Chandana

Vishwas visits only on weekends. Those three days we become a real family. But the Sunday night is always tough on all three of us.

We were in Chandana’s room, tucking her in bed. A full-day outing and lots of her favourite food were making her drowsy.

"Dad, are you leaving tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"Supreet’s dad also comes on Thursday and leaves on Monday. But he’ll not leave this Monday. Supreet is getting operated on Tuesday."

I flinched. But she was absorbed in the thought. "So cool, na? He’ll get ten days off from school! So nice, na?"

"Those ten days won’t be fun, Chandana. He’ll be lying in the hospital."

"Yes! But Mom, he’ll get a huge TV with all his favourite cartoons and a games console, too! He can play any time he wants!" She clearly remembered. "Dad, will they cut him? Will there be blood?"

"It’s time for bed! You got an early football practice tomorrow!" VIshwas was swift to change the subject.

"You always get mixed up, Dad! It’s swimming tomorrow and football on Wednesday."

"OK, Pumpkin pie!"

She smiled and turned. "Did you pack my bag, Mom?"

"I did, sweetie!" I showed her.

"Did you pack my Dinosaur towel?"

"It’s here!"

She laughed out loud.

"Goodnight Mom, goodnight Dad!" The words tumbled lazily as the delicate lashes rested on her pink cheeks.

We moved out of her room.

"Meenakshi, she was asking so much about Supreet–"

"Yes."

"What is he suffering from?"

"Kidney. One was bad since birth, the other is infected now."

"So, artificial kidney?"

"Yes."

"Does Chandana know all this?"

"May be. She keeps asking about the others, too."

"Hmm."

"Supreet is not the first one." Tears welled up in my eyes. "In the last six months alone, seven kids have undergone operations. Plus, many more visit the clinic regularly."

"So many?"

"Yes."

"Meenakshi, do you think we should tell her now?"

"About her?"

"Yes."

"No! She is only eight, Vishwas!"

"But then someday we need to tell her."

"Let that day come. Let her ask questions. Only then should we tell. Why should we burden her now?"

Vishwas wiped my cheeks.

"Our pumpkin pie, how would she react?"

"Who knows? How do you react, Vishwas? Especially when you look at other parents?"

"I find it difficult. They don’t talk. And I don’t ask. I can’t."

"I don’t dare, too. Our neighbours and my colleagues – they don’t talk. They must have found out by now."

"My colleagues have also found out, I guess."

"Should we shift to another town then, Vishwas?"

"Again?

"We came here when Chandana was four. Maybe it’s time."

There was silence. Stealing quick glances at Chandana.

She slept quietly, tucked in her favourite yellow quilt.

A rare child of the twenty-second century. One in a Million. Probably one in a billion. With no disease, no disability, and no probability of any. A unique child. A completely healthy child. Who will always stay healthy according to the hundreds of tests performed on her.

Some say she is an outlier. Some say, an oddity. Some doctors want to keep her under observation. Some scientists want to document her every living moment.

We try. We try to keep them all at bay. We try. We try to give a normal life to her. But that's not easy. Holding onto jobs in different towns and moving constantly. Keeping our data as much private as possible.

Sometimes we wonder what if she were like the other kids. With some problem or the other. What would we have done? Like all other parents, we would have struggled. And we would have managed, somehow.

But then we cast off that ominous thought.

And simply hug our lovely child.

Our sweetie, our pumpkin pie, our Chandana!

The End

by Meghashri Dalvi​ (who formerly lived in Portsmouth, England which is not far away from Worthing!)