2001

It was the very next morning—November 25th—following the fistula surgery. I lay in bed like a bird caught in a snare, wounded and helpless; like a fish trapped in a cruel net, gasping silently.

That day, my father, mother, and two sisters arrived in Chennai from our hometown. They had travelled for 18 long hours by bus—a tiresome and tedious journey. For them, the trip felt like a voyage to another planet; it was their first time in the bustling city of Chennai. They gathered around my bed.

I wanted to give the impression that I was fine. I tried to appear normal. But my body betrayed me—I was in a fierce battle with nature itself. The moment they saw me, their expressions shifted. Grim faces, teary eyes, stifled sobs—my family was overcome with grief. My pale eyes looked up and caught sight of my mother whispering between her cries.

It was then that I felt the full weight of my parents’ love. My gaze drifted from my mother to my father’s face—and I saw tears streaming down his cheeks. My father, usually stoic and silent, was visibly shaken. I had never seen him cry before. That sight pierced me deeply. A lump formed in my throat. I turned to my sisters, who were trying hard to hold back their tears.

I didn’t know what to say or how to respond. But, trying to stay composed, I forced a few words through the heaviness in my chest. In a quiet tone, I said, “This is just a trial. It’s temporary. Everything will be all right soon.”
I was hiding the truth. I didn’t want to hurt my aging parents further.

Then, I asked them a question that had been haunting me:
“Human beings desire to live healthy lives—but does everyone truly deserve it?”
No one answered. Silence fell over the room. Instead, their eyes reflected my anguish. They noticed the distress written across my crimson face. The unspoken words between us echoed louder than anything I could have said.

After six sorrowful hours, they left for the village, carrying the weight of sadness with them. More visitors came, offering their sympathies and sharing in the grief. Some well-wishers tried to console me:
“This is a deficiency—it can be treated. You deserve to live.”

Others whispered speculations:
“Perhaps it’s due to sin,” or “It must be the result of evil influences or enchantments.”

I didn’t share my inner turmoil. I understood one truth clearly now: Not everything in life is fair or equitable. So, I listened quietly, even as my heart ached.

In the silence of those moments, I drifted into memories of brighter days. I asked myself the question that had no answer:
“Why is this happening to me?”

There was only silence in return. My stomach churned with acid, my skin burned with sweat. I was trapped in a cycle of dreams and recollections, clinging to the fragments of a life that once felt whole.