Maya's POV:

The screech of my dad's bike brakes was music to my ears. He was home, a knight returning from a day of battling spreadsheets and tangled wires. I flung open the door, a blur of blue frock and pink sweater, and collided with his chest in a hug that nearly toppled him off his feet.

His deep and familiar laugh chased away the echoes of mom's sharp voice: "Maya, don't dirty your clothes! We have guests tonight."

I stuck out my tongue, a silent rebellion against the starched expectations. Dad just winked, a conspiratorial glint in his eyes.

The aroma of sizzling garlic and spices wafted from the kitchen, Mama's masterful hand working its magic. Tonight, it was her famous khichdi and kadhi, a symphony of slow-cooked flavors that whispered of comfort and warmth.

"Easy there, little storm," Dad chuckled, ruffling my hair. "Did this knight in shining bike miss his princess too much?"

The scent of burnt wires and fading cologne, a symphony of his day, wrapped around me like a comforting cloak. In Dad's arms, conditions vanished, replaced by the sweet promise of rainbow lollipops and whispered bedtime stories.

We set off towards the market's familiar melody—spice haggling with shouts, the air thick with the aroma of roasted peanuts and frying pakoras. The winter chill, sharper tonight, nipped at our noses, sending us weaving through the crowd towards the flickering oasis of the campfire.

"Does anyone have jute sacks?" Dad called out, his voice booming like a foghorn. A vendor grinned, tossing us a pile of worn canvas. Dad's nimble fingers morphed them into a makeshift throne beside the crackling flames, the orange glow painting dancing shadows on his face.

The fire whispered secrets in the dying light, its warmth chasing away the day's chill. The sky bled into shades of violet and orange.

"Let me tell you a joke," dad started, looking at me with his soft, loving brown eyes and wrinkled skin that held the testament of hard work and countless hardships.

Although I've always admired him, there are moments when I wish we could have spent more time together. The few times dad brought me out were the best, and I longed for more of these moments. However, the times he spent at home were frequently hectic because of my parents' fights.

"This man left his watch and handkerchief on the fourth floor as he was about to go to work. He requested that his spouse acquire it for him. The watch smashed into pieces when the wife hurled it from upstairs." He asked, "Do you know what the man did next?" as he cast me a glance.

I shook my head, wondering what might come next.

He laughed as he said, "He went up to the fourth floor to retrieve it because he was scared that the handkerchief would break too."

We both burst out laughing because the laughter was contagious. We received a few weird looks from onlookers, but it just made us laugh even more. We were engaged in our own universe at that very moment, engrossed in the symphony of our mutual delight.

"Now, it's your turn, princess," he smiled, twinkling eyes reflecting the firelight. "Tell me about your grand conquest today."

My voice, still tinged with childish wonder, painted a vibrant picture of the water pump. The glint of the blade, the hiss of metal piercing flesh, the gush of life-giving water—each word a brushstroke on the canvas of my victory.

Dad listened, his gaze unwavering, an ember trapped in each eye. The pride in his smile warmed me, but a flicker of concern crossed his face, like a wisp of smoke obscuring the flames. He saw the fire in my eyes, perhaps the same spark that might have once lured him down a treacherous path.

"That's good, Maya," he said, his voice a calm counterpoint to the crackling fire. "Very good." His smile faltered, a shadow settling across his features.

I didn't miss it. I knew my father like I knew the constellations overhead. His words always held a hidden melody, his silences pregnant with unspoken wisdom.

"But remember, Maya," he continued, his voice softer now, "Pride is like fire. It keeps you warm, but too much, and it burns you and consumes you."

He closed his eyes, a memory surfacing from the depths of his past. "Once," he began, his voice low and gravelly, "I was young and foolish. Pride clouded my judgment. I refused help when I needed it most. Ended up causing a blackout; the whole town plunged into darkness because of my arrogance."

He didn't need to elaborate. The shame, the reprimand, the long hours spent rectifying his mistake—I saw it all reflected in his eyes. He wasn't just warning me; he was sharing a part of himself, a cautionary tale whispered amidst the embers.

My chest tightened. My heart, still basking in the glow of my feat, flickered with doubt.

Was my pride a fire, warming me, or a monstrous shadow waiting to devour me?

But then, my gaze met his. The love in his eyes, unfiltered and unwavering, calmed the storm within me. He believed in me, not despite my flaws, but because of them. He saw the potential, the fire that could illuminate, not incinerate.

"Pride can be a dangerous tool," I whispered, the firelight dancing in my eyes. "But with your love, Dad, it can also be a beacon."

A smile, gentle and knowing, curved his lips. "That's my girl," he murmured, pulling me close.

As we walked home, the town lights twinkled like fallen stars. The shadows still danced at the edges, but the fire within me, fueled by love and purpose, burned brighter than ever. I was no longer just Maya, the defiant one. I was Maya, the daughter of fire, guided by the embers of hope and ready to forge my own path, one spark at a time.

Even as darkness settled over the town, I carried the warmth of the campfire within me. The scent of burnt wood lingered in my hair, a reminder of my father's love and the lessons whispered amidst the flames. I knew there would be more trials ahead, more shadows to face. But tonight, I wasn't afraid. I had learned that pride could burn, but love could light the way. And as long as I held onto that love, I could navigate any darkness and find my way through any storm.

The doorbell's high-pitched cry pierced the night, the sound instantly melting into the harsh sounds of my laughter that echoed from the verandah. Mom shot a look at Dad, a silent plea for sanity in the middle of the upcoming noise and confusion. The guests had arrived.

