2001

It was the first week of December. My mother came to visit. A mother of nine, she had built a large family and spent all her life in a humble home in the village. This separation—me lying sick in a distant city—was a deep pang in her heart.

I lay in bed, the sheets damp with sweat, unable to take her out or even comfort her. There was no air-conditioning in the room, and I was too weak to even wave away the mosquitoes. In a strange way, I became a silent donor—offering blood to them without protest.

I drifted into dreams—memories of my village life, of tree climbing and childhood labor, of academic milestones, corporate recognition, and treasured friendships. Yet as I recalled these once-prized achievements, a wave of futility washed over me.
“What is the use of education, medals, hard work, and travels across the world?” I questioned myself. The answers seemed hollow.
“Perhaps God gave me this time to reflect, to understand His purpose,” I told myself, seeking comfort in faith.

I kept the Bible beside me and occasionally read from different versions. But in those moments of pain and confusion, the verses felt distant, the meaning elusive.

Meanwhile, something darker was brewing at home. Superstition and fear crept in. Certain relatives, influenced by enchanters and magicians, started to believe that my illness had brought a curse upon the family. My in-laws insisted on performing an exorcism—a sacrifice to ward off the so-called evil.

I refused to entertain such beliefs. But that resistance made me a subject of suspicion. One individual—ironically, the son of a judge—was particularly worrisome. I feared he and others might use the situation against me, possibly even abduct me under the guise of ritual healing.

Sleep became elusive. Fear took root. I stayed alert, my mind restless, my body worn. I began to collapse at times. There was a constant burning in my stomach, a gnawing discomfort I couldn’t shake. I urged my wife to remain strong, vigilant, and wise. My sole desire was to protect her and our unborn child.

In that vulnerable moment, I longed for retreat—for a safe and solitary place where we could escape the madness. But our situation wouldn’t allow it. Our baby was on the way, and my condition had worsened. Both my kidneys had failed. Harmful waste began building up in my body.

On the night of December 11, 2001, around 3 a.m., I lost consciousness. My family rushed me to Apollo Hospital in an emergency. I was confused, disoriented, and unable to respond sensibly to the medical team.

The doctors diagnosed me with nausea and altered sensorium. My blood urea was at 200 mg/dl, and serum creatinine at 7.5 mg/dl—critical levels. They immediately initiated haemodialysis through the newly formed AV fistula in my left hand, cleansing the toxins from my blood. Twelve hours later, I woke up and saw the world again.

Dr. M.K. Mani, Chief Nephrologist, advised regular dialysis—three times a week—and stressed the urgency of finding a suitable donor for kidney transplantation. He prescribed a set of medications and restricted my fluid intake to just 300 ml a day. I was discharged that afternoon.

Returning home, I saw my mother, who had spent the night alone while I was hospitalized. She had feared the worst—that I had died and gone into eternal rest. She hadn’t slept a moment. I noticed subtle changes in her behavior—her thoughts clouded, her spirit weighed down.

A few days later, we sent her back to the village. After reaching home, she slipped into a deep depression. Slowly, she lost her ability to differentiate right from wrong. For years, she lived quietly within four walls—until she entered into God’s eternal rest on September 19, 2017.

My father, ever faithful, cared for her with unmatched devotion—washing her clothes, cooking, feeding, bathing her—doing it all the traditional way, with deep love. No matter the circumstances, she was his joy. They belonged to each other completely, a harmony forged by nature and time.

They lived in the beautiful hill village of Koompara Vilai, Thickurichy, in Kanyakumari District, Tamil Nadu—the place of my birth, the fifth child in a large family. I sent them money regularly to support their health needs. And for that, I thank God—a blessing that sustained them.

Yet, I cannot shake the sense of responsibility I feel for my mother’s decline. The thought haunts me. But even in this sorrow, God comforts me.

“But now, Lord, what do I look for? My hope is in You.”
(Psalm 39:7)