Hope against HopeA Story by Samaira “...you are my rainbow to keep. My eyes will always be watching you; never will I lose sight of you.” ― Vesna Bailey Samaira woke up and remained awake for barely few minutes. She looked around at the white I.C.U. room and slipped in to a deep slumber almost immediately. She was no match for the sedatives they were infusing into her veins. At around 10 o’ clock the team of doctors came in for their daily morning rounds. Her nurse, handed them Samaira’s files, which they assessed and discussed. Samaira heard nothing. She did not even realize when another nurse for the next shift replaced Pema. She did not even realize when her mother walked in. She wore a blue mask, a blue apron and blue covers over her shoes to prevent infection as instructed by the nurses. She just stood at the door and looked at the thing on the bed with papery skin tightly stretched over her bones. The thing she was supposed to call her daughter. MOTHER
“You can come in, ma’am,” the nurse calls out when she sees me hesitating at the I.C.U door. I take small steps and move forward. I stop a metre away from the bed where my daughter now lies like a lifeless corpse. I’m afraid to go nearer than that. I can’t stop crying. And I don’t even try to stop anymore. My daughter. My Samaira. I remember the day she was born. That moment. Her first shrill ear-piercing cry. Which hadn’t really changed till now. Her tiny little hands. The first time she smiled. Her bubbly laughter. Her first words. Her love for fairy tales. Her wish to be Rapunzel. Her first day in school. Her fancy dress competition dressed up as Mirabai " a devotee of Lord Krishna. Somehow some of that devotion had rubbed off on her. Her first race…, which she had won, and the countless more that followed. The innumerable medals and trophies…Hockey…Athletics…Basketball…Academics. Her taste in food. Her love for food, actually. Her fussy behavior when it came to choosing clothes. The rebellious look that flashed in her eyes if someone told her what to do. The earphones of her IPod constantly plugged into her ears. Her humming. Her incessant loud screaming when she fought. Her running after her brother with a broom and hurling anything she could get her hands on across the room. Her… It just went on and on. 18 years of memories. Seventeen and a half to be precise. Is that all I’m going to get? Will my daughter ever open those dark brown eyes of hers? Would she ever demand to be listened to until she had finished, again? Would she laugh that mad laugh she laughed each time her brother and she got together and made fun of every person existing on this planet? I begin to make promises to God. Deals. Anything to keep my daughter with me. “I will visit every religious place...temple, mosque and church. Just make her open her eyes. I will fast on Mondays. And Fridays. And Saturdays,” I beg. I keep on adding irrational things to the list. My sorrow deepens with every tear that I shed, every second that passes by. I remember how as a four-year-old Samaira used to lie down on the floor, take out her tongue and announce, “Samaira is dead.” The image keeps on playing in my head. Why am I here? Why cant I be the one on that bed? Why my daughter? Not that it mattered right now. Why does my luck always run out in the last leg of the race? She was to be my saviour. She had been my only hope. She was to deliver me from the darkness I had been sucked into. Was she ever going to reach the eighteenth birthday she had been so excited about? The first time she had been excited about her birthday in ages. Was this going to be the end of all her dreams and aspirations? A whimper escapes my lips. None of my questions are going to be answered. I hold onto a stand nearby for support. I remember the doctors telling me about the multiple complications that can take place within my Samaira’s body. “Samaira can go into organ failure. So we are monitoring her kidneys and liver. She might lose her memory. There is no guarantee as to when she will wake up. Some take days, some months…some years. Some never wake up,” he had said in the morning in a solemn voice hardened up by years of experience. I see the multiple tubes going into her neck, her arms. The big one into her mouth. That was probably the ventilator. The machine breathing for her. It killed me a thousand times inside to know that my daughter couldn’t even breathe on her own. My real sister. A doctor. Hadn’t she told me to do something before I came here? I cannot recall. Oh. She had told me to read Samaira’s latest stats from the display monitors. I look at the monitors. I try to remember the numbers but I forget them as soon as I have read them. I try again. I cannot do this. I give up. I’m a mother, not a doctor. My daughter " my beautiful daughter looks so different. I had never imagined her like this. Her skin has darkened. Her bones protrude out. She reminds of a highly malnourished child living in some remote corner of the world. “Some people take years. Some never wake up,” the doctor’s words keep echoing in my ears. “Samaira…Samaira...please wake up. I need you…” I sob harder. “Ma’am its time. You need to leave,” the nurse reminds me. She holds me up. “Just make her cross it. Either way. Don’t leave her dangling between life and death,” I offer my final fervent prayers as the nurse walks me out. A cold draught hovers about me when I step outside I.C.U 5. I take one last longing look at my daughter. I begin to walk. The guard smiles at me, infusing hope. The dim light of a single star in a pitch-black vast sky. But still there. “She will get through,” he tries to console me. Immediately I hear Mrs. Valentine, one of Samaira’s teachers complaining, “Your daughter has the skin of a crocodile. Nothing ever affects her.” The words that had stung me so bad four years back, today gave me strength. And then another memory hit me. Four-year-old Samaira getting up after pretending to be dead and laughing uncontrollably at me. “Mom!! How can I die?” her laughter wouldn’t stop. Then I knew. My daughter was going to get up. She would fulfill all the great things she was destined to do. And she was going to laugh at me for thinking she was going to die. Through a stream of tears, I smile. ………………………………….............................................................................................................. The phone rang at Samaira’s grandmother’s house. “How is she?” her grandmother croaked. Her voice had turned hoarse from all the crying. “Hanging on. It can go either way,” was the reply she got. She banged the receiver shut and went to the small temple in her house and prayed with tears continually running down her face. Her son, Samaira’s uncle understood the reply his mother had got. He too joined his mother in prayer and tears. It was all they had done for the past few days. And in the last room at the back of the house, Samaira’s brother sat on the bed rocking his body to his favorite music at the loudest possible volume, completely oblivious to the fact that the sister he loved so much was dying. © 2015 SamairaFeatured Review
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