I, on the other hand, could barely contain my happiness. These were fresh targets, ready to be won over by my mischievous behaviors. As the doorbell sang again, I shot towards the door like a rocket, nearly tripping over my own eagerness.

Today's guests were distant relatives, uncle and aunt with faces almost familiar from childhood visits and faded photographs.

The relatives arrived in a joyful wave; Uncle's booming laughter bouncing off the walls and aunt's tinkling bangles announcing their presence like the windchimes that danced on our porch.

I greeted them with a wave, each namaste more showy than the last. Uncle Rajesh, a fat man with a handlebar mustache that rivaled dad's in grand beauty, roared with laughter, ruffling my hair like a giant bear.

They filed in, my aunt draped in shimmering sarees, my uncle radiating beauty with a potbelly that threatened his kurta.

"Namaste, Uncle Ravi! May your pockets be filled with money and your days blessed with samosas!" I declared, bowing deeply in respect. Uncle Ravi roared with laughter, ruffling my hair.

"And Aunty Anjali! May your sarees be as bright as your smile and your kitchen always stocked with gulab jamuns!" I continued, batting my eyelashes playfully. Aunty Anjali, her eyes crinkling with happiness, pinched my cheek sweetly.

The adults, caught between exasperation and happiness, watched the exchange unfold. Mom, her lips pressed in a thin line, tried to maintain her composure but a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Dad shook his head and couldn't help but chuckle.

"Ah, Maya, still the same little firecracker! Remember when you painted your cousin's pet bird pink?" Uncle Ravi reminded me with a wink.

The room burst into laughter, and the tension that had hung heavy in the air disappeared like smoke. My parents exchanged a tired smile. They loved my spirit and endless energy, but tonight, in front of distant relatives, it felt like they were treading through a minefield.

Mom, ever the diplomat, brought everyone to the table. The khichdi, fluffy and nice-smelling, was spooned onto plates; the kadhi, with its tangy circular flow, enhanced the sweetness of the rice and lentils. I entertained the table with stories of my water pump victory, my voice rising and falling with dramatic style.

Uncle Ravi, an expert of mischief, egged me on, his booming laughter accenting my story. Aunt Anjali, a woman with gentle eyes and a calming presence, listened patiently and every once in a while, offered a knowing smile. Even my reserved grandmother let out a rare laugh at my most terrible and shocking artistic additions.

The dining table was now filled with an organized row of Gujarati delicacies-rotlis puffed like golden pillows, crunchy papads, khichdi, kadhi and bowls of chutneys and mango pickle.

As the conversation flowed like the thick gravy of the kadhi, spiced with stories of faraway Mumbai, I sat on a stool next to Papa, my voice a mischievous counterpoint to the measured tones of the adults. One moment, I was announcing dishes with the style of a town crier; the next, I was stealing a bite of Uncle Rajesh's mango pickle, my eyes sparkling with innocence.

Instead of criticisms, I was met with strong winds of laughter. My playful (and troublemaking) behaviors fueled their happiness, which only encouraged me on further. I imitated the elders with elaborate hand movements, spun fantasy-like stories of imaginary friends, and even convinced Uncle Ravi to wear Mom's ghungroo-filled dupatta for a very funny, although brief, moment.

By the time the moon painted silver stripes across the sky, the guests were offering goodbyes, their faces reddish-pink with laughter and their bellies full of Gujarati warmth. Exhausted but excited, I collapsed into dad's lap, my giggles echoing through the now-quiet house.

Mom shook her head with a sigh. "That child," she whispered as she was cleaning the table. "She'll be the death of me someday."

Dad, his eyes twinkling, ruffled my hair. "Don't worry, dear" he said, his voice low and warm. "She's just keeping things lively. Besides, who else would keep us young?"

As they stood there, the echoes of laughter still lingering in the air, I knew that even with chaos, my playful spirit was the thread that wove this family together. In their laughter, I saw not just happiness but a reflection of the warmth, humor, and uncontrolled spirit that sometimes, just sometimes, was all it took to chase away the shadows and support the light.

The night whispered its secrets, and I listened. I thought about the echo of my father's laughter, the crackle of the fire, and the soft hum of the town sleeping. I heard the harmony of life, with all its joys and sadness, its triumphs and challenges.

I heard a gentle but persistent voice, my own, whispering a promise into the night: "I will find my path. I will use my fire to illuminate, not destroy. I will be the daughter of hope, and I will not be consumed by darkness." And in that moment, bathed in the glow of their love and the echoes of my own joy, I knew that the embers of hope would never die.

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Word Summary:
namaste- hello
samosa(s)- a pastry with a savory filling, mostly vegetables, spiced potatoes, onions and peas.
gulab jamun(s)- a dessert made of mainly khoya (dried and evaporated milk solids) that's deep fried and dropped into simmering sugar syrup.
khichdi- a cooked mixture of rice and lentils
kadhi- a yogurt-based dish simmered with besan (gram flour)
roti/rotli- indian flatbread
pappad-  a thin, crispy snack typically made from dough of black gram bean flour that's usually deep-fried or roasted to be served as a side-dish with food.
chutney(s)- a thick, condiment-like sauce made with few ingredients like tomato, groundnut, etc. that is usually served with roti.
ghungroo- a small metallic/plastic bell, usually part of a set strung together either worn around ankles as anklets or as decorations in shawls.

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a/n:

embers of hope would never die. sure, right? xD

hello hello hello everyone! i know i am posting this super late, so much gap, where have i been? well- drowning in work, life and stress, the usual xD

but- we have this major development to maya's character arc - while she enjoys her discoveries, she's also starting to have second thoughts, what happens next? stay tuned! xD

LOADS OF LOVE
your ghost friend,
- sara xD