HANDICAP – The Shadow Between Us

⚠️ Disclaimer:This story is a work of fiction created to highlight the dangers of assumptions and misinterpretations. It does not intend to hurt or target any religious beliefs, practices, or communities. Instead, it seeks to promote understanding, introspection, and unity.

A dimly lit street. The night hums with distant city noises. The air is thick—not just with heat but with something heavier.

Two groups, moving from opposite ends of the road. Their footsteps echo in rhythm, their hands gripping sticks, rods, and stones. Their eyes burn with anger, but their lips remain sealed. Tonight, words are unnecessary.

The reason?

A figure at the center of the road.

A lone man sits beneath a flickering streetlight, his upper body illuminated, his lower half swallowed by shadows. His spine is straight, hands resting on his thighs.

From a distance, he appears whole. His posture could mean anything. And that is where the fire begins.

From one end of the street, a group of Hindu men halts. Eyes narrow, fists clench. They see the man seated, back straight, hands on thighs. Then—he turns his neck, first to the right, then to the left.

Someone mutters, “He’s offering Namaz... in the middle of the road? To provoke us?”

Their blood boils. Their pace quickens.

From the other end, a group of Muslim men stops in their tracks. Their brows furrow. They see the same figure seated in Vajrasana, still, meditative. Then—he turns his neck, first to the right, then to the left.

A voice whispers, “Yoga? Here? To challenge us?”

Their jaws tighten. They move faster.

Neither group notices the other approaching. Their anger is the same, their pace synchronized.

The gap shrinks.

30 meters.

They see each other now, but their focus remains locked on him.

20 meters.

The shadows hold their secret. His hands shift slightly, his head tilts.

10 meters.

Weapons tighten in sweaty grips. Hearts race. The moment has arrived.

5 meters.

And then—they see him.

A gasp. A hesitation. A pause that wasn’t planned.

His hands press against the ground. His torso is upright. He is neither in Namaz nor in Vajrasana.

Because he has no legs.

The illusion is shattered.

The shadows had tricked them. Their minds had filled the gaps with what they expected to see.

Their rage turns to shock. Their purpose dissolves into the night.

A man with no legs cannot sit cross-legged for meditation.A man with no legs cannot kneel for Namaz.A man with no legs cannot stand to face anyone.

He is just there.Not bowing.Not meditating.Not praying.Not provoking.

Just existing.

The sticks loosen from their grips. The stones slip from fingers.

They look at each other, not as enemies, but as men who almost became something they wouldn’t recognize in the morning.

Without a word, they turn around.

The road remains. Silent. Empty. Except for him.

Unmoved. Unbothered. Unaware.

Because he never knew a war had almost been fought over him.

And they will never forget the man who made them realize the truth—hatred is always blind, but humanity can still open its eyes.