Diwali, the festival of lights, was always a beacon of joy in our lives. But one fateful Diwali night, that light flickered, threatening to extinguish completely. The phone rang, my mother’s number flashing, but the voice on the other end was a stranger’s, urgent and chilling: “Come fast to Dhanbad. Your Mama has been burned badly. We saved her, taking her to the nearest hospital, but you might have to come early and get her to a place with better medical facilities.”

Shattered, yet somehow clinging to a thread of composure, I booked the fastest possible flight to Dhanbad via Ranchi. The journey from Delhi felt like an eternity, each second stretching into an unbearable silence. My mind raced, picturing the horror, the flames, the unimaginable pain. But even in that terrifying void, a different picture began to form, painted by the incredible acts of kindness unfolding back home.

My mother’s neighbours in Dhanbad, these ordinary people, became extraordinary heroes. They didn’t just witness the inferno; they plunged into it. They played with their lives, defying the intense heat and danger, to pull her out of the fire’s grasp. And their heroism didn’t end there. They stayed by her side, a constant, comforting presence, until I could finally reach her. My first, deepest gratitude belongs to them—for saving her, for giving her a fighting chance, for being the first light in our darkest hour.

As I travelled by road from Ranchi to Dhanbad, my phone buzzed with calls from friends, classmates, and batchmates. They weren’t just offering condolences; they were actively strategizing, suggesting hospitals in Jamshedpur, Bokaro, everywhere but Delhi. Yet, the consensus slowly emerged: Delhi was our best hope. The challenge was immense. Post-Diwali, securing train seats was nearly impossible, and with no active airport in Dhanbad, an air ambulance was out of the question. Our only viable option was a train ambulance, which required immediate reserved tickets.

This is where my “complete unit” sprang into action. Friends, colleagues, and well-wishers, they worked tirelessly, reaching out, pulling strings. Somehow, they connected with a Member of Parliament, and through his quota, a ticket was confirmed for the same-day train. This wasn’t just a ticket; it was a lifeline, saving vital time that we simply didn’t have. My gratitude to them is boundless—for working beyond the call of duty, for turning an impossible situation into a tangible path forward.

Upon reaching Delhi, a dedicated infrastructure was already in place to shift her from the train to the hospital. And at the station, amidst the chaos of the transfer, a moment of pure, unadulterated grace unfolded. The morning sun, harsh and bright, was disturbing my mother’s eyes. Suddenly, an unknown stranger approached, handing me an umbrella. “Put it over her head,” he said gently. “It will be difficult for her to bear the sun.” When I tried to ask for his number to return it, he simply smiled, “She is your mother, so she is like my mother. Keep the umbrella.” His simple act, born of pure compassion, was a balm to my soul, a reminder of the inherent goodness in humanity.

At the hospital, despite it being a holiday, all the doctors arrived. Her condition was so critical that it required a combined, relentless effort from every single one of them. Their names—Onkar, Saumya, Ishwar, Shivan, Maurya—echoed the names of gods and goddesses. It felt as if divine beings, in the form of these dedicated doctors, were battling for her life. And with their unwavering efforts, she began to improve.

She gained her health, sat up for the first time, and then, miraculously, she walked. Oh, to see her walk again! She started taking food, and I had the privilege of feeding her with my own hands. I held her hand, spoke to her, urged her not to give up. But finally, she looked at me, her eyes filled with a profound love and a quiet weariness, and whispered, “My son, too much pain. I am giving my strength to you. You fight the world.”

Then, on the seventh day, she left for the heavens. I would have lost her seven days earlier, on that terrifying Diwali night. But because of these incredible people—the neighbours who pulled her from the flames, the friends who moved mountains for a train ticket, the stranger who offered an umbrella, and the doctors who fought with all their might—I was given those precious seven days. Seven days to travel with her, to feed her, to hold her hand, to talk to her, to understand her pain, and to hear her final, powerful words.

They say it’s impossible to give someone even one extra breath. Yet, these selfless individuals gave my mother seven days of breath, seven days of life, seven days of precious time with her family. My story is a testament to their impossible feat, to the boundless capacity of the human heart.

And the final, poignant moment: I was at home in Delhi when I suddenly felt a tear drop roll from my left eye. In that instant, I knew. Ten seconds later, the call came from the hospital, confirming she had breathed her last. But that last breath came seven days later, not on the night of Diwali. And for those seven days, for every single person who made them possible, my heart overflows with eternal gratitude.