It was unlike the gazillions of prayers, tormenting gods across the globe. It was voiceless, in the language of my heart. It sprouted in my mind purified by pain, grew in the anxiety before the operation theater. There was neither incense nor camphor burning. Instead, the air smelled of Dettol. I prayed with the same helplessness of the ancient man. As a sheet anchor. My soulful pleading reverberated in the forlorn abyss. It was natural, limpid, like a rain drop. A relaxant. I see her miraculously alive. That was my best prayer. First published in The Literary Hatchet.