The Little Lamp That Wanted to Be a Star

On Diwali night a row of clay lamps stood on the wall of an old house. The smallest lamp was at the very end, next to the doorstep.

It looked up. The sky was full of stars, thousands of them, bright and high. Then the fireworks began: golden fountains, green umbrellas, a rocket that wrote its name across the dark.

"Look at them," sighed the little lamp. "Everyone is looking up. Nobody looks at me. I wish I were a star."

"Stars are far away," said the lamp beside it. "And fireworks are gone in a blink."

"But they are grand," said the little lamp. "I am only a thumb of clay and a spoon of oil."

Just then the last rocket faded. The street went dark and smoky. And down the lane came a very small girl, holding her grandfather's hand. His eyes were weak, and the doorstep was high.

"Careful, Dadu," said the girl. "I cannot see the step."

The little lamp stood as tall as it could. Its flame did not jump or crackle. It only shone, a warm, round, golden circle that fell exactly on the doorstep.

"Ah," said the grandfather. "There it is." He stepped up safely. Then he bent down, slowly, and looked at the little lamp. "Thank you, beta," he said to it. "The stars are beautiful. But they have never once shown me my own door."

The little lamp glowed so warmly that its oil nearly bubbled.

It burned all night. And it never wished to be a star again.