It was late evening. A gentle drizzle had just begun to fall as Reema and Rohit set off in their newly acquired car. The scent of wet earth filled the air, and the rhythmic patter of droplets on the windshield created a strangely soothing soundtrack.
Reema absentmindedly traced tiny shapes on the misted window, her fingertip gliding over the fogged glass like a pencil over paper. She began humming her favourite Bollywood tune—the one where a couple sings while driving, full of romance and cinematic flair. But unlike the film heroine, she couldn’t lean over to hug Rohit the way the actress did with her co-star.
Still, she smiled. This was their first proper drive together in their new car. It felt like a fresh chapter.
Within minutes, the drizzle turned to steady rain. Reema offered a quiet thank-you to God—finally, she no longer had to worry about commuting in unpredictable weather. Owning a car felt like a small luxury and a huge relief.
But as the downpour intensified, so did her unease. Her initial joy gave way to anxiety. The rain turned into a pounding torrent. Waterlogging was a familiar problem in their city, and she knew how quickly the roads could become rivers.
“Let’s go back home,” she suggested, her voice edged with concern.
“No,” Rohit replied. “We’ve already told our friend we’re coming. They must be waiting for us.”
“Call them now,” she insisted, fidgeting with her dupatta. “Tell them we’ll visit another day. It’s pouring!”
But Rohit was adamant. “The rain will stop now,” he declared with casual confidence, as though he had the sky on speed dial.
The sky answered, but not with mercy. Lightning flashed in the distance. A storm had broken out, and visibility dropped to near zero. Thunder rolled, sending a chill down Reema’s spine.
“I can’t see anything ahead,” she said nervously. “Let’s just turn back.”
Again, he insisted, “No. The rain will stop.”
A thick knot formed in her stomach. The water on the road was rising rapidly. If anything happened at this hour, who would come to help? It was already dark, and the streets had emptied under the weight of the storm.
Then it happened—the car stalled. The engine sputtered and died, and they were stuck, right in the middle of the flooded street. Panic surged inside her.
Terrified, Reema closed her eyes and began to pray.
“We need someone to push the car,” Rohit said, scanning the waterlogged road. “Only then will it start.”
She looked around. The downpour had finally eased, but they were still surrounded by water. The road lay deserted, as if the city itself had vanished into the storm. It felt like they were stranded in a quiet sea.
Reema prayed again. Not just words now—desperate, pleading thoughts, sent silently to the heavens.
And then, as if summoned by those very prayers, she saw them—three men walking steadily toward the car from the far end of the road. Their faces were shadowed, their clothes soaked, but they moved with calm purpose.
“Look,” she whispered urgently. “Those three men—ask them to help!”
Rohit rolled down the window and called out. The men responded with a nod and came closer without hesitation.
While Rohit moved to the wheel, Reema opened the door to get out, ready to help push. But the men stopped her gently, one of them raising his hand and saying softly, “You stay inside.”
She obeyed.
The three strangers pushed with synchronized strength, and within moments, the engine roared back to life. The car jolted forward—alive again. Relief flooded through Reema in a wave. Her eyes brimmed with tears.
She leaned out and said a heartfelt “Thank you,” her voice cracking.
But when she turned around again to see the men, there was no one there.
They were gone.
She looked left, right, and even behind them. The road was empty. No fading silhouettes, no footsteps in the puddles. Nothing.
They had vanished.
Reema’s breath caught. A strange peace settled over her fear. She didn’t need answers. She knew deep down—it had been divine intervention. Her prayer had been heard. God had sent help, then taken it back just as quietly.
She turned to Rohit, who was focused on the road, his expression unreadable. A part of her wanted to ask if he’d seen them disappear too, if he believed what she now firmly did—but she stayed quiet. Some moments didn’t need to be spoken aloud to be understood.
The rain had now reduced to a faint drizzle, like a curtain gently falling after a dramatic play. Streetlights shimmered off the wet roads like scattered stardust. The city was stirring again, but Reema felt changed. That night, she had tasted the vulnerability of fear—and the grace of hope.
The car moved forward once more. But Reema carried the wonder of that night with her always. In storms, in silence, in the gentle patter of rain—she knew now, more than ever, that ‘faith never goes unheard’.
(Based on a true incident)
By Urvi Mehta
Urvi works as a Company Secretary and Cost Accountant, managing corporate governance and financial matters. A trained vocalist and Kathak dancer, she nurtures her love for the arts alongside her professional career. She finds catharsis in writing, using it as an outlet for reflection and self-expression.
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