Seven years ago there was a horrid fire. The flames appeared to swallow a huge portion of the building from the bottom, and swiftly moving upwards. The peak summer weather only worsened matters in spreading the heat. The scene was a spectacle to many bystanders who began to film the drama, while firefighters tried their best to control the engulfing fires. Fortunately the residents of the building had been evacuated in time, and were watching some distance away as their belongings got devoured with no signs of respite. Among them was a family, who sat by the bench, the mother praying in silence. Her husband had recently suffered a stroke, and so had difficulty moving too fast. They managed to evacuate, aided by their son in their pyjamas and with bare feet. I stood a little distance behind them, overwhelmed by the strong stench by now of ashes mixed with water. I waited till the entire fire was finally put off. I watched while the social workers and volunteers ushered them away to a government provided accommodation, reserved for such calamities and emergencies.
In a few hours, I rushed along with my mother with a bag full of clothes, towels, sanitaries and food to the accommodation where they were stationed. The lady recognised me as the girl next to them, and was glad I came. She was modestly dressed and had a welcoming tone. She seemed unfazed by the horrifying incident, and left the future to God, whom she had unshakeable faith in. Loss and damage did not deter her demeanor. Even my mother was impressed by her placidity. Over the months we formed a new and good friendship, marked by spiritual talks and experiences. Little did she know, that I was in love with her son, and we were engaged to be married. Continue reading