The first time I left my child alone was for another child.
Yes, I chose to let my son sleep in his cradle, under the able supervision of my mother-in-law, better put as his grandmother. Details such as day, date, and time don’t obey me, and I care least about spending my memorising power on remembering such physical phenomena. So, I don’t recall the exact date or day, but, yes, I do vividly remember that phone call that marked the first physical distance between my son and me.
****
The sun was bidding goodbye to the landscape of the sky. Golden rays diffusing into the horizon were letting out an orange hue to linger on for some time. The evening, cool breeze nuzzled the leaves, and the trees swayed in rhythmic glory. Chirping birds flew in flocks over the saffron sky, eager to get back to their babies, anticipating their return.
I sat watching this miracle of nature with a hot cup of coffee and thanking my stars that I was still on a maternity break. The son had just fallen into a deep slumber after a ginormous session of breastfeeding. The new and excited grandmother had taken charge of the kitchen and was busy tempering her curries over worries with a gusto like never before.
The silky aroma of a simple dal fry enthralled my senses. The cooker whistled a fourth time, and I rushed to close the door to avoid disturbing a sleeping baby. Once awake, the input and output cycle would repeat. I threw a long glance at his blissful face. Long eyelashes shut in a kiss. Rosebud-like lips that moved in a sucking action. Arms and legs wound in a bundle of old cotton saree. Through the netted cover of the cradle, I was witnessing my egg take shape and form. I skipped a beat.
‘I love him more than anything in this world. I can go to any length to be by his side all my life. I just can’t stay away from him, even if it was for a fleeting moment.’
Barely, I must have uttered those words under my hushed breath, my loud ringtone broke my reverie. I cursed myself for not keeping the phone on silent mode. Hurriedly, I answered the call.
‘Ha, call…okay…okay…no, I can’t. But…listen…okay, I will be there.’
I disconnected the call. My mother-in-law was, by then, a witness to my crestfallen face.
****
I am a consulting homoeopath, and was practising even during pregnancy; my delivery too didn’t deter me from seeing my patients. The only difference was that I saw them at my home, in my study, for a brief time, but I did. My family had been kind enough to make this adjustment to accommodate my passion for medicine. Then, and now, children remain the core of my practice. Sweet pills lure them into my medicinal space.
Thus, I was privileged enough to work from home, even when the era never demanded it. When swollen feet and belly made it difficult for me to wade toward the clinic, this homemade set-up came to my rescue. I was relaxed and found the work-life balance exciting.
Only to realise later that a doctor’s life is not a bed of roses and conveniences. One has to learn to place patients above one’s priorities.
****
The phone call was not an emergency, but I was definitely called urgently.
A six-year-old girl had fallen from the stairs, and she refused to allow another doctor to touch her. There was a deep gash on her forehead, and she would bleed to death but not allow the ‘suiwala’ doctor to touch her. The parents had taken her to the general practitioner’s clinic but were helplessly standing, waiting for her to cooperate. That was when the practitioner suggested calling me.
I was skeptical of leaving my son, given that it would soon be his feeding time. The clinic was at a distance of around twenty minutes, and I wouldn’t be back for at least an hour. My son was only three months old then, and I wanted to be selfish. Forget that I was a doctor. Oh, forget that I was a human with a thudding heart.
‘How can you forget that you are a parent, now? With that, how can you ignore the anguish of another parent who called you?’
My mother-in-law’s quiet but firm tone told me what I should have understood otherwise. Many times, realisation comes not through within but with external guidance. Minutes before, I was promising my son how I would never let him alone, and here, I was packing my bag to visit my little patient.
That day, when I left the house, with the son sleeping in innocent ignorance that his mother was around, guilt flooded my conscience. I went to calm the girl who ate my sweet pills, a placebo, of course, me assuring her that the pills were a kind of anaesthesia more powerful than the sui. My hands firmly held her forehead as the doctor went about his business. Whenever the girl cried in pain, I placed a dose of the sweet pills on her grieving tongue. The stitches were successful.
But now, who would knit the gaping hole in my heart filled to the brim with guilt?
Back home, a beautiful picture welcomed me.
The son was happily playing with his grandparents; they were enjoying his cooing, and he was being entertained by their funny gestures. My mother-in-law smiled at me. A kind of smile suggesting, after all, I am a mother, too.
****
Yes, the first time I left my child alone was for another child, and today, I don’t regret it. This, in fact, gave me the confidence and courage to do so more often and not feel guilty about it.
Aparna Salvi Nagda
Dr. Aparna Salvi Nagda is a consulting homeopath by profession and writer by passion. The Labyrinth Of Silence is her first full-length novel while previously she published Not So Grave, a novella, on Kindle. You can reach out to her at aparnanagda04@gmail.com
