SPECIAL FEATURE

May-2026 1 Expression

Angel without wings

Faith does not always begin in temples. Sometimes it is born in hospital corridors

Divya Ravidas

The ICU waiting area is usually thick with silence — broken only by anxious footsteps and whispered prayers. That day, however, an unexpected sound cut through the stillness: laughter. A young woman sat scrolling through her phone, a book tucked under her arm. The title caught my eye — Atheism: The Case Against God.

Her confidence bordered on arrogance, her laughter too loud for a place steeped in grief. I am ashamed to admit how quickly I judged her. Her attire, her attitude, her unapologetic presence irritated me. I walked past her, yet her face lingered in my thoughts far longer than it should have.

That night, she appeared in my dreams — not as a stranger, but as someone I had known for years.

The following morning, I saw her again. This time, the laughter was gone. Her eyes were swollen, red from sleepless tears. I wanted to ask what troubled her, but the invisible boundary between strangers held me back.

She approached me instead, asking for directions to the exit. I guided her in silence and let the moment pass.

Over the next few days, I began noticing her often — restless in the cafeteria, snapping at the canteen staff, weighed down by emotions she seemed unable to control. Fate finally placed us side by side one afternoon. She glanced at me casually. That was my moment.

With a gentle smile, I asked about the patient she was attending. Her voice trembled as she spoke. Her mother had been admitted with urosepsis. It seemed it was guilt, more than grief that weighed her down. Guilt for neglecting the fever and chills, for prioritizing deadlines over her mother’s health.

What followed was not a conversation, but a confession. She spoke of her childhood, of a mother who had been her shadow until she was seventeen — ever present, ever sacrificing.

Then came success: an IT company she built from scratch, leading a hundred employees. And somewhere along the way, time slipped through her fingers.

Her mother never complained, never demanded — like most parents, she suffered in silence, hoping for crumbs of attention and love.

Just then, a call came from the ICU. Her mother’s condition had worsened.

For the first time in my life, I found myself praying fervently for someone I had never seen. The prognosis was grim: a fifty percent survival, unrecordable blood pressure, diminished responsiveness, on inotropic support, and battling sepsis with intravenous antibiotics.

Protocols forbade family visits. Hope seemed fragile.

Our casual conversations soon turned into planned coffee meetings. Somewhere between hospital corridors and cafeteria tables, an emotional bond took root.

One day, gathering courage, I asked if she would join me at a place of faith. I was not sure how an atheist would respond.

She agreed without hesitation. I watched her sit in silence, tears flowing freely — prayers spoken without words. Slowly, something within her seemed to change. She joined yoga classes, embraced a healthier lifestyle, and began letting go of anger and negativity. One day, I noticed the books in her bag too were different. The Reason for God. Spiritual writings. A quiet transformation was unfolding.

Almost miraculously, doctors began to notice a gradual improvement in her mother’s condition. The clinical expertise of doctors and the exceptional nursing care seemed to be working wonders. The meticulous monitoring and the friendly nature of the doctors gave her reassurance and eased her distress. Clear guidance, timely decisions, and genuine empathy played a crucial role in helping her navigate the crisis. The tireless dedication, constant vigilance and the humanized ICU environment brought not only healing but also a sense of peace of mind. I felt proud to be part of a team that extended both empathy and unwavering commitment during such a critical phase.

I promised myself I would meet her mother only on the day of discharge. But fate intervened. I fell ill with fever and when I finally returned, the waiting area felt strangely empty. My friend was gone. Her phone was switched off.

On New Year’s Day, an audio message arrived from an unknown number. It spoke of a mother — an angel without wings.

“A mother does not arrive with fanfare or she never wear a halo for the world to see. Yet, in every home, there lives an angel. She is the heartbeat of the house. Life begins to move when she opens her eyes, and the rhythm of the day follows her pace. In her gaze lies an energy that fuels the home, an unspoken assurance that everything will somehow be alright. Her voice, gentle yet firm, becomes a balm on the weariest of days.

A mother’s love is not loud; it is profound. It is felt in the warmth of her embrace, in the quiet strength behind every smile, and in the countless sacrifices she makes without ever keeping score. She is the first to rise when the world still sleeps and the last to rest after ensuring everyone else is at peace. The home stands not on walls or roofs, but on her tireless devotion.

She carries dreams she never claims as her own — dreams she hands over to her children, nurturing them with hope and faith. Her prayers are whispered in the silent corners of the night, unseen yet powerful, becoming the wind beneath our wings. Even her silent tears have purpose, shielding us from fears we may never know we were spared from.

When the world turns its back, she stands unwavering. When doubt creeps in, her belief becomes our anchor. Her words can calm our fiercest storms, and her presence alone can turn despair into courage. She vouches for us without hesitation, loving us not for who we are, but for who we will be.

Her absence speaks in silence, leaving the house hollow, reminding us how deeply she is woven into every corner of our lives. We realize then that she was never merely part of the home; she was the home.

Someday, when she leaves this world, she will not truly be gone. Her love will linger in the habits we inherit, the values we carry forward, and the memories that will refuse to fade. It will remain sacred — etched into our hearts, guiding us long after her footsteps fall silent.”

Each word pierced my heart. I replayed the message again and again, tears streaming freely.

A bell rang. When I opened the door, a stranger stood there, smiling. She said softly, “Because of me, your eyes are wet now.” Before I could ask more, I saw my friend standing behind her — holding a New Year’s gift, her eyes filled with gratitude and peace.

In that moment, I understood. Faith does not always begin in temples. Sometimes, it is born in hospital corridors, nurtured through compassion, and sealed by a mother’s love.

I treasure her friendship, because it was born out of a moment that perhaps God may have woven into our journey.

The best relationships are the ones that unfold naturally — without effort, without expectation. They are meant to be.

[Divya Ravidas is Manager, Corporate HR, KIMSHEALTH, Trivandrum.]

TAG: