The Silent Miracle" By C R Dash

The Silent Miracle" By C R Dash My name is Ravi Pradhan. I run a small kirana shop in a modest corner of Berhampur. Life has never been luxurious, but I managed to live with dignity, thanks to the small earnings from my shop and the blessings of Sai Baba, to whom I have been devoted since childhood.

 A few months ago, trouble knocked on my door. My shop faced an unexpected loss—a stock of goods got ruined in heavy rains due to a leaking roof I had neglected. In desperation, I borrowed ₹50,000 from an old schoolmate, Ashok Mishra, who now lives in Cuttack and runs a flourishing electronics business. He lent me the money with a cold smile and sharper words: “Make sure you return it in three months.”


 Time passed, and I tried hard—working overtime, cutting personal expenses, even skipping meals at times. But the earnings barely managed to cover basic needs. The loan remained unpaid, and Ashok became relentless. He started calling every day. His voice would start with sarcasm and end with threats. “Still no money?” “Are you running a shop or a temple for beggars?” “If you don’t repay me soon, I’ll come and shame you in front of your family.”


 Each call left me shivering in silence. I began to dread the ringing of the phone. My wife, Meera, and our children noticed my unease, but I kept it hidden. I couldn’t bear the idea of my family knowing how low I had sunk. One night, after yet another humiliating call, I collapsed on my bed and cried. I folded my hands before the small photo of Sai Baba in our pooja corner and whispered, “Baba, I don’t ask for miracles. Just give me strength… or save me from this shame.” I wept myself to sleep, my soul heavy with hopelessness. But the next morning, something strange happened. The phone didn’t ring. Not that day, nor the day after. A full week passed—no calls, no messages, no threats from Ashok. It felt eerie, as though a storm had suddenly disappeared, leaving an uncanny silence behind. I assumed the worst. “He must have filed a case,” I feared. “He’s planning something bigger now.”



 My anxiety grew. Every knock at the door made my heart jump. I even avoided looking people in the eye at the shop. I wanted to ask Baba what was happening, but He remained silent in His frame, gazing at me with that timeless serenity. Then, one afternoon, two weeks after the silence began, there was a knock at our home. My son opened the door and called out, “Papa, someone’s here to see you.” It was Ashok. He was smiling. I froze, unsure of what to expect. Was this the moment he would throw an insult at me in front of my family? Was he going to shame me before my neighbors? But instead, he said warmly, “Ravi, I came to invite you and your family to my daughter’s wedding next month in Cuttack. Here’s the card.” I was speechless. He handed the envelope to Meera and turned to me with a grin. “Thank you, by the way. I got your payment last week. I was surprised, but glad you paid it off.” My lips parted, but no words came out. Paid? I hadn't paid a single rupee. I hadn’t even managed to save a thousand. I simply nodded, feigning relief and gratitude. “Of course,” I murmured. “Glad it reached you.”


 He left after a few minutes of polite conversation. I stood at the doorway long after he had gone, feeling the weight of the impossible in my chest. That evening, I told Meera everything. She was bewildered. “You didn’t pay him anything?” “Not a rupee,” I whispered. She sat in silence, her eyes slowly drifting to the little photo of Sai Baba on our wall. “Then who did?” she asked softly. I didn’t know. The bank hadn’t notified me of any deposit, nor did I have any unknown benefactors. But the fact remained: the debt was gone. Ashok believed it was paid. And he was thankful, not suspicious.


 The next day, I went to the bank, just to be sure. I asked for a statement. There was no record of any large withdrawal from my account. Nothing that would explain the repayment. It was as though the money had flown into Ashok’s account from an invisible hand. When I told some close friends and neighbours, they laughed. “You must have forgotten you paid him,” one said. Another joked, “Maybe he’s playing a prank.” But I knew better. I remembered that night I cried myself to sleep, the prayer I whispered to Sai Baba, the silence that followed, and now this—the unexplained resolution of my greatest worry.

 Since then, I have stopped trying to explain the event. People don’t believe what doesn’t fit into their idea of reality. But every evening, after closing the shop, I light a lamp before Baba and sit in silence. Some might say it was a bank error. Others might think Ashok is mistaken. But I know. I know in the deepest part of my being—that something divine intervened. That my call in the dark was heard. Sai Baba once said, “Why fear when I am here?”

 Now I understand.

 And every time I see the wedding card Ashok left behind, tucked between the pages of our Sai Satcharitra, I am reminded that faith is not always rewarded with thunder or lightning. Sometimes, it answers in silence. The silence of a phone that no longer rings with threats. The silence of a burden lifted with no explanation. The silence of a miracle that only the heart can hear.