It is past midnight and there is only a faint light from an infant moon and a handful of starlings playing hide-and-seek among the dark patches of clouds gliding across the sky. Even the fireflies seem to have decided not to come out of their habitat. And here I am, in my late sixties, standing beside a car that has decided not to move. There is no sign of human habitation nearby, and I don’t have my mobile phone with me. My wife is huddled inside, chanting the name of her favourite deity. The intensity of her chants increases with every passing moment, bordering on hysteria. I can’t blame her. We had been warned to keep away from the area after sunset thanks to the increasing number of crimes reported, but certain developments had left me with no option.
Ages seem to have passed before I see flashes of a torchlight heading my way, accompanied by the rhythmic sound of footsteps. I wait with bated breath, bracing myself for the worst.
A man of uncertain age in a crumbled uniform halts a few feet away and surveys the scene. The beam of his torchlight lingers momentarily on my wife, too.
“Any problem?” he asks in a low tone.
I tell him.
He asks me to lift the hood. Bending over the engine he fiddles for a few minutes with God knows what and straightens up.
“Start the car, please.”
And the engine comes to life instantly!
Even as I thank him and take out my wallet, he starts walking away. He doesn’t respond to my call to stop and soon merges with the darkness.
“I had no doubt my prayers would be answered,” my wife declares as I start the car.
“But that was probably just a nice man going home after a day’s work.”
“So late in this godforsaken place?” She asks with a derisive laugh.
I don’t want to challenge her faith. An angel in disguise or a good Samaritan, the least I can do is not to grudge him a halo.
Ages seem to have passed before I see flashes of a torchlight heading my way, accompanied by the rhythmic sound of footsteps. I wait with bated breath, bracing myself for the worst.
A man of uncertain age in a crumbled uniform halts a few feet away and surveys the scene. The beam of his torchlight lingers momentarily on my wife, too.
“Any problem?” he asks in a low tone.
I tell him.
He asks me to lift the hood. Bending over the engine he fiddles for a few minutes with God knows what and straightens up.
“Start the car, please.”
And the engine comes to life instantly!
Even as I thank him and take out my wallet, he starts walking away. He doesn’t respond to my call to stop and soon merges with the darkness.
“I had no doubt my prayers would be answered,” my wife declares as I start the car.
“But that was probably just a nice man going home after a day’s work.”
“So late in this godforsaken place?” She asks with a derisive laugh.
I don’t want to challenge her faith. An angel in disguise or a good Samaritan, the least I can do is not to grudge him a halo.
