My Sunshine Baby-Aarav

The cloud comes on suddenly, turning my world from bright to dark within seconds. I cringe away from it, holding onto the light with all my might, Most of the times I lose the battle. I look at Aarav's ever smiling face and wish I had half of his sunny nature, Day after day, in his chair, with not a murmur of complaint And yet here I am, railing helplessly against the fates. I, who once loved the sameness of each day, Today prays for something new to happen. A movement, a sensation, a development, a miracle. I look for new ways to keep him busy, and he makes his own fun. The cycle, the rocking horse, the doll pram, all kept out of sight Sometimes I think more for me than for him. Bruno looks on puzzled, wondering where his playmate has gone, Where are the tiny feet which headed straight for him every morning. The face that would press into his fur and giggle with unadulterated joy. The nights are the toughest, the darkness finding an echo in my heart. My eyes refusing to shut, lest...

One step forward, one step back. Two steps forward, two steps back. Days pass in a seesaw of hopes and disappointments. Hits and misses being the order of the day. The horizon seems far, the going gets tough. The mind is weary, the heart is sore. One step forward, one step back. Two steps forward, two steps back. Tiny little legs, kicking through the night Tiny little feet, running here and there. Eyes open in darkness to find it was a dream. The legs lie silent, the feet don't move. One step forward, one step back. Two steps forward, two steps back. Memories try to enter, knocking against the corners of the mind. I shut them away, closing the door firmly. Time has found a division, Before and After. The Before too painful to recall, the After equally painful to live. One step forward, one step back. Two steps forward, two steps back. Nothing lasts forever I am told Yet each day feels like an eternity. One hour at a time, crawling past. A surreal circle in the square routine of our...

Over a period of 30 odd days in the hospital, we formed an unusual bond- one with the nurses in PICU. They had temporarily replaced us as Aarav's caretakers and they were our window into what went on behind the ominous looking closed door of the ICU. One of the first things I noticed about that door was that it could be opened from inside but needed an access card to open it from outside. The first time we were asked to wait outside, I remember looking at the door and realizing that I couldn't get to Aarav even if I wanted to; I would need to be allowed in. A lesson in letting go, in the toughest form possible. I still remember the first night in PICU, I asked one of the sisters for an extra pillow so that I could doze in the chair beside Aarav's bed. She politely informed me that patients with ventilators weren't allowed to have attendants at night. I can still hear her voice, I remember how my heartbeat sped up and I felt short of breath. How could I leave this baby o...

I still remember the first time you walked. There was a look of such delight on your face and pure joy in your feet. We called you Toofaan Mail, simply because of the speed you gained once you realised you were mobile! It's as though you were born to run around. Sitting in one place for more than five minutes was an alien concept for you. From the moment you woke up, you were a whirlwind. One would often get tired just keeping a watch on how many places you seemed to be at the same time. Even at night you managed to roam around the entire bed, waking up far from the place you went to sleep in. You were, my baby, movement personified. After 36 days in the hospital, we have returned home. And while there is such thankfulness in our hearts to have crossed over to the other side, there is also an inevitable bittersweet feeling. Every corner, every room of the house reminds us of how you were. The first day back you suddenly said, "mujhe run karna hai" and I wondered just how ...

Do you know how many voices silence has? There's the silence of the night, dark and complete Always carrying with it a slight dread of things that could go wrong. The fear that something will happen while exhausted eyes are closed. Then there's the silence before the storm. The gulping of a child's breath before he lets out a scream of pain. The sound so much worse because of the moment's silence that came before it. The silence of tears rolling down a mother's face Scared to make a noise lest a hard won nap is disturbed. The silence also of tears pooling in a father's eyes, unused to being spilled; gathering and making a return journey. The silence punctuated by the hissing of tubes, as they pump air into tiny lungs. The silence of the colorful monitors, forced to beep only if something is amiss. The silence of the hospital corridors, where even shoes seem to have lost their ability to squeak. The silence of hundreds of people, sitting in a daze while their lov...

I still remember the first time you were placed in my arms. I remember counting your tiny toes and fingers, marveling at how soft your skin was and how, in all honesty, you looked like an angry little bear cub! It's as though you were bugged at being thrown out of your cosy cocoon and you weren't quite sure what to make of the new world around you. But however you looked, whatever your moods, you were ours. You belonged so completely to us that we couldn't recall what life was before you. From the beginning your Naanu nicknamed you Sunny Sharma. You had the brightest smiles for everyone, from your papa whenever he returned from office, to your Ayanu didi with whom you fought one moment and beamed at the very next. It was impossible not to fall in love with you, though of course I am speaking as a very biased mother. Even though there were days I was exhausted and irritated, I loved following your routine. With each massage stroke, with each bath, with each spoonful I fed yo...

Have you ever thought of illnesses as carousels of life? Where you don't get on by choice, nor get off by free will. Your tickets are cut well in advance, probably the day you are born And the ride starts when your time comes. There are spectators cheering you on, telling you to hold on But the pain is yours alone to get through Sometimes it slows, allowing you to catch a breath Sometimes it spins so fast, making you dizzy and faint The other seats are taken too By people who share your karmic roadmap You see a familiar pain reflected in their eyes, Glistening with unshed tears above their masks. There's no music here, just machines beeping No colorful lights, just reflections of monitors Blue for heart, green for pulse, red for oxygen. Some get off before you and some after, Some walk out with a new lease of life While some reach the end of their journey. There are times when you get so tired Your tiny hands long to let go, and the unknown beckons so temptingly It promises an ...

