Page 93 - FATE & DESTINY

FATE & DESTINY

She wrote on the prescription but didn’t explain to us the disease. And we, too, didn’t ask her.
The baby didn’t improve even after three days. His abdomen girth increased. On the fifth evening, his abdomen
measured forty-two centimeters.
“It was 38 mm, last night,” I said. “How come it increased?”
“You should ask the doctor when she comes for the round,” said the nurse.
My heart thudding, I paced the room forth and back the whole evening.
The pediatrician arrived at 9:00 pm. “How’s the baby doing?”
The nurse said, “Temperature—105 Fahrenheit, heart rate—180 bpm, and abdomen girth—42 cm.”
The pediatrician prescribed on the sheet. “I think we should keep the baby under observation for a few more
days. It’s a complicated case.”
“Oops.” I shook my head. “What-so-ever you decide, doctor.”
Choki and I scrimped on fast foods. After the pediatrician had left, I scurried to a canteen and returned with two
plates of dumplings.
“Where have you been?” asked Choki.
“To buy some dumplings for you,” I replied, spreading the silver-foil wrapper. “Please have it.”
She turned to the other two mothers. “Please have it.”
They took a piece each. I took a few.
After everyone went to sleep, I tuned into 90 FM, the BBS, on my Motorola RAZR-V3s. Listening to the songs,
I wiped off the remorseful tears. “God, why is this happening to me? What have I done?”
At 7:00 am, cooks shouted, “Breakfast! Breakfast!”
“Breakfast, sir,” said Naku, picking up his steel plate and mug.
“I am not hungry,” I said, “but can you get tea for my wife, please?”
“Sure. Mug, please?”
I gave him the mug.
He returned with tea and three slices of bread. “Your share, sir.”
“Bread for breakfast?” I said. “What else do we get?”
“They have a menu; eggs on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays. Bread on Thursdays and Saturdays. And
Sundays—rice and lentil.”
“Thanks.” I woke Choki. “Ama, breakfast.”
“What’s for breakfast?” she asked, rubbing her eyes.
“Tea and bread.”
She nibbled on the first piece and said, “How is my baby?”
“He is sleeping. I think he is doing well.”
“I know it. I am his mother.”
My heart twitched, seeing her grief-stricken face. “He is sleeping. He is fine.”
“No, he isn’t.” She lifted the baby in her arms and pecked him on his flabby cheeks, tears glimmering in her eyes.
“Babies sleep when they’re sick.” Gingerly nudging the baby’s nose, she said, “I am sorry for the disease, dear.”
I sobbed in my turn. So, I peered through the window, only to shed more. Outside, a young couple was basking
in the sun. They fiddled their newly-born baby and laughed.
“God, why?” I murmured, looking up at the sky. “Why are you punishing my baby?”
“Take milk,” said Choki, forcing her nipple into the baby’s mouth. “Come on, suck on it, dear.”
The baby choked on milk. “Boohoo!”
“Ha… ha… ha… he is crying,” she said. “He is okay.”
Choki lullabied the baby, walking around the room.
With time, our intimacy with the roommates grew stronger and we helped each other in times of need.
On the ninth day morning, the pediatrician said, “We are having a meeting about the baby.”
“About what, doctor?” I asked.
She turned back from the door. “I will tell you after the meeting.”
“What’s she talking about? What are they trying to do?”
“I have no idea,” she said.
I could feel my heart pounding. We waited for the pediatrician the entire afternoon.
In the evening, she walked in. “Surgeons have decided to operate the baby tomorrow. But remember, they are
not pediatric surgeons.”
“Operation? You didn’t tell us anything about the operation till now.”
“The X-ray report shows intestinal obstruction signs.”
“But doc, you didn’t tell us about the surgery before?”

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