‘She will be okay, right?’
The doctor nods, and that’s enough for me.
I take more videos of her—even though it’s painful to see all the wires strapped on to her. The nurse takes little footprints and handprints.
‘Is the mother out yet?’ I ask the nurse at the station.
She dials the number. It’s strange to call Aanchal... a mother. A mother of my child? I haven’t even got used to calling her my wife. It still feels like we are dating. Every morning when I see her, my first thought is that she has stayed back after a date. I have waited for her for so long it feels like I’m still waiting for her.
‘She’s going to be shifted to the ward soon,’ she tells me. ‘They are just waiting for her to get sensation back in her legs. You can wait there or here, wherever you want to.’
‘I will go see her.’
13.
Daksh Dey
I wait the next fifteen minutes for Aanchal in the ward. The head nurse finally says, ‘They need you in the NICU. The doctor is examining your daughter.’
I jog back to the NICU. The paediatrician and a couple of nurses are congregated over the little incubator. My heart seizes for a brief moment, an unsettling mix of anxiety and hope creeping in.Are they having any trouble? Is she okay?When I approach, I see them separate. The doctor turns towards me, his expression serious but calm.
‘Things appear to be under control,’ he says. ‘She’s holding up her oxygen levels.’
A smile lights up my face as my eyes flit to the numbers on the little monitor she’s hooked up too. The oxygen saturation is at 100. Typical Aanchal-type behaviour.
‘Thank you, doctor.’
The doctor reciprocates with a warm, ‘Congratulations.’
He goes on to assure me that the nurses will soon have my little girl dressed up, ready to be taken back to the ward.
‘Has the mother reached the ward yet?’ he queries.
‘Soon, they are saying.’
‘First-time parents?’ he asks.
‘My wife is,’ I say, ‘Not me.’
The doctor throws me a puzzled look and then leaves. A nurse introduces me to the standard infant clothing provided by the hospital.
‘I’ve brought clothes,’ I tell her.
I hand her a bag filled with Rabbani’s old clothes, a sentimental stash Rabbani had made me put in the car. Back then, I had told her it was too early, but she had shouted and screamed and warned me that if I allowed my baby to be dressed in anything else other than her baby clothes, she would never talk to me again. As the nurse gently dresses my newborn daughter, she lets out a high-pitched wail, surprisingly endearing given her petite size.
‘Should I do it instead?’ I tell the nurse.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I can do it in my sleep, sister,’ I tell her.
I slip the little onesie over her little fingers, I trace my finger over her tiny face, and watch her chest rise and fall with every breath she takes. I let her cute, soft feet rest on my palm.
‘I love you,’ I whisper as I wrap her in the blanket that was once Rabbani’s. ‘And you know something?’
She lets out a little whine.
‘Baba is the best, he truly is,’ I whisper. ‘You will find out soon enough. And also, Baba is amazing. We have plenty of time to make you believe it.’
