WRITTEN BY: AISHWARYA VYAS
EDITED BY: RASHMITHA MUNIANDI
IMAGE CREDITS: AISHWARYA VYAS
Overview:
This is an attempt to converse with the reader, in order to address disability in an autobiographical mode. Sharing a comfortable space with loved ones despite the pandemic situations.
Dear Inara (Pen Name)
(*Note: Names have been changed to protect the family’s privacy. “Inara” means a shining light.)
I know we met in the most unexpected place, and maybe that’s why you will always be in my heart. It was the first day in the semi-ICU ward at AIIMS. I guess you were there weeks before I was admitted. Despite all the troubles, you and your sister kept your smiles intact. I remember asking for sugar from you since I had no habit of drinking milk without it. You happily sneaked a spoonful of sugar for me, and just like that, we became friends.
Since you were there for some time, you had some liberty over your diet. Talking of habits, one might think of the extravagant accessories or style we build around ourselves and always feel the need for them—the need to be comfortable—and that little comfort comes from those specific things or words. For me, it was pickles and ketchup that I used to eat with my meals and snacks, but after the first surgery, my diet was restricted. My taste buds were nil, and everything I ate was just bland. But I knew that the only thing that could help me get out of the hospital was nutrition. That’s how a significant intervention in your life can change preferences. I was no longer manipulated by the tongue’s taste and ate food for what it originally was.
When I was able to take my first bath after my scar had healed, my mom braided my hair in a french style. Our ward was a complete girl’s ward, so all eyes went straight to my mom’s hands and how she was making my hair. All the girls were from different states. By the time the doctor came by for the first round at 10 a.m., all the girls had the same hairstyle as me (thanks to my mom and your sister).
After a lot of pep talks, I mustered the courage to ask you what had happened to you and what your story was. You smiled and said that you were returning home from school on a bicycle. While riding, you fell and realised that one of your legs was not moving anymore. That’s all you said. I immediately remembered crying and bickering about how shitty it felt to go for regular checkups, how I would cry not to have an MRI scan, how my father stood there stone-cold watching me get injections. But my parents and doctors took responsibility for my condition since I was a little girl, and what happened to you can happen to anyone who was not aware of their condition because of the lack of facilities.
But when I met you, you had lost both of your legs. You would often ask my dad to help you get on your wheelchair to go downstairs to catch a breath. Can you imagine a person waiting all day to catch a breath in a hospital where thousands of patients come every day? You were just something else; you had that spark of a bright kid. I got discharged, and my mom exchanged phone numbers with your sister. We kept talking for years. My mom used to video call you very often, you were pleased to be back home.
Two years later, you drop a text saying you are coming to Delhi for a regular check-up and if we can meet up. Two days after that text, your sister texted, saying you passed away last night in the AIIMS trauma centre.
I want to say that I lose sight of what I am fighting for, who I am fighting for. I might find someone who I feel understands what it is like to not have expectations. This person understands if you skip talking for two days because of a nervous breakdown or cannot get out of the house because you are having a side effect of some pill you had to take to submerge the pain. But here is the fact: you and me, and all of us, are in the same boat, if one sinks, the one left behind will always know “that it could have been me.” We wake up in the morning thinking today is another day, and we have to make the most out of it. But when the pain hits, all one can think is, why am I here? What did I do to deserve to be here?
But we can make sure that we try our best. There will be physical and mental pain, but it will pass. It always does. Our life is about the people around us, including plants, pets and friends. You taught us to share our stories, seek help and never lose hope. You left your footprints down here.
You, Inara, will live through the people you touched, and me.
Yours truly,
Ward Buddy
The Silent Sexism Project 