Helpless Days

*

London had slowly become less intimidating and more familiar over six months. The chaos of settling in had dulled and been replaced by the humdrum of lectures, coursework, and the occasional exploration of the city's endless cobbled streets.

I have also established a consistent routine. Now my days are mostly spent in university libraries, my evenings scribbling notes or working on assignments, and my nights quietly staring out of the dormitory window, lost in my thoughts.

Shalini had become a constant presence in my life. Her fiery energy and quick wit could light up a room during dark times. Ever since we met, she's helped me with literally everything, from navigating the confusing university system to finding Indian groceries in the bustling markets of London. Yet, despite her kindness, I keep myself wrapped in an invisible shell. I smile, I thank, I converse, but my heart remains locked away.

One chilly morning, as I walked briskly to the university, my phone buzzed. The name flashing on the screen froze me mid-step. It was my mother calling from India.

Her voice on the other end was shaking, a thin thread of composure barely holding back tears. "Ashna, your father... the doctors say it's serious. They've diagnosed him with a rare disease, beta-stage cancer."

The world around me seemed to tilt. The noise of traffic and the chatter of passersby—all of it faded into a muffled haze. I gripped my phone tighter, as if holding on to it could somehow anchor me.

"But he'll be okay, right?" I whispered, my voice barely audible.

There was a pause on the other end, followed by a weak, "We're praying, beta."

As the call ended, I was paralysed in the middle of a busy street. The words echoed in my mind like a cruel chant: rare disease... beta-stage cancer... praying...

Over the next few days, I attempted to carry out my routine, but worry and helplessness clouded my mind. Coming from a middle-class family, I knew the harsh truth—there was no way I could afford to fly back home to India. I felt trapped, thousands of miles away, powerless to help my family.

The old, familiar feelings of worthlessness during my childhood began to resurface. My childhood wounds reopened, whispering cruelly to me: You're cursed. Everyone you love will leave you. You don't deserve happiness.

Within a month, my father's chemotherapy sessions in India started. As I heard the complications of chemo on my dad's health, I felt as if I was drowning in a deep pit. My hunger died, I started skipping meals, my usually sharp gaze dulled, and my frame looked thinner and more fragile. My quiet suffering didn't escape Shalini's sharp eyes, though. Shalini knew better than to push too hard, but her worry grew with each passing day.

One evening, Shalini barged into my room, her usual cheerful tone replaced by quiet determination. "Ashna, yeh sab kya ho raha hai? Tumne apna haal dekha hai? Batao, kya problem hai?"

I looked up, startled. "Shalini, I'm fine. Don't worry."

"Fine? Seriously? Look at yourself in the mirror and then tell me you're fine," Shalini retorted, folding her arms.

In that moment, I do not know what happened, but her direct charges made me feel that I have someone to share my pains with. And so the dam burst. Words spilt from my lips —Dad's diagnosis, the financial impossibility of returning home, and the dark thoughts that had begun to gnaw at my mind. By the end of it, tears streamed down her face, her body trembling from the weight of it all.

She sat beside me and placing a comforting hand on my shoulder. 

"Ashna," she said softly, her usual exuberance replaced by rare tenderness, "tumhare saath main hoon, hamesha. Tumhe yeh sab akela nahi sehna padega."

Her words, simple as they were, felt like rain on parched earth. I looked at her, my vision blurred with tears, and for the first time in months, I felt a sliver of relief.

The next morning, Shalini announced with enormous enthusiasm, "Bas, yeh nahi chalega. You're coming with me to a party this weekend. No excuses."

I frowned. "Shalini, I don't think—"

"Arre chup! Bahut ho gaya tumhara: 'I don't think.' Trust me, yeh party tumhare liye zaroori hai," Shalini said, grinning. "It's just a house-warming. Kuch zyada nahi, sirf close friends."

Reluctantly, I agreed. I wasn't in the mood to socialise, but the earnestness in Shalu's voice made it impossible to refuse. Maybe, just maybe, this was the distraction I needed to pull myself out of the suffocating darkness.