Why I Believe In Miracles.
Our father’s professional journey took my sister and me to various places across India. We could because of this get a taste of life in metros, cities and towns felt like. Warangal, a district in Telangana known for its Engineering College, was one such place we spent three years of our life in the early nineties. A dry area, with a predominantly Telugu speaking crowd, Warangal was not a place we ever imagined moving to from a city like Hyderabad. I remember the feeling of melancholy, having to move out of one of the most happening schools in Hyderabad to a Convent for Girls in Kazipet, a small town in the district.
But soon enough, like so many other displacements that we had been through, we took it in our stride, tried to make friends and picked up the threads of life afresh. We made some of the most beautiful memories in this quaint place. The flavors of many a spicy dish burning our tongues — pulihara, avakai pachadi, allam chutney, crunchy Sakinanallu, sleeping in the open terrace on hot summer nights, laughing at Amma’s attempt to talk to the neighbour in Telugu, and such. One very vivid happy memory is that of Dad buying me a scooty. I had passed out of Class 11 with flying colours and claimed my pound of flesh — ala a scooty.
And then began the thrill of riding a two wheeler — wind blowing through my hair as I whizzed past the streets and the sole highway that passed through the town. Life became a smooth ride, literally. Besides running chores for Amma, me and my sister would also visit friends.
Warangal district was also a naxal inflicted area in the nineties and there were unsaid rules to be followed. People wouldn’t venture out after 8 PM, there were stories of travelers being accosted, stopped and questioned. The naxal regime kept a close watch on the locals.
One evening, my sister and I were on our way back from Kazipet, towards home, an area called Balasmudram, which was about ten kilometers away. We were visiting a family friend who was moving out of Kazipet to say our goodbyes. And soon dusk fell and we nervously got onto the scooty. We had to pass by a desolate area that ran for about 3 kms before we would hit the town. And we were worried about that stretch. There was only wilderness and darkness, without a single streetlight on the road.
Just as we were passing through the heart of this area, the bike stopped. I got down and tried kick starting it numerous times. I used the choke button and kicked away, to no avail. It was the landline era and even to get to the nearest STD booth, we would have to make our way in the dark for a considerable distance. We looked up and down the road for a passing vehicle, nothing , no one.
Panic hit me hard. I was worried about my sister. I had to get us to a safe place and soon. I looked at her and saw that she was already in prayer mode.
And then suddenly out of nowhere, a tall lean man appeared. He stopped by and asked what had happened? We were surprised, because we couldn’t for the life of us figure out which direction he had come from? However we had no choice but to trust him and told him the scooter wasn’t starting. He turned the key in the ignition and kick started just once and the engine roared back into life. I simply stared at the scooter. I didn’t know how it happened.
He smiled and told us to get along. We looked at each other in disbelief. Even today, both of us remember that stranger who walked in to help us. Was he God? Possibly, doesn’t God live through these random acts of kindness?
But almost twenty years later Dr Priyanka Reddy wasn’t so lucky. She had stopped by a toll naka at shadbad outskirts of Hyderabad on her way back home when her scooter broke down. She trusted four men who came to her rescue and did not live to tell the tale.
When I look back, I am convinced the stranger who came to our rescue all those years ago, wasn't a mere mortal. He couldn't have been.
