"48 hours" the doctors say. she's a year younger, slipping away into peaceful sleep, the sort of sleep that has no awakening. we haven't met much, but she is like a sister, very close to my heart. i can't say why i am writing this, i don't know what to say really, "R.I.P" or "you're better off up there" or "you'll live in our hearts" and such crap don't make sense at all! i'll miss her very very much. "48 hours" is that little glimmer of hope, which i know will fail me. god i wish many more birthdays for her. and it's so unfair that she has to go this way. we all knew this had to come, we prepared ourselves to face it, its still a shock that this moment is arriving.
Apraajeeta aka Appi, (name changed) my dad's bestfriend's daughter. i'm not sure if she turned 20. her mum runs a bootique and god she looked so elegant. petite, that little face and that cute giggle and the way she spoke, so calm, collected and well, respectful. very very respectful. though i am just a year elder than her, she addressed me as akka, meaning elder sister in Telugu. even we treated her like a child, maybe because she never grew. the hight of a dwarf - but how does it matter?
i've always known her with a liver disease. the elders spoke about it and we were never to question. but i have a vague memory of asking, during my early teenage days. mum explained patiently and all i remember is that she won't live for long. wow, she was never given the chance to dream of a long, happy and healthy life. we all want our fairytale, cute and clichét, but she was always told to live a short life long. god she braved it! words fail me, it's so difficult to go on. no, i am sure she won't be very happy reading this, because i know, too much of sympathising and empathising don't float our boat! we are a little different, we have bodyparts that aren't too kind to us. eyes in my case, liver in hers. we've never wanted sympathy and empathy, we lothe those emotions, and we can not handle it! i was scared to ask mum, so i asked her.
"are you unwell? what's wrong with your health?"
"nothing at all. why do you ask?" she asked, aiming at nonchalance with success. she did not answer.
i was 11, she was 10. and clearly, i would have answered in the same way had someone asked me about my eyesight.
the world needs to know, heros like her lived, she had the truth presented naked in front of her - everytime someone met her, they expressed their simpathy. she lived till 20, obviously she was used to it, but still. again, a vague memory - "when i'm an older woman..." what? no, no more of it i can remember. then her mum repeated it to her dad "when she's an older woman..."
six months ago i heard of her again. mum was out when she got a call from her family. and it was no good news. she was diagnosed with liver cancer. cancer, the sideeffect of her medication. it had already spread to her lungues then and the doctors informed that she was too weak to survive the radiotherapy. now that's called a heartbreak. we, young women sob for the men who leave us! her parents had planned a liver transplantation for her. it took them years to earn to afford a highly expensive and uncertain surgery for their only daughter, and it was too late by then. mum was shakened, she did not speak to her family after that phone call. she didn't know what to say, she kept thinking about it and she cried a little at the thought. dad went for their house warming ceremony. they had planned it so that their relatives from around the world could visit her for one last time. dad described her as "fragile". we spoke to her over the phone and she was delighted to speak to us after so long. my throat knotted but i could hold it in. it was wonderful to hear her voice. i congratulated her. she had the choice to not study. they said high amounts of pressure could cause epilepsy, but she took it onto herself, the 12th board exams in the Medicle stream - something we crib about all the time. she aced it with grades above 85. she aspired to become a doctor. god, you could have spared her another 10 years, you saw the spark in her.
this was the time when one of my friends was highly disturbed about his brother's cancer, somewhare near the throat, it eventually affected the food pipe, and days after, sometime in February, he left behind a young wife and a son around 10 years old. life doesn't just stop for the heaven dwellers, does it? but heaven dwellers, really? i just can't muster the courage to say dead!
then there's the fault in our stars. what a desirable love story. the book is tragic, beautiful and fiction, but talking about the movie - the terminally ill cancer patient, the heroine has perfect skin, perfect hair and a history of radiotherapy sessions. she bumps into an ultra-gorgeous, extremely chivalrous gentleman who falls for her even when she does absolutely nothing to impress him. what does it lead to? puberty hitting, discovering and sexually frustrated women craving to share the story with the protagonist. films really need to grow realistic. cancer is the last thing anyone should romantisize about, please, it isn't cool at all.
dad is leaving to see Appi tomorrow. mum was telling us about the pictures of her craft that Appi had uploaded on facebook. she was selling them. i heard mum telling dad to buy a few for us.
the last time Appi spoke to me over the phone, after her cancer diagnosis, she said she wanted to come visit us in Delhi. but the doctors forbade her from travelling. mum called up and her dad was telling her about how Appi had been criing for going to hyderabad day before yesterday. she fell weak while travelling and threw up blood. the doctors informed that she would slip into coma and she did, at the given time, around 1:30 in the afternoon. they took her home. we have only 48 hours, they say. math counts lesser.
we don't want to do this, but we are counting down, hour after hour, minute after minute. and you know what? Appi was never told she has cancer. she kept looking forward to the liver transplantation. i can't really say if it is right, because her parents didn't want her to suffer. she deserved a normal life, and she lived it.
editing:
Appi is gone. it's her amma's birthday today.
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