It was 3 AM and with open eyes and a paining stomach I cried. For the 5th time in a year I had kidney stones. Having suffered for a major part of my adult life I know how bad it can get. And when no hot water compress works I know it’s time to rush for a pain killer injection.

By the time the pain was relieved I was swearing even at the minute little cuts and bruises. 4 surgeries in 23 years of life isn’t an ideal start to what they call “adulthood” but none were life threatening.

Just when I was fit to be discharged a group of 5-6 people rushed into the emergency room of the hospital. With them was a baby, hardly a month old, engulfed by wires and an oxygen supply on its nose. The doctors, after going through the medical reports, told the brave mother to wait outside and in the same move called the rather timid father inside. It was blatant something was grossly wrong.

While I waited for the paperwork to be done I decided to eavesdrop into the conversation between the doctor and the father. “Your son’s heart isn’t beating right and will need an immediate surgery” said the doctors to the hopeful father in Hindi.

My heart skipped a beat. The brave boy was taking in all the needles with more silence than I have ever expressed in such situations. Not to forget the brave war he was fighting every second for his life. My swearing, tantrums suddenly experienced a moment of embarrassment. Though my suffering was different I realized how insignificant my sufferings felt. 


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