A few weeks ago we stood at the edge of an abyss.  Dark and deep, it threatened to pull us down. Our fear was absolute, our desperation complete. The sense of being alone threatened to swallow us whole. Then, from somewhere came a thread; winding it's way over the skies and roads. Caring not for covid barriers or border closures. It reached out and wrapped itself around us, saving us from tumbling into the darkness. Then came another and another and another. Mumbai, Kolkata, Lucknow. Saket, GK, Panchsheel. UP and Haryana. Punjab and Kerela. The US, UK and Canada. More colonies than I can name, more cities than I can count, more countries than I can remember. The threads just kept coming. Each one a bond, tying us to them. Wrapping themselves around our minds and hearts. Wrapping themselves around Aarav to keep him with us. Threads of hope, of prayers, of love. Threads of Faith, of Family and Friends. Defying the lockdown, proving that they needed no pass to reach us. Forming a coco...

It's been 15 days. Or is it 16? I don't even remember anymore. Time is no longer measured in days and weeks. It's measured in minutes and hours. How long did Aarav sleep? How many minutes was his physiotherapy? How many seconds have passed since he last gagged on the ventilator tube? That tube is my enemy. Yes, it's keeping my baby breathing but that innocent looking blue and white tube represents everything that is wrong right now. I sit for hours by his bedside, staring at it and wondering what past life debts this child owes. To this hospital which seems to have become as familiar as home. To the ventilator which silently keeps him going. To the nurses who are so fond of him and try to cheer him up all day. Sameer and I take turns by his side. Sameer is the indulgent parent, letting him watching nursery rhymes endlessly, while holding his tiny hand. He can't bear to see Aarav cry, his normally practical self is overcome with emotion at seeing tears in Aarav's...

I am angry. I want to lash out, to rage against the universe, to scream till I am hoarse. Adversity does not bring out the best in me. I look at people around me and am consumed with jealousy. How can they go about their lives unaffected while ours have come to a standstill? There have been three children admitted to the ICU after Aarav who have now been discharged. And if I allow myself to ponder over it, I shall be overcome with the unfairness of it all. If they have recovered, why can't my child? The world no longer makes sense. There has to be something fundamentally wrong with a world where two year olds are on ventilators. Where a tiny being has to suffer so much without even comprehending why. Where veins fall short of blood and limbs fall short of veins. Where the sun rises and sets as though it's any other day. But it's not. It hasn't been any other day since 13 days. Oh yes, I am so angry. At the doctors who have no answers. At the nurses who tell me to be str...

The hospital recliner is brown and big. It swallows me up, much as the machines have swallowed my baby. The sign on the door says R&R lounge, reminding me of an airport. An illusion created to try and make me forget that my two year old lies in the ICU just above. The hospital has started feeling like home, guards smile at me in recognition behind masks. Strangers ask me how Aarav is now. The billing guy gives me a cheery hello. The guy behind the counter at Haldirams asks "two cokes ma'am?" What could be more surreal? People walk by briskly, day after day, some with babies in their arms. I look at them enviously; I haven't held my baby since days. Why me, I ask? Why not you, replies the cosmos. My fingers manage to find an inch of skin and I stroke it gently as I talk to him. The rest is covered with a variety of tapes and tubes; innocuous looking things winding like snakes into machines. Breathing for him, eating for him. I force the images from my exhausted min...

Since the last few days I haven't been able to pray. Every time I think I will or I start, I am unable to see the prayer through. That in itself is scary because prayers have been the mainstay of my life since I can remember. I tell myself its because so many other people are praying for Aarav that I can't. But then a mother's prayers are supposed to be the strongest. So why then was I unable to pray for my baby? After three days of being hospitalized, Aarav had an MRI to confirm the diagnosis of GBS. And our already shaky world came crashing down around us. The MRI and CT scans showed that he had a collection of fluid which was causing tremendous pressure on the spinal cord and was the reason behind his legs losing sensation and mobility. The words immediate spinal surgery were all I could hear after the MRI. Then started the process of trying to find the best neurosurgeon and to see if he would even be available in this Covid era. Once we decided on the doctor, we started...

There is something mesmerizing about the continuous beep of the monitors. They are in my head so much that when I step out, I can still hear them. Heartbeat, pulse, oxygen levels, IV fluids, ventilator on standby- isn’t it surprising how quickly we get used to using this medical terminology? So what if we had never thought of being in such a situation or having never heard of the term GBS, which changed the setting of our lives from normal to nightmare within seconds. It had started out as any other day. Day XX of the lockdown. Same routine, same house, same kids. Looking back its hard to pinpoint when exactly things started spiralling out of control. Was it when Aarav first complained of what we thought was tummy pain? Or was it during the first or the second dash to Emergency? Was it the first time I discovered he was being unable to stand? Or was it finally at that dread moment when the doctors told me that he needed to be shifted immediately to the ICU because his condition was ser...