My eyes opened when I heard a sobbing voice coming from the side of my bed, and felt the bed trembling slightly beneath me. I quickly got up and looked at the other side of the bed with the help of the dim light already light up in the room.
"Vani...?"
I saw her sitting with her shoulder hunched, I turned on the lamp light on to brighten the room more.
She didn't respond. Her short hairs were covering her face, her shoulders trembling, and her hands scrubbed desperately at a damp patch on the bed with a cloth. Her legs parted awkwardly, unable to control their position, and the bedsheet beneath her was stained.
My heart clenched.
She had wet the bed.
Without hesitation, I wrapped my arms around her frail frame, holding her tightly as she continued to sob.
"Vani.. it's fine baby, it's fine... You don't have to cry," I whispered, though my voice trembled just as much as hers.
But she shook her head against me, her tears flowing faster now. "Mumma, I... I am sorry I am... really sorry for not getting up... on time, I should have... control it."
"Shhh... baby, no," I cupped her head, gently caressing her tangled hair, my own eyes welling up. "My Vani would never do anything wrong. I know that."
Still, even in my arms, her small hand kept moving, trying to rub the wet spot away as if she could erase the shame.
Tears escaped the corners of my eyes as I held her closer.
My daughter, Vani, was born with a rare birth defect called Myelomeningocele - a severe form of spina bifida where her spinal cord didn't develop properly. As a result, she lives with permanent paralysis in her legs.
But the challenges didn't stop there. Along with limited mobility, she endures frequent back pain, and struggles daily with bladder and bowel complications -silent battles that rarely show, but shape every part of her life with difficulties.
Which tries to break her everyday but my baby was a great warrior and still is, to keep going through life.
And I never saw her complaining. Not once. Not even when her eyes lingered a second too long on children running in the park, or when we passed kids skipping joyfully on our way to the hospital.
She'd just smile gently and say, "Mumma, will I ever walk without a wheelchair?"
Her voice always carried a haunting distance, like she was asking something she already knew the answer to.
And I... I always lied.
"Yes, you will... and then we'll dance together," I'd say, swallowing the lump in my throat, praying she wouldn't hear the truth hiding behind my smile.
She would then smile, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes as she wrapped her arms around me, believing my promise with a hope so pure it shattered me inside.
I hated myself for lying - but I'd do it again, a thousand times over. For that smile. For that flicker of joy she held onto.
Because if I told her the truth - the cold, brutal truth - what would happen to her spirit? What if she gave up? What if the little spark in her eyes vanished?
No... I couldn't risk it. I would rather be a liar than break her trust.
"Mumma, will I be able to move without a wheelchair?" Her voice pierced through the silence again, soft and aching.
I held her tighter. "Yes, sweetheart... and then we'll dance, I promise." My voice broke, the lie burning my throat as it left my lips.
She looked up at me, that same trusting smile blooming across her tear-streaked face. Her short hair stuck to her cheeks as she nodded and hugged me fiercely.
"Then be ready to lose, Mumma," she giggled softly, burying her face into my chest. "Because I'll dance better than you."
"I'm ready to lose everything... just for you," I whispered into her hair, my smile trembling through the pain.
I wiped her cheeks gently and helped her settle. "Now let's get fresh and do our exercises, hmm?"
She pulled back with a dramatic pout. "But you always lose when we race during exercises."
"Maybe because I suck at it," I grinned. "But don't worry - I'll give my best shot today."
She gave me a mock-judgmental look, shaking her head like a tiny grandma. I flicked her nose playfully, making her smile before I rose, removed the blanket, and carefully lifted her into her wheelchair. I made sure it was clean last night - no germs, no risks.
We rolled into the bathroom - our daily routine. Clothes, catheter kits, gloves, sanitizer - everything was ready.
"Mumma?" her voice came again, this time softer.
"Yes, my baby?"
She hesitated, then said, "Can I... do it myself today?"
My hands froze above the sink.
I turned slowly, hiding the storm that instantly brewed in my chest.
"You can, sweetheart... but maybe after a few years?" I gave her my best smile, hoping it would hide the rising ache. I knelt at her height.
"But why not now? I'm ten. And someday, I'll have to learn it on my own, right?"
Her words were mature. Too mature for her age. Her hand rested on mine on the wheelchair gently, grounding me.
