After seeing the devastating reports at Fortis, our minds began spinning, unable to silence the haunting echoes of Shera Baba’s words and my father’s warnings. The idea of black magic, once too far-fetched to consider, now lingered in the background of every conversation. We couldn’t explain how or why this was happening, but we also couldn’t ignore that something beyond logic seemed to be playing a part.
We decided to return to Ferozepur—our comfort zone—to consult our trusted family doctor and a few local specialists. Amidst these visits, we met Shera Baba again. He looked at Raman with concern and guided us to perform certain rituals to seek divine protection and strength. Desperate for any form of relief, we agreed and offered prayers with full faith.
For a brief while, it felt like the prayers had worked. Raman’s reports showed improvement—our hopes reignited. But just like every other time, this recovery didn’t last. Soon, his creatinine levels began climbing again, as if our optimism was being tested again and again.
Determined not to waste more time, we sought out Dr. Aulakh, a reputed kidney specialist. He advised a biopsy to understand the underlying cause. Raman was admitted to the hospital for the procedure. My brother Paras and my father-in-law accompanied us to Ludhiana to support us emotionally. I felt a little less alone in those moments.
The wait for the biopsy results was painfully long—ten days of anxiety. When the results finally came in, the words “Chronic Kidney Disease” were scribbled in bold. But thankfully, the stage wasn't critical yet. Dr. Aulakh was hopeful. “No transplant for now. Just proper medication and close monitoring for the next three months,” he assured us.
Life didn’t stop testing us. During this fragile period, both Raman and I got infected with COVID-19. Thankfully, the symptoms were mild—we only lost our sense of taste and smell. But little did we know, even a minor infection could be silently pushing Raman further into danger. His immunity was already compromised, and every little setback was worsening the disease, though we couldn’t see it at the time.
I turned into a night owl, endlessly scrolling through articles, blogs, and medical journals about CKD (Chronic Kidney Disease). I was hungry for information, desperate for a cure, and terrified of the unknown. But despite following every instruction and trying allopathic and even homeopathy medicine, the pattern repeated—initial relief, then sudden deterioration. Each failed attempt chipped away a little more of our hope.
Amid all this, came a moment we had long waited for—my younger brother’s wedding. He shared a deep bond with Raman, and we were excited to celebrate love and new beginnings. But our joy was crushed when Raman’s entire body swelled up—his face, hands, legs, and arms
But our joy was crushed when Raman’s entire body swelled up—his face, hands, legs, and arms looked nothing like they used to. He was in visible discomfort, yet he tried to hide his pain behind a weak smile, not wanting to spoil the celebrations. But I could see through it—my heart sank. The excitement we had held onto for my brother’s wedding faded into fear and helplessness.
In search of better treatment, we came across Dr. Sorav Goyal at Delhi Heart & Multi-Specialty Hospital, Moga. There was a glimmer of hope again. We immediately decided to consult him. But something strange had started to repeat—a pattern that hurt more than I could express. Every time we planned a doctor’s visit together, Raman’s father would subtly suggest I stay home or at work. “You’re already taking too many leaves, Rabia. If both of you are absent, what will people say?” he'd insist.
Despite my instincts screaming otherwise, I gave in—thinking perhaps practicality was more important than emotion. With a heavy heart, I stayed back each time. I hated watching Raman walk into appointments alone, but I tried to convince myself that we were doing what was necessary for the long run.
Inside, however, I was crumbling.
I wanted to be there to hold his hand during those tests. I wanted to be beside him when the doctor spoke. I wanted to be his strength, not just emotionally but physically too—sitting beside him, asking questions, remembering every medical instruction. But the cruel truth of our responsibilities, family expectations, and unspoken barriers kept creating distance even when all I wanted was closeness.
And yet, despite all this, Raman never complained. He would return from every appointment with a hopeful tone, trying to protect me from more worry. “Everything’s fine, Rabia. Just a few more precautions,” he’d say with his soft smile—the same smile that held our world together through the darkest storms.
But somewhere deep down, we both knew… the battle was no longer just medical—it had become emotional, spiritual, and silent.
Reflection – There’s a guilt I carry from this chapter—a guilt that I wasn’t physically present beside Raman when he needed me the most. Even though I was emotionally there, the absence during those doctor visits haunts me. Society, responsibilities, and unspoken pressure forced me to sit back when my heart wanted to run after him. And while I don’t blame anyone, I do question—why do we, as women, keep sacrificing even in the moments when love demands our presence? If I could go back, I would choose differently… I would have held his hand through it all, come what may.
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