That Night

“Something… is not right!”

Mummy’s voice cut through the stillness of the night, sharp and urgent. Her eyes, wide and filled with dread, never left the tiny, motionless form lying across her lap. My 4-days-old nephew, the centre of our nucleus.

A weak, distant light from the room's dim bulb barely touched the edges of the dark shadows creeping along the walls. The monotonous hum of the ceiling fan did little to ease the tension pressing down on us, each second dragging on like an eternity.

"Ae Bhaiya… Ae beta… bacha!" ("Hey little one... Hey son... Kiddo!")

She called out, her voice trembling as she gently shook him. Still, no response.

A cold wave of panic flooded me, my heart hammering in my chest. I rushed forward, the world suddenly narrowed, shaking my consciousness uncontrollably.

Hesitantly, I placed a finger under his tiny nostrils, praying for a hint of breath. A flicker of relief washed over me when I felt the faintest exhale. I moved my palm to his chest, the shallow rise and fall, barely noticeable. His warmth still there, didn’t offer the comfort it should have.

I pinched slightly on his tummy. A frown flickered across his face, but he didn’t move.

‘Why isn’t he reacting well? Why isn’t he crying like he should?’

Mummy said, “Na doodh pi raha hain, na urine pass kar raha hai!”

("He’s neither drinking milk nor passing urine!)

A chill ran down my spine. The tension in the room thickened, as if every breath he took was now somehow a test of fate.

“Chalo jaldi karo…. Hospital! Abhi ke abhi…. Turant!” said Mummy.

("Hurry up! Let’s go to the hospital. Right now, immediately!")

Mummy’s voice trembled with a note of desperation, her wrinkled hands, quivering with panic.

No time to think, no room for hesitation. I grabbed a shawl and wrapped him securely, as I gently, but urgently, lifted him in my arms. The weight of him felt heavier with fear, more than his small frame could explain.

The silence around was deafening, louder than any cry could ever be. Mummy was already in the driver’s seat. I climbed in besides her, the night still and unyielding. The world outside oblivious to the storm within.

‘Is the heart beating properly? Is the breathing normal?’

I glanced down at his fragile face, praying for something, or anything. Willing him to cry, to move, to give us a sign.

He didn’t. Time felt unbearable.

I pressed my fingers against his chest again, each heartbeat beneath my fingertips filling me with more anxiety than comfort.

His breath was shallow, distant. My pulse quickened.

Then, without warning, he stirred. A tiny movement. A shift.

I exhaled sharply, relief flooding my body. But it was brief.

Fear had already clasped my torso like a layer of skin that wouldn’t let go. No matter how many times I checked, no matter how many moments of reassurance I tried to give myself, he still wasn’t crying. Still wasn’t moving the way he would.

The car roared to life, and we sped into darkness, chasing hope.

***

Drive to the Hospital

The silence inside the car was suffocating as we zoomed, cutting through the thick, inky darkness of ‘that night.’ Mummy gripped the steering wheel tightly, her knuckles pale under the dim glow of the dashboard.

The little-one lay in my lap. Too still, too quiet. His chest rose and fell in faint, shallow movements. Every few seconds, I pressed my fingers against his tiny chest.

‘Still beating! Still breathing!’

But something was terribly, terribly wrong.

His body’s warmth was the only reassurance. But the fear? That had already seeped into my bones, wrapping around my mind like an unshakable fog.

It was only Four days ago when life had felt so different. I was at work when a message popped up on my phone.

“Hearty Congratulations! You are a Bua (paternal aunt) now. It’s a boy. Mom and baby, fine. Video call karo, jaldi free ho k. (Make a video call, quickly!)” I had stared at the words unblinking. A slow, uncontainable smile, unwilling to leave my face.

‘My nephew is here. My brother is a father. Mummy-Papa are grandparents! Our family has grown. Everything feels complete.’

The rest of that day had been a blur of laughter and joy. Endless phone calls and video conferences, messages pouring in, voices overflowing with joy. The first glimpse of him, so small, so perfect. The way he clenched his tiny fist, yawned as if the world itself was too exhausting to acknowledge. I was nothing less than a pile of love and satisfaction.

‘Happiness, happiness, everywhere!’

However, this happiness was too fragile. Barely hours after we had rejoiced, fate shifted.