My voice trembled. "It's not that I don't trust you... I just... I don't want you to hurt yourself, baby. Let me do it for now, please?"
Her eyes softened. She nodded slowly. "Okay, Mumma."
I helped her onto the toilet seat - it was easier for cleaning. As I lifted her nightgown to remove her underwear, I saw her squeeze her eyes shut in embarrassment, her cheeks flushing deep red.
I froze.
This was the moment I feared most - not the medical care, not the exhaustion - but this shame. That one day she'd feel ashamed of needing me.
"Vani..." I whispered brokenly.
She opened her eyes, slowly.
"You're right," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "You should try it once."
I brought the small table closer so she could reach her supplies more easily. I began to step back, but her tiny hand caught mine.
"Mumma... are you hurt?"
I didn't turn. I couldn't.
Taking a deep breath to contain the cry threatening to escape, I faced her with a soft smile. "No, baby. I just... need to tidy the room. Call me if you need help, alright?"
I kissed her hand gently and slipped out, closing the door behind me.
The moment it clicked shut, I collapsed to the floor outside.
My body trembled as I tried to breathe, but the air felt thin and unkind. I gasped like I was drowning.
My daughter - my little girl who I'd cared for since the moment she was born - now felt too ashamed to let me help her. A normal part of growing up, maybe. But in our life, it was a heartbreak I wasn't ready for.
I buried my face in my hands and sobbed silently, the tears I couldn't shed in front of her now pouring freely.
I wanted to scream. Scream at a God who seemed so cruel. Who chose her to suffer. Who never gave her a single pain-free day.
But what's the use?
He doesn't listen. He never has.
So I stopped asking. I stopped hoping.
Instead, I started creating happiness - with my own hands. For my daughter.
He gave me my daughter... but her joy? That was my part to build. Even if it takes everything I have.
Even if it takes my life.
∆∆∆
I wiped the sweat off my forehead with the edge of my t-shirt as I reached the front gate. The sun was already out in the sky which made it a warm environment. My shoes left dry crunches on the dusty path.
Just as I reached for the gate latch, I heard the slow screech of a two-wheeler coming to a stop behind me.
I turned.
It was him, My father, Raghav Singh Shekhawat.
He got off his scooter with the ease of habit, a cloth bag dangling from the handle and another in his hand, stuffed with vegetables-some leafy, some probably squished. His kurta was creased, but his face was calm. Like always.
"Tu subah-subah bhaag ke aaya hai ya kisi se ladke?" he asked, glancing at my sweaty mess of a face and chest rising like I'd run a marathon.
<Have you been running early in the morning or have you been fighting with someone?>
I gave him a bored look, pulling the gate open. "Running. And you should try it too, it will help you stay fit."
He glared at me. But said nothing. Just brushed past me and walked in.
I followed behind, shutting the gate.
The moment I stepped inside the house, the first thing that greeted me was the soulful voice from the radio -
"Tujhse naraaz nahi zindagi, heraan hoon main..." <song>
I paused for a second, taking in the familiar warmth of home, before my eyes landed on my mother, Meera Singh Shekhawat. She was heading toward the kitchen with the bag which was just brought in from the market, while my father trailed behind her like a lost puppy, trying to flirt with her over the song playing - yelling nonsense just loud enough to reach her from the kitchen doorway.
I sighed at their usual morning drama and shut the door behind me - just in time to see him dodge a flying tomato.
"Meera! What did I do now?" he yelped.
"You brought rotten tomatoes!" she replied sharply, hurling another one. He caught it - somehow - with a smug grin that I could practically feel even though his back was to me.
"Eww! It smashed in my hand!" he cried, holding his hands away like they were cursed.
I ignored the chaos. This was our morning routine - annoying, noisy, yet strangely peaceful. I sat on the floor, starting to remove my shoes when it hit me-
oh shit.
I walked towards my room with hurried steps and opened the door, there he was, my trouble maker son, Ved Singh Shekhawat, sleeping on the edge of the bed with his one leg down the bed, the only thing protecting him was the pillow I kept on the edge of the bed and on the floor in case.
"Ved, get up you will get late for school." I said, gently lifting his leg back onto the mattress.
"Dadi please don't talk like Papa, just 5 more minutes till he is back," he murmured in his sleep and turned to the other side.
"I am back. Now get up." I removed the blanket which was tangled around him. He was drenched in sweat.
