These days, I have found myself increasingly drawn to the quiet brilliance of Japanese fiction. My journey began with the deeply reflective novels of Nobel Laureate Kazuo Ishiguro, whose works opened a gateway into a literary tradition where memory, loss and the unseen emotional architecture of life are rendered with extraordinary subtlety. From there, I immersed myself in the surreal yet profoundly human worlds of Haruki Murakami, reading nearly all his major works. Most recently, I turned to The Lantern of Lost Memories by Sanaka Hiiragi, born in 1974, a writer whose delicate craftsmanship continues this remarkable Japanese literary sensibility.

Across these writers, one notices a common artistic thread: the ability to magnify seemingly ordinary moments into luminous meditations on existence. Small gestures, forgotten memories, fleeting encounters and personal griefs are transformed into profound philosophical reflections. Reading these works in English translation is a pleasure, but one cannot help imagining the exquisite linguistic precision and emotional cadence of the original Japanese prose.

The Lantern of Lost Memories unfolds through three distinct yet intricately interconnected stories, all centred around an ethereal photo studio perched upon a serene hill between life and the afterlife. This liminal place is managed by Hirasaka, a mysterious figure who receives a box of photographs every day from a courier named Yama. Each set of photographs, one from every day lived from birth to death, corresponds to the life of a person who will die that day and arrive at the studio soon.

Upon arrival, each deceased visitor is granted an extraordinary final gift: the opportunity to choose a single photograph from each year of their life to make a revolving lantern. More than that, Hirasaka possesses the unique ability to invisibly accompany them back to a chosen day from that year, allowing them to relive it and photograph it anew. Hirasaka then arranges these photographs in a slow, revolving lantern—an emotional illumination meant to gently guide souls into the afterlife.

Yet Hirasaka himself remains the novel’s most haunting enigma. He possesses no memory of his own human life, save for one solitary photograph of himself standing alone in a park—an image that serves as both anchor and void. Very subtly, but powerfully, we are told that even those entrusted with guiding others through memory and meaning may themselves remain lost in search of their own. The quest for identity, purpose and self-understanding is universal, extending even to those who illuminate the path for others—as seen in the lives of many gurus, philosophers and writers who ended their days in misery.

The first story introduces Hatsue, a 92-year-old woman who chooses to revisit her youth at age 23, when she worked as a nursery school teacher for the impoverished children of industrial labourers. Her return reveals not grand achievements, but the quiet dignity of compassion and service. Through Hatsue, the novel emphasises that a meaningful life is often built not through power or acclaim, but through tenderness, sacrifice and unnoticed goodness.

The second story shifts dramatically in tone, following a 47-year-old gangster-like, hefty man who arrives at the studio after being murdered. Initially appearing hardened and morally compromised, his journey backwards reveals hidden layers of kindness, particularly his role in protecting a vulnerable Vietnamese immigrant child from the cruelty of local bullies at school. In doing so, Hiiragi masterfully reveals humanity even in hardened souls.

The final and most emotionally resonant story centres on Mitsuru, a young girl who has suffered abuse. She is only temporarily dead but would return to the living world. During her visit, Hirasaka breaks the sacred code of non-interference by teaching her how to start a fire with focused sunlight and dried leaves—a small act of practical wisdom that ultimately saves her life later. This act of compassion comes at a great cost: as punishment, Hirasaka’s memories are permanently erased, leaving behind only a single photograph Mitsuru took of him, as mentioned earlier.

This climax elevates the novel from a meditation on memory into a profound reflection on selfless love and sacrifice. Hirasaka’s choice suggests that true meaning may not lie in preserving oneself, but in becoming a source of light for another’s continued life.

The novel concludes with Mitsuru growing into adolescence while Hirasaka and Yama quietly hope that she will not return to the studio until the farthest possible future—an understated but deeply moving blessing that she may live a long, full life.

Ultimately, The Lantern of Lost Memories offers readers a deeply humane and spiritually resonant message: life’s true significance lies not in grand accomplishments, but in the moments of kindness, courage and connection that leave an enduring imprint on human lives. Memory, in this novel, is not merely recollection—it is illumination. Our lives become lanterns, glowing through the love we gave, the wounds we healed, and the small acts of grace we offered. In that sense, every human life has the potential to become its own lantern—guiding others long after we are gone.

As I read, I could not help but ask myself: If I were to arrive at Hirasaka’s studio, which memory would I choose to relive? Without hesitation, I know my answer.

I would ask to return to a day in 1977, when I went with my siblings—my sister Seema and my brothers Varun and Salil—and my father to watch the film Hum Kisise Kum Naheen in Meerut. It was an evening show at Menka Cinema theatre. I had brought my first little salary home. During the film’s interval, I stepped out to buy a paan for my father—a first-of-its-kind gesture. It was a simple act by a son for the father who always provided whatever was needed, often without my asking and before the need had even risen.

Memory often preserves such moments with sacred precision. My father passed away soon after. And with his passing, something far larger than a life came to an end: we siblings never again sat together in a cinema hall as one complete family. My sister got married, and my brothers grew into adults with lives of their own. That ordinary evening became, without our knowing it, the closing frame of an entire era of our formative years.

If Hirasaka were to guide me back, I would not seek grand revelations or dramatic turning points. I would simply wish to stand again in that theatre lobby, holding that paan, seeing my father alive, hearing my siblings’ laughter, and experiencing again the unconscious security of a world still whole. Unfortunately, no photograph exists of all five of us, and I would love to take one with Hirasaka’s help.

Perhaps the deepest tragedy of life is that we seldom recognise its most precious moments while we are living them. In the end, The Lantern of Lost Memories leaves us with a haunting yet consoling truth: life is not measured solely by milestones, victories, or public achievements, but by those fragile, irreplaceable moments whose true value becomes visible only after time has taken them away. Perhaps that is why memory hurts. And perhaps that is also why it glows.

After finishing this blog, pause for a moment and imagine your own journey through time—capturing, in a single impossible photograph, one beautiful moment from your life that memory alone could never fully preserve.