‘You’re what you always wanted to be. A father. A Baba.’
Our baby is quickly taken to the side of the room where the paediatric team awaits. Her cries are muted by the soft whirring of the machines around us.
‘Go to her,’ she says. ‘Bring her to me.’
Reluctantly, I let go of Aanchal’s hand. I walk tentatively to the incubator where they are cleaning her. They put an ointment on her eyes, take measurements, check her vitals and wrap her in a little blanket.
Even with half-closed eyes, mouth opened mid-scream, I know who she looks like:Aanchal.
Aanchal’s voice breaks through my thoughts, ‘I want to see her, Daksh.’
She reaches out, her hands shaking slightly. Her eyes are tired, but they shine with an intense desire to hold her. The nurses exchange glances, their faces slightly pinched.
‘Her oxygen levels are low,’ the paediatrician says. ‘Only twominutes.’
I pick my daughter up.
‘Second baby?’ the nurse accompanies me and asks as I walk towards Aanchal.
‘You can say that.’
I sit next to Aanchal and gently lower our baby towards Aanchal’s face. She takes off her oxygen mask and kisses her.
‘Gauravi,’ I mumble.
Her eyes flit towards me. They grow soft. ‘Good choice,’ she says softly.
The nurses remind me to take videos or I will regret it later. I take a few.
‘We’ll have to take her now,’ says the paediatrician. ‘We need to monitor her oxygen. She needs to maintain at least 95+.’
As he takes my daughter away from me, from us, I feel an unjustified anger rise within me. I want my daughter back. I don’t trust any of them. A ripple of panic begins inside of me, but Aanchal’s hand squeezes mine reassuringly. I don’t want to leave Aanchal, but she reassures me with a weary smile, ‘Go with her, Daksh. You know you want to.’
‘I will see you soon, baby.’
She smiles again. ‘I’ve never seen you happier.’
‘I’m happy for us.’
‘I’m grateful I could do this for you, Daksh.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And don’t worry, her oxygen will be fine.’
‘Hmm . . .’
‘Not 95, but 100,’ says Aanchal.
‘I would expect nothing less. She’s your daughter after all.’
‘And she’s the daughter of the luckiest guy in the world. How can it be any different?’ she says. ‘I love you, Daksh. Go now.’
‘Thank you.’
With a heavy heart, I follow Gauravi’s tiny form encased in an incubator to the NICU. I crane my neck to steal glances at her. Every cliché they say about being a father is correct. It’s like an open-heart surgery and a tiny part of you now lives outside of you.
At the NICU, the doctor tells me they would observe her for a couple of hours and if she maintains the oxygen levels, she would be shifted to the ward.