He sat up stiffly, like a malfunctioning robot. "Yes, I'm up," he declared, and promptly fell back down. I shook my head at his theatrics and scooped him into my arms. He instinctively wrapped himself around my neck and dozed off on my shoulder.
I carried him to the bathroom, tapped his back gently to gain his attention. He blinked up at me through the mirror, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand, yawning wide.
I made him sit on the counter and grabbed his toothbrush.
"Good morningg, Papa!" he said cheerfully, hugging my neck as he stood up on the counter.
"Good morning, Ved. Now hurry up. We've got school to catch."
"Papa, listen- first of all, I'm taller than you now. Which means even taller than Dadu. So technically, I don't need to go to school anymore, right?"
I raised a brow. "Really?"
He nodded seriously and held his hand above his head, then waved it dramatically above mine - a full four inches taller in his imagination.
"Okay, but you'll have to prove it."
"Papa, it's not your math problem!" he whined.
"Oh really?" I grinned, lifting him off the counter and placing him on the floor. "So what's the difference now?"
He turned away with an exaggerated sigh and began brushing his teeth with a sulky face. I chuckled and ruffled his hair.
Once done, he spread his arms out again. I picked him up. Again.
"You say you're not a kid, but still love being carried around?" I teased.
"No, Papa," he said confidently. "I'm just helping you stay fit."
I laughed and placed him in the child-sized bathtub we had installed just for him, beginning to unbutton his shirt.
"I see. Then I'll make you smarter in my way. Deal?"
His eyes widened in mock horror. "Oh! I should get ready for school. You go now, Papa. I'll bathe!"
He pushed me gently with his thin palm, and I left laughing.
After freshening up in the guest bathroom, I sat in the hall - dressed in my white shirt with sleeves rolled up, black trousers, a stack of student notebooks in front of me. As a permanent Math teacher at Pathway International High & Higher Secondary School for the past 8 years -9, including my contract year, this was routine.
Life was... good. A cozy home bought from years of savings, my parents, my son - everything I'd ever needed was right here.
"Dadiii!" Ved came running in, hair wet, school uniform wrinkled, face glowing with joy.
"Ved, come here." I gestured, grabbing a towel from the laundry pile.
He climbed into my lap. I started drying his hair while he mimicked me - flipping through one of my student's notebooks with dramatic authority.
"I hate this guy. Give him a zero, Papa!" he declared, jabbing his finger at the page.
"I can't do that, Ved. That would be a misuse of power. Just because my son dislikes someone doesn't mean I can fail them."
"But he bullies everyone just because he's rich. Isn't he misusing his power?" Ved looked at me seriously.
"Did he bully you?" I asked, my jaw tightening.
"No, Papa. And I won't tell you whom. I'm not someone who complains. I'm a man - I'll fight it on my own."
"But we're here to help. Why not tell me?" I tried convincing him.
He looked me dead in the eyes. "Okay, what will you do if I tell you?"
"I'll ask that person to be a witness and take action."
He scoffed lightly. "You really think the victim will come forward? If they wanted to, they would've long ago. Forget it."
He was right. Without proof, truth is just words. No justice. No consequence.
"Don't worry, Papa. I'll teach him a lesson," he smirked.
I should've stopped him. I should've reminded him about rules and consequences. But I didn't. Because silencing him now would only teach him that speaking up is wrong - and it's not. Never in my presence.
"Thank you, Papa! You're the best!" he hugged me tightly.
"Alright, alright. Let's have breakfast now and get going." I got up and he followed.
Before leaving, I glanced at the notebook he'd been holding.
"Yuvraj Roy."
I set it aside from the others.
At the dining table, Ved sat eagerly as Maa walked out of the kitchen with breakfast. Her cotton saree was sweetly floral, but her face was anything but calm.
"Dadi, what's for breakfast?"
"Paneer..." she replied with reluctance, knowing full well Ved hated paneer.
"But I don't like it..." he pouted.
"I know, beta. I told your Dadu to get something else. But he..." she trailed off, visibly fuming.
No wonder she was on edge this morning.
"Why are you still angry?" We heard him piped up as he entered, now wearing a matching maroon kurta. "You already threw rotten tomatoes at me and made me shower twice in this cold!"
"Dadi, teach me how to throw tomatoes on target!" Ved asked excitedly, snapping his fingers like a boss.
"Of course!" Maa replied instantly.
