Diwali on a mountain top in Sikkim

I’d heard a noise. Was alone in a large room on a mountaintop in 2001. I was the only guest.

That afternoon I’d come back from a walk to find my front door festooned with a garland of flower — but it was now 10pm on a dark night. I was curious so peeked out behind the curtain to see three young Indians standing around a lit candle. They were singing softly and sweetly. It was Diwali.

They left as silently as they’d come.

Tiny lights lit up small homes dotted across the mountainsides.

I felt safe.

Good.

Secure.

Light is stronger than darkness. And I was of sufficient importance to be included in one of the most holy of Indian nights amongst magical scenery. Who says there is not a God?