The Story of the Flood and the Saint

"Nothing else—just bring the Saint from Gafargaon," said Rahim Sardar after much thought.

"Yes, Saint, yes! Do that!" the farmers agreed in one voice.

They decided to bring the mighty Saint, Manowar Haji, from Gafargaon. Manowar Haji was a man of miraculous powers, famous throughout the land. It was said he had even healed the dying with a single breath.

Once, when the devastating disease "Olabibi" was destroying homes in Karimganj, it was Manowar Haji who had saved the village. Not even Olabibi could stand against the breath of Manowar Haji. Within a few days, Olabibi was driven away, leaving ten to twenty villages untouched.

Out of gratitude, the villagers had gifted him heaps of wealth — vegetables from gardens, fish from ponds, roosters, ducks, and cash. He even received several cows, so much that he needed three bullock carts to take all the gifts home.

Such was the blessed Saint, Manowar Haji! It was decided: they would bring him.

"Shall we collect donations?" someone asked.

"For what? For his expenses?" Mati Master sneered.

Zamir Munshi gasped and bit his tongue.

"Astaghfirullah! What are you saying, Master Sahib! The Saint is a holy man, a friend of Allah. How dare you slander him!"

Zamir Bepari shook his head in horror. "You’ll be cursed by the Saint if you speak like this!"

Hearing this, Mati Master burst out laughing.

"How can I not laugh? Just because I've had some education, you think I've become arrogant?"

"Will you give a donation or not? Why so much talk?"

But another voice of dissent rose — from Rashid, the educated son of Daulat Kazi, who was home from college.

Hearing the plan, Rashid scoffed, "Fools! You think bringing a Pir will stop a flood? What nonsense!"

Before Zamir Munshi could respond, Daulat Kazi himself roared,

"Blasphemer! Saints can do anything! Just like Prophet Noah survived the Great Flood!"

And he recounted the tale of Noah’s Ark to his son.

The news reached Rahim Sardar soon enough. Rahim Sardar, a wealthy landowner of fifty bighas of land, was feared across many villages.

Hearing of the insult to the Pir, he shook with rage.

"I’ll deal with Mati Master," he vowed.

However, he cleverly avoided mentioning Rashid, since they were related through marriage.

When Saint finally arrived, the villagers marveled at his radiant presence.

"A man with such a holy face—how great must his powers be!"

They eagerly took the dust of his feet and begged for salvation.

Zamir Bepari, who knew better, understood — to win God's favor, one must first win the Saint's favor.

Saint arrived in the morning, and by afternoon, the rain started to pour.

Heavy rain, all evening and night, without pause. It was the infamous "dattaar" rains of the month of Shravan, which could last fifteen days straight.

If the winds grew stronger and coincided with the new moon tides, disaster was certain — a terrible flood.

"God, save us!" cried Zamir Bepari, tears in his eyes, making promises to God — that if the crops survived, he would gift his best oxen to Saint.

Saint prayed, chanting the tasbih and praising God's greatness. His followers narrated many fantastic tales about him.

Hope flickered in the hearts of the farmers.

Even Gani Mullah whispered, "This Saint is no ordinary Saint. He’s God's special chosen one!"

Everyone nodded, some out of faith, others simply swept away by the collective belief.

Except Mati Master, who laughed and said, "Will that old man stop a storm by chanting spells?"

"Yes! He will!" Gani Mullah thundered.

"These infidels are the cause of our misery!"

"Yes, drive them out!" cried the old man, Tinji Miya.

But now, saving the flood embankment was the real issue.

The storm raged, and nature grew wild.

While hundreds gathered in the mosque, praying and crying to God, Mati Master formed a secret group.

He gathered about fifty young men, each armed with a shovel and a basket.

Among them was Rashid, the college student, too.

"Are you crazy? It's dangerous!" said Chaku Munshi, Zamir Bepari’s son.

"Come on! There’s no time to talk!" said Mati Master.

Reluctantly, Chaku joined them, leaving behind the safety of the mosque.

They walked a mile through the rain and storm towards the embankment.

At Nabīn Kabiraj’s pond, lightning struck nearby with a deafening roar.

Chaku hesitated, trembling with fear.

"God is warning us! Stop, Master!" he cried.

But Mati Master pressed on.

They dug furiously, throwing soil into the weakened embankment.

Meanwhile, back at the mosque, the cries and prayers grew louder.

"Save us, Merciful One!"

Women wept, pleading at the heavens.

The river swelled, the waves roared.

But Mati Master's group fought the flood with shovels and baskets, singing songs to keep their spirits up.

They filled every crack, patched every weak spot.

Hours passed, and just when it seemed they would be swept away, Mati Master shouted,

"Hold on, it's over! You can rest now!"

Exhausted, the fifty men collapsed onto the embankment.

The eastern sky turned light with the approaching dawn.

Golden fields swayed in the soft morning breeze.

When the villagers emerged from the mosque and saw the fields still standing, they erupted with joy.

"Our crops have survived! The Saint saved them!"

Jamir Bepari rushed to kiss the Saint's feet.

The Saint smiled slightly, saying,

"Who can question God's miracles?"

And his followers cried out in unison,

"Our Saint stayed up all night praying! How could the embankment break?"

The Saint continued smiling — a modest smile, soft and knowing, like the blush of a red apple.