"I refuse to be your practice dummy," I saw him complaining, taking his seat.
"Did we ask you?" Maa said without looking up.
"Meera, I'm sorry. I grabbed the wrong bag. I swear it won't happen again."
"Pata nahi ghar mein kitne bewakoof paal rakhe hai maine," she muttered.
(Don't know how many fools I've raised in this house.)
I smirked.
"Why are you laughing?! She's talking about you!" Dad snapped at me.
"Sure." I leaned back, smirking wider.
"Ved, here's your sandwich," Maa placed a plate in front of him and served him.
"Ved, you don't have maths class today, right?" I asked, pouring myself some tea.
"Nope," he replied, mouth full of sandwiches.
Noted. I'd see him again only tomorrow.
"And both of you," Maa pointed at us with a stern expression. "Remember to take your tiffin and bring it back. Safely."
"Or don't bother coming home. We know, Dadi." Ved finished her sentence like a seasoned soldier.
"My smart little boy!" Maa ruffled his hair.
"Me too?" Dad leaned in hopefully.
Ignored.
And I knew what was coming. He dropped his spoon. And I didn't react.
Then, thud! - he banged his forehead against the table dramatically.
"Raghav ji! Why are you so careless?!" Maa leapt to his aid, checking his head with worried hands.
And there he was, grinning stupidly in her arms, victorious.
I rolled my eyes.
Ved and I exchanged a glance, shook our heads in perfect sync, and quietly continued our breakfast.
Just as Ved took another big bite of his sandwich and I reached for the chutney, Maa looked at both of us and cleared her throat - the kind that wasn't just to clear her throat, but to announce something.
"And both of you," she said, her voice suddenly sharper, her eyes narrowing in that classic mom-glare, "don't forget to take blessings from Krishna Ji before stepping out."
Ved froze mid-chew. I looked at her, already anticipating the next line.
"You didn't go yesterday either," she accused without breaking eye contact - aimed more at me than Ved.
"I was getting late..." I started, scratching the back of my neck, but her stare didn't waver.
"Hmm. Late for the world, but never late for bhagwan ji (God), samjhe?" she snapped, standing up and dusting her hands on her pallu like it was the final verdict.
<Understood?>
Ved blinked twice, swallowed his bite, and quickly slid off his chair. "I'm going, I'm going!"
"That's like my good boy," Maa's face instantly softened as she stroked his head.
Ved ran to the corner of the living room- only after washing his hands-where a small but beautifully decorated wooden temple stood, housing an idol of Krishna Ji - peacock feather crown, flute in hand, a small butter pot beside him. The marigolds draped around the idol were fresh, the lamp was still lit from the morning aarti Maa must've done earlier.
I followed Ved, adjusting my watch as I joined him.
Ved closed his eyes, joined his tiny palms together and whispered something under his breath - probably a mix of a wish and a promise to behave (maybe). I stood beside him, bent slightly, and folded my hands too.
"Say sorry for being lazy," Maa's voice floated from the dining table.
Ved opened one eye. "I'm not lazy, I'm energy-saving."
I couldn't hold in the chuckle. I gave Krishna Ji a silent apology on his behalf.
"I heard that!" Maa warned, but she was smiling now as she cleaned up the plates.
After we finished, Ved turned to me and asked quietly, "Papa... do you think Krishna Ji listens?"
I looked down at his big curious eyes and nodded. "I think he listens more to kids than to adults."
"Good," he said seriously. "Then he'll know I'm doing the right thing."
I didn't ask what he meant - but I knew.
He reached out and rang the little brass bell beside the idol softly. Then, he looked up and gave a quick wink to Krishna Ji, like they had a secret deal.
"Let's go, Papa!" he said, grabbing his water bottle and bag in one go.
"Wait wait - tiffin!" Maa reminded from the kitchen, handing it over with practiced stren voice.
"Yes, Dadi!" Ved saluted.
"And bring it back!" she added loudly.
"Promise!" he grinned, then turned to Dad who was still nursing his fake injury at the table. "Dadu, don't mess up today!"
"I won't!" Dad replied cheerfully. "Your Dadi already installed fear in me like a software update!"
As we stepped out, Ved waved dramatically, "Bye Dadu! Bye Dadi! Bye Krishna Ji!"
And with that, another morning wrapped up in our very normal, very loud, very loving house.
Write a comment ...