It had been raining lightly for a week. I was heading to a temple in M.G. Bazaar, with a planned detour to collect payment from one of our clients. We’re rice traders, and since my father was busy at the temple, I had the responsibility of collecting the weekly dues.
I was running late when I left home. A text from my sister made my tardiness feel even worse—she said the Puja was over and the aarti had begun. I was thirty minutes behind. The mist thickened. Slippery roads riddled with potholes, bigger cars everywhere, and driving fast meant taking risks. But I had no choice. My mind switched to autopilot, cutting through traffic and road-raging at drivers who seemed determined to slow me down further.
Ten minutes later, my hands were cold and wet. The cap I wore was already dripping onto my glasses. I realized I was on the direct route to the temple, but I was supposed to visit the client first. Passing in front of the temple, I saw crowds walking away, waiting for autos. I was very late—people were already leaving.
I had to U-turn at the next square and take the road running parallel to the temple route. Big cars everywhere. It was Saturday, and apparently, weekends are prime time for devotion. Every Marwari family in Cuttack seemed to be heading home after the event—Crysta, Innova, Brezza.
At the square, I found a gridlock. Five cars trying to cross each other, each wanting to be first. The road was barely one car wide. I cursed myself for leaving late, for wasting time scrolling through YouTube shorts. The drivers refused to yield—no one wanted to wait.
I was getting anxious about dinner at the temple. I didn’t want to arrive late and appear as a freeloader in front of the judgmental middle-aged devotees who would assume I’d only shown up for the free meal.
Police officers appeared after ten minutes and guided the traffic. Finally free, I U-turned onto the parallel road and reached the client’s shop. Removing my shoes at the entrance, I gestured a customary namaste. He knew why I was there. Without words, he got into his act and opened his drawer to retrieve the cash. I waited patiently.
He handed me the money. After thanking him, I was putting on my shoes when I saw a blind family passing by. Both parents appeared to be blind. The mother held what looked like a two-year-old on her left side. My first thought was how they managed to navigate Cuttack’s chaotic streets. I’d had several close calls with traffic in just the last twenty minutes. Honestly, I was impressed. Respect swelled in my chest.
They carried a megaphone playing a recorded message asking for financial help to support their family. I had cash, but only 500-rupee notes. I wasn’t rich enough or generous enough to part with that much. The shop owner’s voice came from behind me. He was offering me a 5-rupee coin to give to them. I had mixed feelings—five rupees seemed insulting to their courage. But unwilling to part with my own money, I took the coin and gave it to them.
They seemed grateful and moved on. I felt relieved and turned back to my vehicle. Suddenly, a car stopped behind me, swerving right across the road and blocking it entirely. I was confused. I heard the driver asking a back-seat passenger for money.
I realized he’d also seen the blind family and wanted to contribute. The car sat horizontally in the middle of the road, blocking prime-time traffic while the passenger fumbled through his pockets. Thirty seconds passed. Crowds formed on both sides, buzzing their horns. We love our horns in Cuttack.
The driver called out, asking me to hand over the money to the family. I walked to the car door and saw a 20-rupee note. Something inside me flared with rage, though I kept my face neutral. I took the money and gave it to the family.
This guy had swerved his big, ugly, faint green seven-seater into the middle of the road, blocking traffic after a major religious event, just to donate twenty rupees. I swallowed my anger and walked toward my vehicle. Before leaving, I glanced at the car’s number plate—it was from Bhubaneswar.