The late-afternoon sun felt warm and cozy that winter day. My elderly aunt Minnie, who hadn’t driven anything in her life, called and asked if I would take her to a handicraft fair about 16 miles (25 kilometers) away.
Minnie didn’t like to hire three-wheeler rickshaws. Their drivers drove too fast and recklessly; they went over bumps and potholes, and she couldn’t bear the painful jerks and jolts. Add to that the way they herded people into them like sheep, with the great possibility of getting upturned.
I had a motor scooter, and Minnie enjoyed riding on the back seat with the wind flying through her hair. If my cap threatened to fly off, she’d pin it to my hair as we both laughed.
I picked her up, and we drove through the crowded roads where narrow single lanes had the most chaotic traffic. Stray cows, dogs, vendors with their wares, pedestrians, tractors, buses, cyclists, cars, you name it—all on winding roads that forced you to clutch and brake constantly.
Circling her hands around my tummy, Minnie kept her eyes half shut most of the time, not wanting to look around. Peacefully assured, I drove slowly and safely, avoiding bumps and potholes, or the cow horns that passed within inches of us. We sighed a huge sigh of relief when we were finally out on a broader and better highway!
“Now for some sunshine and oxygen,” she said happily, enjoying the sight of rice fields and egrets feeding by the wayside.
On the way we stopped to pick pink lotuses in a pond teeming with black ducks. We watched some herons and gray cranes blissfully feeding upon insects as we tiptoed back. A fisher stood still and unmoving, knee-deep in the muddy pond, with a spread-out net. He waved to us amid the jumping, croaking frogs.
We were excited to arrive at the busy fair held under a huge tent, where breathtakingly beautiful, colorful handmade shawls and sweaters, beadwork and costume jewelry, leatherwork, etc., was all displayed meticulously in various stalls.
My eyes fell on the fuel gauge: it showed empty!
We enjoyed talking to the Tibetan artists selling woolens, and admired all the hand-carved and handcrafted rosewood, teak, and cane furniture laid out under the warm sun. I sank into a rocking chair for a while and watched some folk from Nepal with their hand-knitted pants, tops, gloves, and socks engaged in rigorous sales with customers.
I marveled at the hand-embroidered dresses, saris, salwar kameez in pastel colors from Lucknow, and all the other artistic creations. Minnie loved art in any form.
A group of children huddled together with two mothers, inspecting crochet work, and one little girl wanted a delightful bright-red frock.
I picked out a light-pink scarf and a bottle-green outfit for a friend’s birthday.
Minnie, cheered by the sights and sounds, seemed to have developed boundless energy in spite of her stiff knees, as she browsed every booth and stopped to chat with everyone. I observed that the sunlight was fading, and reminded her that we had to head back home. The evening traffic, with its heavy trucks and buses, would begin shortly.
Beaming and pleased, Minnie bought a wooden ladle and some decorative bowls. She had worked so hard all her life, juggling a job and looking after her family. I had seen her go through lots of tough times. So it made me happy to see her enjoying herself, and I hated to pull her away.
She hopped on the scooter reluctantly as we left the beautiful setting. As I began to drive on the highway, I became more alert as we came to a lonely stretch of road about six miles (10 kilometers) from our town.
Suddenly I heard a wheeee sound, and experienced strange vibrations in the scooter’s body.
“Something doesn’t feel right,” I said to Minnie.
“What’s wrong?” she inquired as the engine stalled. Resting her hand on my shoulder, Minnie got off the scooter gingerly.
I always carried a torch in my handbag, and I flashed it about, trying to locate the problem. Not that I was going to see anything in the dim torchlight on a moonless night. I had a tool kit, but what good was that when I didn’t know what was wrong? And even if I did, how on earth would I fix it? I could change a flat tire and do minor stuff, but nothing major. Out here there were no repair services, no phone booths.
I twisted the ignition, but there was no comforting sound of the engine starting up. Then my eyes fell on the fuel gauge: it showed empty!
“How can that be? It was full when we set out!” I exclaimed. “I always see to that before we go anywhere.”
The only thing I could think was that the fuel line had somehow developed a leak.
I prayed we would make it to a small petrol station about a half mile away. Minnie wouldn’t be able to walk that distance. Breathlessly I tried again. Somehow the engine purred to life. We headed out quickly, praying that the engine wouldn’t stop.
Barely 100 feet before reaching the petrol station, the engine stopped dead. We had made it!
I pushed the scooter in the total darkness toward the station, encouraging Minnie to wait under a nearby streetlight. No one seemed to be about. I searched inside the building, but couldn’t spot anyone. Out back a man was locking up the place. I practically dragged him to the gas pump.
I described the situation, and how we had managed to arrive there. He rushed back into his cabin, grabbed a huge torch, peered into the tank and proclaimed openmouthed, “But how could you have reached here? There’s not a drop of petrol inside!”
Recovering from this awful discovery, he said, “I was just closing up. Had you arrived even a few minutes later, I would have been gone. My wife and I are having dinner guests, so I was leaving early.”
There was no garage, so there was no mechanic to repair the gas line. He patched it with some Scotch Tape he pulled from the desk drawer in his office. “That should work until you get home.”
Still stunned and shaken, I somehow managed to thank the man. I topped off the empty tank, and we rushed back. We had another five miles to travel. I prayed desperately that the Scotch Tape would hold.
Our highways are unlit, with black pavement that makes almost everything invisible at night. The only light was that of our headlights, and those of some passing cars and trucks; and of course the awful, blinding lights coming from the opposite direction. I tried hard to hear the humming sound of the two-stroke engine through the whistling of the breeze. Neither of us could utter a word. The looming trees on either side of the road seemed frightening in the dark.
My usually stoic aunt cried with relief when we reached the front gate of her house. We went in and collapsed on the sofa. Both of us bowed our heads to thank God for His amazing assistance, divine presence, and perfect timing.
“After all,” Minnie said the next day, “the engine could have stalled way before or way after we passed the petrol station.”
“And that man could have been gone before we arrived,” I said with a shiver.
Moreover, the local newspaper reported an incident in which an oil tanker had been stopped by robbers who beat the driver and his companion and robbed them of their cash. That happened just near where we had first stopped to check what was wrong.
I realized how we had been tightly encircled and enveloped by God’s divine protection. I reflected upon the promise in God’s Word: “The Lord your God will be with you wherever you go” (Joshua l:9). There are no coincidences where God is concerned.
