Nihal never feared the rain—until the day it taught him what strength truly means.
It was a lesson he never expected, one that arrṄived wrapped in muddy water, flickering candles, borrowed torches, and the hands of strangers who became family in a matter of hours.
He grew up in Banduguri, a quiet village in the Chirang district, where life flowed gently, without hurry and without harshness. The village had the comforting smell of damp earth, paddy fields, and smoke curling from wooden kitchens. People woke with the sun and slept with the crickets. Time moved slowly, like the narrow stream that slipped past their homes—always flowing, but never rushing. The betel-nut trees rose like tall, patient guardians, and children ran barefoot between them. Muslims, Hindus, and Bodos lived together not as communities, but as neighbours who had known each other for generations. A Hindu neighbour brought sweets on Eid; a Muslim home sent rice cakes during Bihu; Bodo youths played football in the fields with everyone who showed up. There were no announcements of unity—unity simply existed.
In Banduguri, the rains were gentle. They visited lightly, whispered on rooftops, kissed the soil, and left quietly. Sometimes the water collected for two or three hours, just enough to create puddles where children could float paper boats. But the earth drank it quickly. Floods were not part of their vocabulary. Nihal had only seen them in newspapers, where pictures showed people with water up to their knees, roads like brown rivers, and homes submerged up to their windows. He never imagined he would walk through such waters himself.
A memory stood out from his childhood. One afternoon, when dark clouds gathered overhead, young Nihal ran outside as the first drops fell. His mother called him back at first, then saw the joy on his face and stepped into the doorway smiling. “Rain blesses those who do not fear it,” she had said. She always believed that storms were messengers, not threats. Maybe she was right; maybe storms did carry messages—messages you could only understand when you were ready.
Years later, when Nihal turned twenty, an opportunity arrived that felt larger than his village. He was selected for a leadership and communication workshop in Guwahati. It felt like a dream, like someone had opened a window for him and asked him to step into a bigger world. He had often imagined speaking in front of crowds, inspiring people, and helping communities grow. This workshop felt like the first brick on that path.
He left Banduguri on a humid August morning. Even though the train was at 11 AM and New Bongaigaon Junction was only twenty minutes away, he left home at 10. People in villages learn to respect time. They learn that distance isn’t always measured in kilometres—sometimes it’s measured in how early you are willing to start. He sat behind his father on the bike as they headed to the station, wind brushing past his face, carrying the familiar smell of wet soil, cattle sheds, and paddy fields almost ready for harvest.
When they reached the station, Nihal hugged his parents. His mother’s eyes were full of quiet concern, as if she knew more than she said. His father simply placed a hand on his shoulder and said, “Remember, Guwahati is not Banduguri.” But there was pride in his voice. Nihal boarded the train with their words tucked into his heart.
The general compartment was a world of its own—crowded, noisy, sweating, breathing. Vendors squeezed through rows of people selling water, tea, and boiled eggs. A baby cried near the window; the mother tried to soothe it while holding two bags at once. A group of men argued about seats. The ceiling fans swirled lazily, pushing warm air instead of cooling it. Nihal held his bag on his lap and reminded himself that discomfort is sometimes a doorway. He looked out through the rusted grille, trying to catch glimpses of green fields flashing past.
The journey took longer than expected, and by the time the train entered Guwahati station around 4 PM, the city felt intense. The air was heavy with humidity and the smell of sweat, diesel, and fried snacks from station stalls. The platform was an orchestra of emotions—families crying during goodbyes, children chasing pigeons, porters shouting, lovers speaking hurriedly before separating, and an old woman wiping her eyes as her son held her hand. For a moment, Nihal felt rooted to the spot. The sheer volume of life overwhelmed him.
He spotted Junaid near the exit—his cousin, his childhood companion during school vacations—and a warmth spread through him. Junaid’s crooked smile, dusty backpack, and simple “You’ve grown, bro” made the city feel less intimidating. They hugged, laughed about his disastrous general-compartment journey, and walked toward the autos waiting outside.
The ride to Anil Nagar was both chaotic and mesmerizing. Vehicles honked in every direction, people crossed the streets fearlessly, shops crowded every corner, and the smell of roasted corn, fried momos, and wet dust filled the air. Guwahati felt alive in a way that Banduguri could never be. It felt like the rhythm of the city pulsed through the roads themselves.
Junaid’s one-room setup in Anil Nagar was small but warm. Books, utensils, engineering notes, and clothes all shared the same shelves. “You’re lucky,” Junaid said casually, “it hasn’t rained yet.” Nihal didn’t pay attention to that line then.
