In the intensive care unit of Civil Hospital in Minbhawan, the harsh rasp of the ventilator and the damp scent of despair filled the air. The mechanical monitor placed in the corner counted my remaining breaths in a cold, merciless rhythm of “beep… beep… beep…”. Outside, the new year calendars had just been hung on the walls, advertising hopes for a fresh spring, but somewhere, the clear mirror of my life had shattered. I was grasping a thin thread of artificial breath, caught in a cruel play between unconsciousness and awareness. The weight of my darkness fell heaviest on one chest: that of my father’s. He had said to my brother, “Sister is not feeling well.” Perhaps, sharing his pain with my brother was his way of easing his own burden. As for me, I was crushed by a pain I couldn’t even speak of to my mother.
Even before being admitted to Civil Hospital, my life had already taken a dark path, the story of which I am not yet brave enough to tell. It is said that when people approach death, they want to live. But I had no fear of dying there. What terrified me was living. I carried many wounds hidden within my heart during my lifetime. On the third day after leaving the dark room of the operating theater, I repeatedly lost consciousness as the doctor’s sharp and cold words echoed in my ears. A few days earlier, Dr. Arun Kumar Joshi had explained the potential risks and benefits of the surgery as I was being taken to the operating theater.
However, after all scientific efforts failed, I had to leave that place with half my body permanently left behind. Finally, when Dr. Jitendra came for the morning round, he said in a flat tone, “Due to infection spreading internally, we couldn’t save your ovaries and tubes.” Hearing that, my right hand trembled and reached the lower part of my abdomen. I had become a tree that would never bloom the green leaves of affection in any new season. I was sure I was leaving with only half my body. Yet, my consciousness has not been shattered.
