Thursday Tales No. 1: Miracle Baby
What makes a miracle? Is it surviving against all odds, or being conceived after years of prayers and failed treatments?
This story holds a special place in my heart; it is one of my first stories to take a physical form. I can't quite remember when I conceived this, but it held on, quietly and steadily, till it found its way onto a page. Take a walk through this tale of hope, heartbreak, and silent resilience.
Miracle Baby
It was an uneasiness, a little twisting-turning in bed that had led me to wander around in the campus when I heard violent growls. It wasn’t unusual to hear them at night, but that day my legs, without instructions from my brain, had walked to the brown pariah dog at the edge of Dr Babasaheb Ambedkar road, 15 feet away from our main gate. It was trying to pull a cold, half-lifeless bundle of flesh out of the public garbage bin, trying to protect it from wild rodents, and unknowingly tearing its tissue-like flesh with its claws and teeth. I was quickly drawn to picking up that bundle from the bin. It was blue with the biting cold, it had wounds that aroused a faint whine of pain and hunger. I wrapped her in my fur coat and assured the dog of her safety with a simple nod of the head. I cycled half-a-mile to the nearest hospital and admitted her there.
The doctors gave little to no hope of her survival. An infant of just a day old had endured hunger, cold and wounds. The rough palms of life had gripped her even before the gentleness of life could kiss her and surrender her into the custody of life’s hardship.
But, she survived, she did! That’s what the doctors at St. Florence hospital called a miracle. Profound happiness, a kind of happiness at the birth of an awaited baby filled everyone at the hospital and at home. While everyone was rejoicing at the arrival of a new baby at Our Lady’s Home, a spark of anger, somewhere in my chest, was looking to fall on something solid and use it as fuel to live and burn down the bearer of this child. With pure reasoning and kindness learnt at the convent, and under Mother Fiona’s guidance, this tiny fire disappeared without a trace. We began to concentrate on the upbringing of Iana.
Iana grew up into an angelic girl. In a home full of boys, she stood out and thus, stood there in front of Mr and Mrs Varun, who were, with pure admiration, trying to interrogate her. Having been childless for almost nine years, and having drained half their bank on failed medical treatments, they turned to a social service agent. In order to find an heir to their textile industry, they located our home. They had come seeking for a son to land in their arms, but as unpredictable as life is, they were caught in awe with our Iana.
They had spotted her leaning on the only raintree growing in our front yard full of peepal trees, looking deeply into the morning sky. She was a tad less than five, with her cheeks gathered into a shy smile. The picture of that girl by the tree, to Mrs Varun seemed like a diamond shimmering at a reachable distance. She ran towards the girl and hugged her for a minute straight and let go of her only when the child’s discomfort turned into a whimper. She later exclaimed that Iana felt to her like the one, the one sent by God for them. Given her name, we knew it was true.
They began interrogating her with, “What is your name? How old are you?” Other than pronouncing her name with a trisyllable, she limited herself to answering all the other questions with monosyllables. The couple were saddened by the thought that she was uninterested; only we could understand the glimmer of curiosity in her eyes, which had already asked ten unanswered questions to us.
Joy brought by the hope of a prosperous future being determined for our little angel, made us work restlessly to fulfil the various procedures. She was taken to the counselling centre thrice a week, health check-ups were done, bundles of papers were signed and stamped. Finally, the documents were sent to the court for filing of a petition.
Over the course of these procedures, Mr and Mrs Varun’s frequent visits made her attached to them. Initially, it was the sheer anticipation of gifts and sweets they brought that really made her look forward to meeting them, but it was soon replaced by a kind of waiting for the warmth they emanated. On seeing them, her face showed a kind of smile – a smile similar to the one seen only when she was allowed to stand by her favourite tree.
Mr Varun filled our home with toys for both Iana and the other children, while Mrs Chaya decorated her daughter-to-be with the choicest clothes and accessories. With more and more time spent with them, Iana transitioned from our little girl to their little princess.
We soon began to sense a rift, but her spirit showed not the slightest difference in her pleasure for praying, singing, eating and playing with us. She clenched my hand, as she always did, during our evening walks and asked me a hundred questions about everything her mind could question, but in her style of fewer words. She still enjoyed claiming ownership of my arms and slept as I sang her lullabies. Her gazes shifted from the fancies of the couple towards us regularly conveying a belongingness to us. She was our Iana. We certainly knew that she would arrive with Christmas, to celebrate her birthdays, hug us with her happiness and make us proud with her successes. But as days of her departure neared, a tinge of gleelessness shadowed us, more deeply on me.
A day before the final hearing, having the court as witness and the passing of the final order, our home had the energy of a pre-wedding. A tiny suitcase was bought for her; all her gifts and dresses were packed. She was given everything she asked for, though she asked for nothing but some time on my arms.
With a sunset and a sunrise, her day of departure arrived. She was dressed in a violet frock which had a big white bow on the back. A complementing hairband was fixed on her two-ponytailed head. She was led down the corridor to bid adieu to all her friends and seek the blessings of Mother and the sisters. She climbed up my arms and landed the longest and strongest kiss on my right cheek and ran away. As my eyes were still fixed on her slender body, she hugged her tree, which gave her a perfect view of our entrance gate, and waited for them to arrive in their ambassador car.
At 11 a.m., our telephone rang. It was the punctual time the hearing at the court would have ended. I answered it with diligence, being prepared to follow any instruction they were to give. It was the driver on the other end of the line. As he spoke the spark of that night re-emerged.
The only words and the scene I could recollect were “Mrs Varun is pregnant,” and Iana standing there, waiting…
- Mercy Rebonica
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