It was March 2002.
I was slowly drifting toward collapse—no hope, no aim, no clear destination. Life felt like a long, empty stretch with no signposts. The sun blazed overhead, relentless and unforgiving. I longed for the comfort of a cool, air-conditioned room, away from the oppressive heat.
In those moments, I often wondered how our ancestors survived such seasons without modern comforts. But even in shade, there was no relief. The fever burned through me. My entire body felt like it was on fire—sweat-soaked, sticky, and unbearably weak.
I could no longer climb the stairs. Dialysis sessions had already drained me, and the unrelenting fever stripped away what little energy remained. I moved downstairs, away from my wife and our newborn daughter who were living upstairs.
That separation stung. I missed the sweet, flute-like sound of my daughter’s voice, and the soothing lullabies of her mother. The silence was a daily ache.
The fever continued, fierce and unexplained. Elevated body temperature brought wave after wave of symptoms. The medical team tried every route to find the cause. It was a challenge, even a puzzle to them.
They spoke of “fever of unknown origin.” It could be many things—an infection, a tumour, an inflammatory disorder. Everyone initially believed it was something simple—perhaps viral or bacterial, like pneumonia or the flu.
But it wasn’t.
It behaved like an ordinary fever—rising and falling, peaking in the late afternoon—but it never truly settled.
Blood tests were repeated, all showing normal results.
MRIs were done. CT scans too. Medications were tried, changed, increased. Still, the fever held its grip.
Each day was worse than the one before. I couldn’t keep food down. Every hour felt like a burden. My body was failing, and my spirit was fraying.
That month turned into a season of prayer.
Prayer teams gathered. Church leaders, friends, family—everyone prayed for me. For my healing. For my survival.
Pastors from different churches came to our home. They knelt in prayer, voices lifted in reverence, asking for God’s grace. People travelled from across the country, uniting in one purpose—one plea.
Churches organized special prayer services. Some fasted on my behalf. My aunts, one from Trichy and one from Marthandam, stayed by my side day and night. They prayed, fasted, and cared for me with their whole hearts.
Their quiet, constant devotion filled me with gratitude and awe.
Even my grandmother gently ran her fingers across my forehead, checking for fever, whispering words of comfort. Her presence reminded me I was still surrounded by love.
It was the second week of March.
During one of my haemodialysis sessions, I noticed something unusual. The blood inside the dialyzer wasn’t flowing right. Something felt off—like a blockage.
I was exhausted, more than usual. I told the staff, but they dismissed it. I had complained many times since the bone marrow procedure, and they probably assumed this was no different.
Then the duty doctor arrived. I voiced my concern again, barely able to sit up. He looked at the machine—and his expression changed.
There it was: blood clotting inside the dialyzer tubes.
He quickly adjusted the settings. The flow stabilized. I could feel the shift, the subtle return of balance.
In that moment, I knew.
This was another survival.
Another moment when every prayer—every word spoken in faith—had been heard.
And I was still here.