The Saviour (742 words)

                           A Story for Thanksgiving Day

He lay twisted on the road with the toppled auto’s side wheel still rotating beside him. The world around him blurred for him with faces, silhouettes and a crowd of about a dozen or more people crowding around his broken body. They stared with wide, anxious eyes, the driver drenched in blood and still flowing, wringing their hands, waiting for someone to take the lead.

The truck that struck him had already disappeared into the distance, a hit-and-run. case. A life abandoned on the road.

He tried to call out, “Help me… please...” but his throat failed him. Not a whisper came from the onlooking crowd. Only the noise of passing traffic that did not halt. He could feel the warm rush of blood under him, the heat fading from his limbs.

People murmured to one another, shaking their heads. “Drunk truck drivers…”

“Police hassles… summons… courts…”

“Taxis won’t take a bleeding man…”

“Hospitals refuse these cases…”

Each excuse felt like a nail sealing him into loneliness. Some watched for a moment before slipping away, glancing at their phones and their watches. Everyone had somewhere more important to be than to help the dying man.

He felt panic rising. The minutes were slipping away even as he needed to be at a hospital without loss of time. He needed someone—anyone—to come to his rescue

His vision wavered, and drowsiness was slowly setting in. Sweat streamed down his temples. As he drifted in and out of consciousness, memories rushed in.

His daughter’s voice echoed through the house that morning:

“Appa, come home early today! We have the birthday party, remember? You promised!

He saw her bright eyes, her small hand tugging his shirt, her excitement bubbling like music.

He saw his little boy, clinging to his legs with chubby arms, pleading silently to be taken in his arms.

And then he saw his wife, her shy smile as he hugged her before leaving, the way her fingers lingered for a heartbeat longer, as though unwilling to let go.

Will they be waiting for me now?

A crushing thought: Will they have to wait forever?

He felt the darkness curling around the edges of his mind. There was still no policeman. Only bystanders. Watching him die and not a single hand reaching out.

Somewhere in the crowd, someone casually mentioned that they had already called the emergency number. He heard the remark faintly. A social task completed. A conscience soothed. And still he lay on the road, life ebbing away grain by grain.

Just when the world began to shrink into a small tunnel of fading light, a sudden voice cracked through the air, a loud, urgent shout commanding the crowd to move aside.

“Give way! Let him breathe! Move!”

A young man, no older than his mid-thirties, pushed through the ring of onlookers with fierce determination. He knelt by the dying man without hesitation, his eyes blazing, not with fear, but with purpose.

“Brother,” the young man whispered, “I’m taking you to the hospital.”

With the help of one other soul finally stirred into action, he lifted the limp body and rushed him into his auto rickshaw. The engine sputtered, then roared to life. In seconds, they were flying down the road, faster, louder and braver than the silence of the crowd had been.

At the hospital, doctors and nurses raced to their stations. They worked quickly, voices sharp, hands steady. Later, they would admit quietly among themselves that if the man had arrived even a few minutes later, he would have been gone.

When they turned to thank the auto driver, he only offered a small nod. His clothes were splashed with blood, and the floor of his rickshaw was soaked. But his face… it glowed with a quiet, humble happiness.

“I just did what anyone should do,” he murmured, already stepping back toward his vehicle. He did not expect any praise. No desire to be remembered.

He simply wanted to clean his auto and go home to his waiting children and wife.

But in that moment, in that simple man, lived a truth larger than the crowd that had watched without moving:

Blessed are those who give without remembering and those who take without forgetting.

And somewhere in a hospital bed, a father, a husband, a man who almost slipped away drew another breath, because one stranger refused to stand and watch. A sense of gratitude enveloped him