Today is Anchal’s birthday. My daughter is 21 years old.
Anchal, when she entered our lives, changed us in more ways than one. I, for one, quit my job. Not that I wanted to do it in any case. It was just the boredom of my lonesome days at home that had driven me to work for a small firm. I was hence glad to exchange a job that paid me well for a much more satisfying one – that of bringing up my daughter, of turning her into the wonderful lady that she is.
Anchal was only 4 when we took that trip to Lonavala. Unlike other kids, who become irritable on seeing a new place and new people around them, Anchal was exceptionally cheerful. Lonavala is a beautiful place as it is and we visited it in the rainy season when it looks all the more beautiful. A thing of beauty is a joy forever, John Keats once said that. But not when it reminds you of something that almost left you shattered. That one trip to Lonavala has many memories attached to it. Memories etched into our lives. Memories that make me so proud of my little princess. Memories that haven’t left me for 16 years now.
One day we went to the Sunset Point there. The sun was of course no different from what it is in Mumbai. It’s amusing why people go to different locations to see the sun. The sun, in fact, has never amazed me much. My favourite is the moon. The moon, I feel, is much more beautiful and serene. It is not harsh. And people don’t fall unconscious when the moon shines bright on them. That day the sun chose Anchal to be the victim of its harshness. She suffered from a stroke, or at least that was what we thought.
It was the beginning of a new phase in Avinash’s and my life. For the next one year, we were going to be frequenting hospitals every week. Now, after so many years, when I think of those days, I feel we had all been very brave about the entire situation - Avinash, Anchal and I. I can never remember a single day in the course of her treatment when she had cribbed about going to the doctor. Maybe she was too young to understand anything. But then she was too young even to go through what she was going through. Somebody up there had grossly gone wrong in his calculations. Somebody should have told him that at four years, Anchal couldn’t even pronounce the name of the ailment that she was suffering from.
It was on one such visit to the doctor’s that one of the soft toys kept in the clinic fascinated Anchal. The entire day she remained glum. No amount of stories proved effective in putting her to sleep that night. I kept avoiding any kind of a conversation. I feared her asking some random question. Had she asked me ‘Mom, why do we go to doctor uncle everyday?’ or maybe a more tricky question, ‘Mom, when will we stop going to doctor uncle’, I could have never told her the truth. Finally I did muster the courage to speak to my daughter and asked her ‘What’s wrong, sweetheart?’ Here I was, a full-grown adult, asking my four-year-old kid what was wrong with her when I exactly knew what was wrong! That must have been one moment when I hated myself the most for putting on such a farce. We adults have to put on such a farce quite often in front of our kids so that we can continue to remain the ‘adults’ amongst the two. “Mom, I liked the teddy bear in doctor uncle’s clinic.” I thanked God in that one moment of silence for not putting me through any kind of a confrontation. But he of course had other plans. “Why didn’t you say that earlier, sweetheart?” I would’ve got it for you. We’ll get it first thing tomorrow morning. You can play with it all day then!’ “But ma, who will play with the teddy once I am gone?” Till date, I feel sorry for bursting out in front of Anchal that day. I just couldn’t contain myself and ran into my room. Anchal, even when she was a kid, was sensitive enough to let me be on my own. That entire night I kept weeping. Never had this thought struck me as hard as it did then. I was relating to the teddy bear Anchal just talked about. What would I do once Anchal was gone? Her life and her struggle with death were giving me a purpose to live. I couldn’t let her go so easily. That same night I decided I wouldn’t let anything happen to my daughter. She would live. I would save her. No matter what those doctors with all the degrees in the world said. She would live to see this world.
Around this time, I was reading a book called ‘The Alchemist’ by Paulo Coelho. I’d got into the habit of reading when I had to wait in those long queues outside the doctor’s clinic. At times with Anchal, some times without her. Reading had become a refuge. And this particular book had become my bible. Paulo said, ‘If you want a thing very badly then the entire universe conspires to help you achieve it.’ This was something they never taught me at school. I started believing in this line because I wanted to. It gave me strength. I fantasized writing to Paulo one day about this incident, thanking him for helping me save my daughter. I even wrote a letter to him a few years back but Avinash refused to post it. Around the same time, Avinash’s behaviour started becoming weird. He was scared of our daughter’s untimely death and also at the same time scared about my conviction of saving her. I know he still doesn’t believe me when I say I always knew she was going to survive. I know he doesn’t believe me because he gives me the ‘I-don’t understand-you-but-I-feel-sorry-for-you’ looks. Men can’t understand the bond that a mother shares with her daughter. I had borne her in my womb. Of course I would know much better. I knew she was going to live.
The visits to the doctor became more frequent a few months later. I could see Anchal had become a little weak. She would still try to be cheerful but the disease had finally taken a toll on her. It took a lot of effort on her part to even smile. She had guessed that something terrible was going to happen. But she was putting on a brave face. Maybe she didn’t want to see me burst out crying like the other night. I felt terrible guilt pangs on such occasions.
On the 21st November that year, we took her to the doctor for one last time. She had been admitted for more than 24 hours when the doctor let me go into the room to see her. She was sleeping peacefully though – her face calm as ever. But I knew she was dying nonetheless. I wanted to do something – something to save her. As a last resort, I started praying to God and fighting with Him. He had been unfair to my daughter and me. He couldn’t do this to us. I told him I wouldn’t let him play with my life. I was angry with him. I was angry at the entire world. Why wasn’t the universe conspiring to help me? After all, I so badly wanted Anchal to live. Was Paulo, my hero in times of need, lying? Did he make up those lines? I was angry with him too. I was angry with myself. How could I let all this happen? Anchal had to live. She had to live for me.
There are some incidents in your life you always remember and there are others which are completely erased from your mind. This generally happens when you are too shocked and nothing registers. Just as the negative of a film roll goes blank if you expose it to sunlight. I experienced it for the first time that day. Somehow, no matter how hard I have tried, I don’t remember what happened in the hospital that day.
I woke up one morning 2 days later. Anchal was at my bedside nursing me. She was looking like an angel. She was thanking me for taking care of her all along. She told me how her operation was successful. She told me how happy she was. That day onwards, Anchal and I have shared a special relation. We have always been together. The world has never seemed to acknowledge our relationship though. Even Avinash has never acknowledged Anchal’s presence. He has become even weirder. He remains sad most of the time. He keeps saying weird things like, ‘For God’s sake, get over her! She is no more.’ Why can’t he be happy like Anchal and I? Why can’t he see that my little princess never went away? She has grown into a beautiful lady. And today, of course, is her 21st birthday.
- Divya Shetty
divya_infinity@yahoo.com
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