The Battle for Love

Growing up, my sister, Aditi, was the difficult child in our family. I was the quiet one—meek, obedient, and always trying to make our parents happy. Aditi, on the other hand, was always at odds with our mother, Maa.

“I wish I'd never had you,” Maa screamed at Aditi during one of their many fights.

Aditi's eyes flashed with defiance. “I hate you. I wish no one had a mother like you.”

The door slammed shut as I ran after Aditi to console her. Her board exams were approaching, and she couldn't afford to be in a bad mood.

“Aditi! Open the door!” I banged on her door, my voice trembling with urgency.

A faint voice came from inside. “I just hate her, Hirak. I hate her.”

Maa’s voice followed, full of bitterness. “I hope no one has a daughter like you.”

Two years later, on January 9, 2012, Aditi fell from the fourth floor while Maa and I were away on a picnic. For two months, she fought for her life in the hospital while Maa lost her sanity.

Maa stopped eating, spending her days at temples praying, visiting fortune tellers who took advantage of her desperation, and buying rings supposed to bring good luck. She begged her office colleagues to donate blood and cried whenever she was alone.

She blamed herself. She never said it, but I knew she did. She murmured how this would never have happened if she had been home.

Debt mounted, Aditi’s organs failed one after another, and her fever soared. The doctors gave her a ten percent chance of survival. We ran out of money. Maa had to find a way, any way, to save her.

Back then, the railways had a scheme for employees where they reimbursed medical expenses if receipts were submitted. The process could take months, even years, but we didn’t have time. Maa pleaded with officials in Delhi to expedite the process. There was no response.

Coincidentally, Maa contracted chicken pox from Aditi. Sweaty, with a throbbing headache, barely able to stand, she was marked by the disease. Yet, the imminent death of her daughter loomed larger than her own suffering.

“Maa, where are you going? Are you okay? You look sick,” I said, worry etched across my face.

Maa stared at me in silence. Finally, she said, “Don’t touch me. I think I have chicken pox.”

“Then where are you going?”

“I have to go to Delhi, Hirak. Please take care. Everything will be okay. I promise.”

Her last words weren’t for me; they were for herself. I said nothing and waved a heavy goodbye. Baba stayed behind to look after Aditi while Maa made the almost thirty-hour journey to Delhi, enduring excruciating pain, with no money for a flight.

Upon reaching Delhi, she waited desperately for a meeting while Aditi was prepped for surgery. Maa survived on Parle-G and water. In Kolkata, the tension was palpable. No one ate; we all waited for news.

In Delhi, Maa was denied a meeting on the first day. Dehydrated and feverish, she fainted but picked herself up, determined to fight for Aditi. Her body temperature was 103 degrees in the cold January air.

Day one passed. Day two. Seconds turned into minutes, minutes into hours. The unbearable wait stretched on. Finally, the phone rang in Kolkata. The papers were processed, Maa’s request was fast-tracked, and the money was arranged.

Aditi underwent surgery the next day. Today, she is alive because Maa risked her life to save hers.

Two years before, they had wished each other dead. Two years later, one risked her life to save the other’s.

This incident transformed my understanding of love and loss. It taught me that just because you fight doesn’t mean you stop loving someone.

Years later, I stood at Aditi’s wedding, watching her glow with happiness. Maa and Aditi shared a laugh, their past conflicts now mere shadows. The pain and struggles had forged a bond stronger than ever before.

In the quiet moments of the wedding, I reflected on the journey we had endured. The tears, the fears, the desperate prayers, and the unfathomable sacrifices—these had reshaped our family.

As Aditi walked down the aisle, she glanced at Maa, and they shared a look of profound understanding. No words were needed. Their love, once hidden beneath layers of anger and hurt, now shone brightly.

In the years that followed, our family grew closer. We learned to cherish each moment, to forgive quickly, and to love deeply. The scars of the past remained, but they were a testament to our strength and resilience.

Maa’s journey to Delhi, her battle against her own body to save her daughter, became a family legend. It was a story of unyielding love, of a mother’s sacrifice, and of the unbreakable bond between a mother and her child.

I often revisited that dark time in my mind, not with sorrow, but with gratitude. It had taught us the true meaning of family, of love, and of the incredible strength that lies within us.

Aditi’s recovery was slow, but she emerged stronger, both physically and emotionally. She pursued her dreams with a newfound determination, inspired by the love and sacrifices that had saved her life.

Maa’s health eventually recovered, though the memories of those harrowing days never faded. They became a reminder of what we had endured and overcome together.

Our family’s story is one of love tested by adversity, of bonds strengthened through unimaginable trials, and of a mother’s unwavering devotion. It is a story that continues to inspire us, reminding us that no matter the conflicts or the pain, love endures, and it is this love that defines us.

And so, as I watched Aditi start a new chapter in her life, I knew that our past had shaped us, but it was our love that had carried us through. It was a love that transcended words and actions, a love that had been forged in the crucible of suffering and had emerged unbreakable