Mrs. Sharma smiled. “Do dedo (Two please),” she handed the little boy a crumpled note and told him to keep the change. “Buy something to eat.”

The little boy’s face lit up. “Happy Diwali, Aunty,” he beamed and made a move, hoping to make another sale before the train proceeded.

Mrs.Sharma pressed one packet into Karan’s reluctant hands.

“I don’t need this, Aunty,” he insisted.

She smiled knowingly. “Keep them. Diyas are not just for decoration. They are promises that darkness never wins. And sometimes, they remind us of the light we carry inside.”

As the train rumbled forward again, she opened her tiffin, offering him a piece of homemade til laddoo. Between bites, she began to share her story.

“My husband passed away when I was only thirty,” she said softly. “With two young children and barely enough to eat, every Diwali felt cruel. But I kept lighting one diya—just one—because as long as there’s light, there’s tomorrow. And tomorrow always brings something new.”

Karan listened, turning the small clay lamp over in his palm. It felt fragile, yet it held within it the power of fire.

“It’s been thirty-five years since he has gone,” Mrs. Sharma continued. “But I must tell you, I didn’t give up. Year by year, life started taking shape. Slowly and steadily, life began to get better. Each Diwali that came, I made sure I was a step forward - mentally, financially, emotionally. I can’t say it’s been easy, but I took it as a challenge. And my children were my best motivation.”

Karan listened but stayed quiet. 

“Are you married?” Mrs. Sharma asked, taking another bite. 

Karan nodded, sighing a long sigh. 

“And I assume you’re going to meet your family…”

He nodded again, swallowing the lump in his throat. 

“Then why are you so glum? What’s the matter? Ever since I’ve sat here, you’ve done nothing but sulk.”

“Sulk? Aunty ji. Please. I’ve not even said anything to you. With all due respect, please don’t make unnecessary comments.”

Mrs. Sharma began to laugh. 

Karan’s eyes widened with shock, thinking Aunty ji had gone off her head. He controlled his irritation and anger. He took her age into consideration and decided to remain quiet. 

“Here, have another laddoo,” she offered with a smile. 

Karan closed his eyes and vigorously shook his head. He held his palm up. 

“Have a laddo. I’ve made them with such love,” Mrs. Sharma firmly placed one in his hand. “And I made extra for my companion on my train ride. And you're my companion tonight.”

Karan stared at the laddo and then looked at Mrs. Sharma. 

There was silence between the two. Mrs. Sharma closely watched Karan’s every move. 

“What do you mean by sulk?” Karan finally said, breaking the silence. “Is it that obvious?”

Mrs. Sharma rolled her eyes and nodded her head in dismay. “Karan, look at your face. It’s filled with worry, remorse, sorrow, and disgust. My only question is why? What is worrying you so much that you can’t even have a small curve on your face, knowing that you are going home to your children?”

“Child. I have only one child. A daughter.” 

“A daughter. Oh, daughters are such a blessing!” Mrs. Sharma began to ramble. 

But before she could continue, Karan cut her words. 

“I’m a math teacher and I lost my job two weeks ago. I am now an unemployed man, burdened with endless expenditure and…”

“Oh god!! Is that the only reason why you look so upset?”

“It’s just a job, Karan. You’ll find another job. I’m sure you can try in Delhi - It’s filled with opportunities,” Mrs. Sharma exclaimed. “You just need to be on the lookout. And maybe till then you start giving tuitions to students. You will gather a handful of them in no time.” 

Her words sank in slowly. Hope felt like a tiny flame, fragile yet alive. Maybe he needed someone to give him a little push, a little direction, and a little hope. 

The countryside stretched endlessly outside, dark fields rolling by. But every so often, a small town appeared—a flash of lights strung across rooftops, the sparkle of fireworks against the velvet sky. Each glow seemed to whisper to him: there is light even in darkness.

For the first time in days, Karan felt a quiet stirring in his heart. Maybe he couldn’t solve everything overnight. Perhaps hope wasn’t about having all the answers— maybe it was about holding on until the answers came.

He imagined tutoring students again, seeing their eyes light up when they understood a problem, feeling useful, and bringing home small victories to share with his wife.

When the train finally slowed into Delhi, the old woman adjusted her shawl and gathered her things. Before rising, she patted Karan’s arm gently.

“Remember, beta—Diwali is not outside us. It begins here.” She tapped her finger lightly to his chest, right over the heart.

By the time Karan stood up and stepped onto the bustling platform, she was gone. The pale green of her saree had dissolved into the sea of people rushing to their families.

Karan lingered for a moment, her words echoing in his ears. He had no grand plan, no sudden miracle. But he had something he hadn’t carried in a long time—a small, steady flame inside him.

That night, back at home, while his daughter slept and his wife set aside her worries for just a moment, Karan placed one clay diya on the windowsill. He lit it carefully, watching the little flame rise and steady itself.

It wasn’t just fire. It was hope—fragile, flickering, but unwavering.

And for the first time in days, he smiled.

As Karan discovered on that train, sometimes hope comes in the most unexpected forms—a stranger’s smile, a kind word, or even a small clay diya. This Diwali, may we not only light up our homes, but also remember to nurture the flame within us. Because even in the darkest nights, one little light is enough to remind us: tomorrow will come.