They walked wearing faith on their skin— sandalwood on the forehead, a cross resting on the chest, a cap crowning the head. They named themselves by signs, by threads and symbols, by walls built around belief. “My god is mine,” they said, and pushed away the rest, calling other prayers impure, untouchable, unworthy. Then one day, the sky broke open. A flood arrived without asking names. Temples sank, church bells drowned, minarets vanished into the same restless water. The river did not pause to read the forehead, did not count beads, did not lift a cap to show mercy. It swept everyone with the same hands, taught everyone with the same pain. And in that roaring silence, nature spoke— There is no afterlife greater than this fragile earth. There is no religion higher than humanity. When water rises, only hands matter. When lives tremble, only hearts are sacred. Nature reminded us— we are not saved by symbols, but by compassion.