I owe a lot to him. The brave young man who made all the difference. For six days, he took care of them. When winds howled and doors rattled, this 25-year-old man stood firm. He never left them alone for a moment. Whenever they called out for help in the darkness that overwhelmed our home in Cuttack, he answered.Had it not been for Parth, Mom and Dad would have faced the cyclone alone. When Mom called me in Delhi seven days ago, the wind speed had already reached 200 km per hour. ``Don't worry,'' she said before the line got disconnected. But worrying was the only thing I did. I had never felt this helpless before. Cyclones have their own way of humbling people.Cutting them down to size, perhaps. In fact, whenever I had been troubled by something earlier, a senior colleague would often cheer me up saying: ``Don't let anything bother you. There's no hurdle you can't surmount.'' I had always believed he was right. But his words seemed inadequate this time round. How can one fight a super-cyclone in Orissasitting 2,000 miles away? How does one restore telephone lines when entire houses have been blown away? How does one help people one can't reach?What made it worse were the newspaper reports filed from the state. Headlines screamed of the devastation there houses had collapsed, roads blocked, carcasses were floating in the overflowing drains, mass funerals, food shortages, etc.Making matters worse were the remarks of some journalists here. They spoke of filing stories from the state that would enhance their career prospects later. How could they be so insensitive? How many times I must have passed similar remarks about other people's tragedies? There were too many things that came to mind. One worry led to another until there was a continuous forwarding and rewinding of worries in my head.Even as I was going crazy in Delhi, Parth had kept his calm back home. He had not left my Cuttack home for his village Jagatsinghpur. His parents and relatives were marooned in Jagatsinghpur. But he chose to staywith my parents. Not even once had he expressed his worries. The rains must have washed away his home, a little hut in the village where his parents live. But he did not rushed to his village. He stayed behind.When I spent hours trying to telephone my parents from here, Parth spent the same time bringing drinking water for my parents from the only tap running in the locality. When the trees in the courtyard had come crashing down, he shielded them from the shattering noise. When the inmates of the city jail roamed the streets after the prison gate collapsed, Parth boasted he could fight them all. He had assured them that the cyclone would soon be over. The sun wo-uld shine again, he convinced them. He gave them reason to smile. It was only after the telephone lines were partially restored and I was able to contact my parents that he left my Cuttack home for his village. To find out how his own parents were. If they were alive at all.He had done the impossible. Giv-en priority to my mother and fatherover his own. Strange, Parth had kn-own my parents for less than two months. He had offered to help my parents at home after Dad fell sick. A school dropout, he would spend hours in the kitchen cooking up delicacies for Dad. No wonder, Parth had become Dad's favourite.I don't even have the faintest idea where Parth is now. Whether his parents are fine or not. But something tells me they are safe. The winds and the rains must have failed to do them any harm. Maybe someone like Parth had come to their rescue.When Parth left my Cuttack home, he promised my parents he would be back soon. I don't know whether I will ever be able to thank him enough for his help. But wherever Parth may be now, here's wishing him all the very best in whatever he does!
