One-legged God’s rescue mission

IN the crowded arteries of India’s cities, there exists a quiet army of people whose lives run parallel to ours — invisible until a story makes us have a look. They are not defined by caste labels or political categories; instead, they are defined by the hum of engines, the smell of petrol and the ceaseless grind for survival.

During my pre-PhD days in Chandigarh — the City Beautiful — I often wandered through Patel Market in Sector 15. There, amid the chatter of shopkeepers and the glitter of souvenirs, stood a man behind a modest stall. He was always there, 10-12 hours a day, rain or shine, selling trinkets to passing students and tourists.

It was only after many silent encounters that I finally spoke to him. His story unfolded in simple sentences: a widower, father of three, living in a rented room in Nayagaon on the outskirts of Chandigarh. His wife had died of illness, leaving him to weave the threads of home, love and income alone.

And then, he told me about a memory he carried like a talisman — a story he called “The One-Legged God.” It was a monsoon evening. After closing his stall, he had packed a small bag of food for his children and mounted his second-hand motorbike. The drizzle turned to rain, and the streets glistened under streetlamps. Then, without warning, the engine coughed, sighed and died in the middle of the road.

Behind him, a river of honking horns rose in agitation. He dragged the bike to the roadside, water running down his back, darkness pressing in. No mechanic in sight, no one stopping. He whispered a quiet prayer.

That was when another motorbike slowed beside him. The rider, a stranger, called out, “Aap baitho, main help karta hoon” (sit, I’ll help you).

As the vendor mounted his bike, he noticed something unusual: the man had only one leg. And yet, with that single leg, he pushed the stalled bike through the rain, his balance sure, his determination unshaken.

Momentum gathered, the engine roared back to life. The stranger raised a hand in farewell and disappeared into the wet blur of headlights.

“That day,” the vendor told me, his eyes softening, “God didn’t arrive with four arms or a crown. He came on a motorbike, with one leg, in the rain.”

In the lives of the marginalised, miracles are rarely grand. They are brief, human and astonishingly precise. Sometimes, love is simply the hand — or the leg — that pushes you forward when you cannot move on your own.