Diwali Musing: The Light Within

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  “Faith is the bird that sings when the dawn is still dark.”

 — Rabindranath Tagore

Before every dawn, there is a stillness so complete that even the world seems to wait, and then, from somewhere unseen, a bird begins to sing. It sings not because the light has come, but because it knows the light will come. That, Tagore tells us, is faith, not blind belief, but the quiet strength that endures even when there is no light to guide it.

Tagore’s words carry the fragrance of a life fully lived, a life that knew both the tenderness of joy and the ache of loss. He lost his wife, two of his children, and several dear friends, yet his poetry never gave in to despair. From sorrow, he distilled something luminous, “Trust love even if it brings sorrow” he wrote, and later, near the end of his life, “Let this be my last word, that I trust in Thy love.”

To Tagore, trust was not naïve optimism, it carried the tremor of surrender. To trust love, divine or human, even when it wounds, is to acknowledge that sorrow too is part of the divine rhythm. Trust is an act of will, the conscious decision to keep one’s heart open, even when experience urges it to close. Faith, by contrast, is more primal, arising unbidden like the bird’s song. It is not an effort of the mind, but an intuition of the spirit.

Perhaps that is why Tagore’s faith feels so pure. It does not demand proof. Trust may walk through sorrow, faith already glimpses joy beyond it. The two are inseparable, trust gives faith endurance, and faith gives trust radiance.

In Gitanjali, Tagore blends these states into a single breath. His devotion is neither detached nor ascetic, it is warm, intimate, and deeply human. He speaks to the Divine not as a distant God, but as a beloved, sometimes questioning, sometimes grieving, but always returning to the same center, love as the eternal truth. He once wrote, “We live in this world not to find joy apart from sorrow, but to find joy in sorrow.” Few lines describe the human condition more truthfully, and to live long enough is to see that joy and sorrow are not opposites, but companions.

This is the deeper message of Diwali, the light that shines not after darkness, but through it. Tagore’s bird sings in the dark because it senses dawn within itself. Faith is the inner assurance that life’s rhythm, however uncertain, still moves toward light.

 We have come a long way through life, from the young boys who once walked to school together, to the seasoned and experienced men we are today. At this stage of life, perhaps it teaches us not to be too disturbed by outcomes, noise, or unpredictability. There is a quiet trust we can rest upon, that whatever comes, sorrow or joy, flows from the same spring of Divine Will. Faith shows us that both shape us and prepare us for the remaining passage, helping us find harmony with a larger, unseen design.

 So this Diwali, as lamps flicker across balconies and courtyards, maybe we can also light a small lamp within, a reminder that faith is not about waiting for the light, but about becoming the light that sings in the dark.


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