Free A Sister's Promise by Renita D'Silva Page A

But . . . so much happened in the past, and she and I . . . we’re not close anymore and . . . the longer I left it, the harder it became.’ A pause, then, ‘I am leaving some letters for you to read here by your bedside, just in case you wake up before I come back, sweetie. They’ll tell you what happened, why I haven’t spoken of my sister . . .’
    Letters. The sheaf of papers she’d been clutching when I opened my eyes and saw her beloved self snoozing in the chair beside me.
    ‘In these letters which I’ve written over the years, I’ve penned our story: yours and mine, every word a prayer and a wish. Like you, I too find solace in words, Kushi. These letters are like my diary. I carry them everywhere with me, tucked into my sari blouse, adding more letters to the pile as and when I feel the need to write. They were with me when this happened to you and I’ve written a couple more and have been re-reading the earlier ones while waiting for you to wake. I hope they’ll tell you what I have tried and failed to do so many times all these years. I hope they will explain what I cannot.’ Her voice makes me think of marshmallow clouds in a rainbow sky at sunset.
    ‘I am going now, my love. I will be back before you know it.’ I feel her breath warming my cheeks, her lips pressing against my forehead. I am enveloped in her smell: sweat and sandalwood and worry and fear.
    Then I hear the soft rustle of paper settling, the breezy swish of her sari skirt, her gentle footfall walking away. She is gone, and I am bereft. The displaced air beside my bed settles with a sigh. My heart is heavy with the weight of words unsaid.
    I wait, listening to the sounds around me. The grumbles and the groans of pain. The determinedly cheerful chatter of nurses and the discordant drone of visiting relatives.
    Then, slowly, I drag my unwilling eyes open, and look around.
    I can make out rows of beds on either side of me, their occupants sprouting tubes like mine; only part of a hand, or a curl of ebony hair, or a flash of skin are visible.
    Before I can take in any more, a nurse bustles up, smiling kindly. ‘Awake, missy? And how are we doing?’ She adjusts some of the tubes feeding into my body.
    ‘Your ma has not left your bedside all this while, not even to eat.’ The nurse nods toward the chair beside me. ‘That’s been her bed you know, that chair and a similar one when you were in the ICU. Just her luck that the moment she pops out, you wake up.’
    I feel a stab of guilt. I couldn’t face you, Ma. Not when I’m all over the place. Sorry, Ma. I need some time to gather myself.
    ‘She’ll be back soon. Meanwhile, you’ll be seeing rather a lot of me.’ The nurse winks. ‘Your ma asked us no less than twenty times to keep an eye on you before she left.’ She grins, yanking at a tube. It stings.
    To distract myself, I look past the row of beds, breathing in the pale lemon smell of medicine and misery, urine and phenyl, hurt and entreaties, anguish and hope. I imagine I can hear the whisper of a thousand frantic prayers, heroic faith trumping desperate odds. I fancy I can taste the greenish orange of wretched despair at war with cautious optimism.
    Doctors—fatigued gods in their smudged white coats and sallow grey faces—field, with each impeded step, the pleading, prostrate relatives, with their folded hands and their swollen eyes, begging them to rescue their loved ones from the dominion of death.
    ‘All looking good. Your doctor will be along shortly. I will look in on you again in a bit. If you need anything just press this button here.’ And with another kind smile, the nurse moves up to the next bed.
    The chair beside me is devoid of Ma, but, as promised, she has left letters there in her stead.
    I have a purpose now, something to distract me from my misery. My mother’s story and why she has never mentioned her sister all this while.
    The other Kushi, the girl I was before the accident, would have been annoyed