I'm Fine, Thank You

I'm Fine, Thank You

How many times have we answered the same old, predictable and standard ‘Fine’ when somebody asked ‘How are you’? I can probably swear that the fingers on our hands aren’t enough. And then, we’d add on “I’m having a cold” or “Headache” or even “NM” on chat. We’d never thought of a more unconventional and less obvious reply to that seemingly caring question. But the point is, that phrase comes automatically to our tongue, because it’s been lying at the tip of our tongue, and even at the ‘lobe of our ears’. But we’ve never thought that at the time of near fatal ailments too, that typical line would unexpectedly bring a ray of hope in our gloomy minds.

She laid on her hospital bed, with bandages on her head, injections on the back of her hands, having a cranky mood because her sleep was disturbed as she had to take her prescribed medicines at the right time. The scene is still vivid in my mind. Her parents had an aura of melancholy, and the air was filled with the scent of spirit that permeated my mind with listlessness and wistfulness. The television was on, and some soaps were playing, distracting the little girl from her pain. Her little brother was too young to understand what was happening; all though he knew that something was wrong. Reminiscences of the beautiful, funny times that we had spent together played in my mind. A heavy lump formed in my throat, and I tried my best to pull back my tears. I handed a hand-made greeting card to her, which said-“Get Well Soon, We’ll be waiting for ya!” She showed it to her parents and they forced a smile. My mother tried her best to console the girl cheerfully-“Everything will be alright, OK? You don’t have to worry.” She replied to the comment-“Yeah, I know. Tell my parents too, they’re the ones worrying so much.” It seems that her illness had taken a big toll on her. We-my family and my neighbours, stood in a circle with joint palms and prayed for her well-being. My eyes gave way, and my knees trembled. I wiped them away and stared pensively out the car window, on the way back home.

She was operated on, the next day, and further tests revealed that it was hard to cure. Brain tumour; it turned malignant.

A couple of months later, she was walking in the avenue with her friends. A slow trod, a scarf covering her shaved head and light clothing. Her fragile body needed a supporting hand. My mouth went dry when I saw her. I couldn’t find anything to talk to her. The moment was grim, confusing... I just stood there and tried to break the ice-“How are you doing?” “Fine, I am taking medicines and have to go back to the city.” I pulled a taut smile and pushed myself away from the small group.

I remember, and so does my sister, that she used to come complaining to us about her ‘friends’, how badly they treated her... I didn’t pay much attention, and left them to mend their own problems, unlike my sister who went on trying to question the abominable behaviour of the concerned kids... I remember her, my friend and me, racing up the slide and sliding down, fighting for the best of the three slides. I remember appreciating her new hair style, which was similar to her mother’s- both of them looked gorgeous in it and it had made their hair look all the more fluffier and fuller... I remember playing ‘broken chain’ with our group of friends, pouncing on each other, tugging our arms... I remember her coming home to use the internet and the printer... I remember her taking tuitions from my mother... I remember her running to us on the terrace, hiding from a nagging mutual friend... I remember her calling her ‘friends’ ‘vagabonds’, and that day, she taught me a new word...

The other day, I’d gone to visit her (she lived a few houses away). Her little brother was watching television and she was playing a computer game with her friend. I asked how she was. “I’m fine.” She replied, enthusiastically. “I’m taking medicines, and I’ll go back to the city, after a month.” I smiled. Not being sure how to start a conversation, I started taking a tour around the room. It was in a mess. Toys were all around; books and unused school timetables lay scattered on two study desks that faced each other from either opposite walls. I must have stood there, for about fifteen minutes. Her friend asked her innocently, “How many stitches did you get?” “Two.” She gestured. “One stitch is on the right side, and the other down the back of my head.” “What is brain cancer?” the friend asked innocuously. “How do I know?” She replied naively.

I didn’t open my mouth. I was too overwhelmed with nostalgia.

Her parents, though they don’t show it, have that unmistakeable poignant feeling around them. A very complex emotion that is hard to define through mere words. An anxious desire or attachment that is obvious in any forlorn guardian, but hidden beneath the serene waters of age and months of mental preparation. An unwavering hope, that their daughter would make it, and also, a strong appeal that anything of this sort must not affect any family that they are quite acquainted with. It is hard to miss for any sentimental creature.

Her answer “I’m Fine” inspired me to dedicate a little something for her cause, and thousands of others suffering a similar fate. It brought me a ray of hope. She was fighting. I could do nothing but watch. And now, I want to do more. I am praying for her recovery, any miracle would help. And I'm asking a few more hands to join me. I have always believed in miracles. And this time, my faith is not shaking. It just grew. I just hope and cross my heart that some miracle would befall and purloin darkness. I just hope that the lighter would ignite and shatter the despondency.

I am praying, are you?





Writer's Addition:

This was written two years ago. She was about 11 when she was diagnosed with malignant brain tumour. Two years on, she has recovered from the danger phase, but is still fighting to live a normal life, if not entirely for her survival, now. She wishes to return back to her old school and be with her friends, but, she cannot take the chances of living elsewhere without a doctor who knows her case history. That is because even for a minor cold, her prescription would be different from anyone else's. It was by luck and by God's grace that her parents managed to get the personal contact number of the most qualified doctor for cancer treatments in the country. The disease has taken a heavy toll on her.