She leaves.
‘I’ll see you inside,’ I tell Aanchal.
12.
Daksh Dey
I keep looking at my watch.
I’ve been waiting in the sterile hallways of the hospital for forty-five minutes, heart thumping like a wild drum in my chest. It seems like an eternity. Finally, I see the nurse wave at me from the end of the corridor. She checks my hairnet, the overshoes. The double doors to the OT swing open before me. Bright overhead lights illuminate a bed where masked figures move quickly. Nurses in blue scrubs walk around with brisk efficiency. The air carries a sharp scent of antiseptic, intermingled with the dull undertones of latex and blood.
That’s when I see Aanchal. She’s lying there, partially awake, an oxygen mask over her face, a sheet draped over her swollen abdomen forming a small curtain between her upper and lower body, doctors moving busily. The anaesthetist is asking her questions. When she looks up and spots me, she beckons me over.
I draw in a shaky breath, clutching the cool metal of the chair next to her. My eyes flit to the sight that lurks just past the curtain’s edge: the glistening redness, the surgical tools clinking softly on the tray and the suction whooshing as it carries away the blood into a small container by Aanchal’s side.
‘Isn’t that too much blood?’ I ask.
The doctor shakes her head. ‘It’s normal. Please let us concentrate. This is critical.’
Aanchal opens her eyes slightly. She groans softly, ‘It will be fine.’
‘Is the doctor rude?’ I joke.
Aanchal smiles at me. ‘She doesn’t know you.’
‘Because you didn’t let me know her.’
‘I had to do this,’ she whispers.
Dr Jayaci speaks from the other side of the curtain. ‘You will feel some pinching but no pain.’
The reality of a bunch of doctors cutting into her body, a body I have loved so much is overwhelming, but the sight of Aanchal’s strained smile anchors me.
‘Don’t worry, Daksh,’ she whispers, her hand reaching out for mine. Her touch is cool, reassuring.
‘You’re doing great,’ I say these empty words to her.
‘I’m just lying here.’
I kiss her hand.
Dr Jayaci speaks up, ‘We’re making progress, Daksh.’
I watch as he orchestrates a ballet of scalpels, forceps and gloved hands, every movement precise. The air hangs heavy with anticipation.
Words move around in the air, but I can’t make out the sequence in which they are being said. ‘Retractor.’ ‘Good visibility.’ ‘Careful around the lower uterine segment.’ ‘Forceps.’ ‘Sponge.’ ‘Clamp.’ We are in a moment that’s undefined by time. I tell Aanchal repeatedly that I love her and she asks me ifthere are tears in my eyes. My vision begins to blur, dissolving the world around me into a haze. I sense her slipping away, her presence receding, even though her hand is still ensconced in mine.
‘I love you more than life,’ I tell Aanchal. ‘There’s nothing more important—’
Just then, the air is punctured by a baby’s cry—high-pitched and beautifully alive. I look behind the curtain. My heart soars as the doctor lifts our baby into the world, her tiny body slick and crimson. So fragile, so innocent and so angry to be here in the world before time.
‘Girl,’ they say.
‘Girl,’ mumbles Aanchal.
‘Girl,’ I whisper.
‘Congratulations, Daksh,’ she says to me and, with a tired smile, adds, ‘Congratulations, baby.’