But he would remember it later.
That evening, they sat on the balcony with hot tea and fresh samosas. When the first drops of rain began tapping on the tin roofs, it felt peaceful. But soon, the rain grew heavier, drumming loudly, making the neighbourhood look blurred under the sheets of water. Nihal watched the streets darken and imagined families in homes where the rain did not knock politely but broke in uninvited. His imagination wandered to children sleeping under leaking roofs, to mothers placing buckets under cracks, to vendors whose carts would drown overnight. He had read about such things—but reading is not the same as living it.
By the second night, the rain turned fierce. It no longer tapped; it pounded. Water began creeping into their lane, slowly at first, then faster, like a thief gaining confidence. People began shouting from balconies. Lights flickered. A strong smell of wet earth mixed with smoke from candles as homes lost electricity one by one. Buckets, slippers, plastic bottles, and pieces of wood floated past like tiny boats on a brown river. The sound of metal knocking against walls echoed in the darkness.
Nihal felt a tremor of fear. It was the first time rain felt like a warning. He hesitated near the doorway as the water touched his feet—cold, unfamiliar, rising. “Should we go out?” he asked softly. Junaid placed a torch in his hand and replied, “Leadership doesn’t wait for comfort.” That single sentence carried more power than any workshop.
They stepped out into the water.
The lane had become a moving river. Families rushed upstairs carrying whatever they could. A Muslim family opened their door to a Hindu widow and her grandchildren. Someone shouted for medicine. Another shouted for help, lifting an old man. Volunteers from all directions began arriving—Hindus, Muslims, Christians, students, shopkeepers, mothers, rickshaw drivers. No one asked who belonged to which faith; only who needed help.
Nihal watched unity unfold before his eyes. A boy in a lungi held the hand of an old man, guiding him step by step. A girl in jeans held a torch high above the water as she moved from house to house. Madrasa students stood knee-deep in water stirring huge pots of khichdi, which they distributed to families. A church youth group arrived with candles and blankets. A team of college students created a digital form to track urgent needs—food, sanitary pads, medicines—and coordinated deliveries.
And then there was Ramen, the tea vendor.
Half-submerged, standing in chest-deep water, he held a kettle in one hand and tiny cups in the other, giving free tea to anyone who passed—volunteers, sanitation workers, children, elders. Steam rose from the cups like quiet flames of hope. “Faith,” he told Nihal with a tired smile, “is not just prayer. It’s what your hands do when someone else is drowning—in water or in sorrow.”
Hasina Aunty, whose house was half-flooded, turned it into a relief point. She cooked whatever she could—rice, potatoes, dal—and people lined up outside her window to take portions. Her home smelled of smoke, rain, boiled rice, and kindness. Nihal realised something life-changing that night: the strongest people are not the loudest; they are the ones who keep giving even when they have little left.
Hour after hour, Nihal walked through the water with Junaid and the others, guided by torchlight. The rain hammered on. The cold bit into his skin. But his fear slowly melted into purpose. He understood something that had never been written in any textbook: leadership is not about titles or stages; it is about stepping into discomfort for the sake of others.
Days later, when the waters finally receded and the city began to breathe again, Nihal returned to Banduguri carrying more than memories. He carried a transformation.
Back home, when the next rainstorm arrived, he did not look out with fear. Instead, he gathered the village youth and formed a small help group. They collected candles, blankets, and dry food and delivered them to areas that often struggled during heavy rains. Inspired by Ramen, they set up a free tea corner for flood-affected families—steam rising like a promise in the storm.
One evening, watching rainwater swirl around the edges of the paddy fields, Nihal thought about Guwahati—the people who helped one another without asking names, the torches that cut through the darkness, the cups of tea that warmed shivering hands. He wondered how many people in the world drown not in water, but in loneliness, waiting for someone to notice their struggle.
Guwahati had flooded, but it had not sunk. Its spirit had stayed afloat.
And so had Nihal’s.
He had gone there to learn leadership through lectures and slides, but the greatest teacher waited for him in the muddy lanes of Anil Nagar. Leadership, he learned, was not about speaking. It was about listening. Not about standing in front of a crowd, but standing beside someone in need. Not about knowing the right words, but offering the right hand.
Strength is not resisting the storm. Strength is holding someone until the storm passes. And now, when it rains, Nihal no longer looks at the sky. He looks around him—searching for the next hand that might need his.