Bhabhi’s (sister-in-law’s) health worsened. Severe headache, high fever, and frequent seizures. She was rushed to emergency. Diagnosis: Meningitis, a word that felt heavy, ominous, and threatening. She was immediately moved to the Critical ICU under watchful eyes of the senior-most neurologist.

It had happened so suddenly that none of us got time to process a thing. One moment, she was holding her baby, exhausted but smiling. The next, doctors were rushing, machines were beeping, voices were raised.

I could still hear the echoes of that night. My brother pacing outside the CCU (Critical Care Unit), his face a mask of disbelief. My father standing in silence, his usual quiet presence now something far heavier.

They had stayed at the hospital since then, refusing to leave. Each hour passed in uncertainty, every morning a battle between hope and dread. We were all waiting. Praying for her.

And now, barely days later, we were rushing another life to the hospital. I squeezed my eyes shut.

‘Wasn’t one fight enough?’

Mummy’s voice broke through my thoughts. “Dekho! Check karo phirse! Saas le raha hain na? (Look! Check again! He is breathing, right?)”

I obeyed. My fingers brushed against the baby’s tiny nostrils. The faint rhythm of his heart reassured me, but only for a moment. My mind wouldn’t stop spinning.

‘What if… No. I can’t think like that.’

I checked. Nodded. Checked again. And again. The rhythm of my fear matched the pulse beneath my fingertips.

I forced my gaze out the window, watching the empty streets trade past. The world outside was unaware of the storm raging within.

‘It’s been a mere four days! Four days since joy has turned into fear and panic.’

I looked down at him again. He had no idea. No idea of the battles being fought around him. No idea that his mother was lying in a hospital bed, fighting for her life. No idea that his father hadn’t slept a second, nor that his grandparents were shattering under the weight of their helplessness.

And yet, here he was. Fighting his own silent battle.

The hospital gates came into view, their presence heavy with an unsettling familiarity. I inhaled sharply, willing my heart to calm down.

“We’re almost there,” I whispered, more to myself than to him.

We had no choice but to keep going. For him. For her. For all of us.

***

Through the Transparent Facade

Finally, the never-ending drive ended and we reached the hospital gate. I saw an ambulance waiting with its back doors open. Papa and Bhaiya were already there, their faces etched with exhaustion and worry.

A nurse hurried to my side and opened my car door, as soon as we stopped. She reached for the baby with her skilled hands, definite and well-rehearsed. But mine were not. They resisted, subconsciousness and instinct tightening my grip.

‘No. No. Not yet.’

A second passed, then another. My mind screamed at me to let go, but my naïve heart gripped on. Then I saw Papa, just behind her. His eyes filled with silent reassurance, pleading yet strong. My arms shivered again, but finally, I had to let go.

The nurse swiftly took him, handing him over to Bhaiya, whose fingers shook as he cradled the tiny bundle. She gestured for them to enter the ambulance. Papa and Bhaiya climbed in, their worry pressing down like a weight.

The doors shut. The siren wailed. And the ambulance left in the blink of an eye, leaving its trail on the path for us to follow.

‘Oh! They’re taking him to the paediatric department through a shortcut.’

We parked as quickly as we could and rushed upstairs. By the time we reached, he was already inside the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU). Bhaiya stood at the nurses’ station, his head bent over a stack of forms, signing them with stiff, mechanical movements. Papa was besides him, hurriedly counting the cash he had withdrawn from a nearby ATM, his fingers moving quickly as if money could buy time. The sight of them, of the desperation on their faces, made my chest tighten.

Mummy, utterly drained, could barely stand and swayed on her feet. I caught her arm, guiding her to a bench. "Mummy sit," I whispered, “and just rest for a moment.” My voice barely felt like mine. Though I knew rest was impossible for any of us, she sank onto the seat, eyes unfocused but shut, breath shallow.

Then, I turned towards the NICU, my feet moving on their own. Through the transparent facade, I saw him. And my world caved in. So tiny, so fragile. He lay inside the Neonatal Incubator cum thermoregulator. His delicate body was swallowed by the sterile glass. No clothes, just a diaper.

Wires, tubes, and beeping machines surrounded him along with things I failed to fathom. An IV line pierced his minuscule arm, and a breathing mask covered his mouth. His chest rose and fell in quick, shallow movements.

He looked... lost.

My brain refused to process the image before me. In no time, my nephew was that baby who was fighting a battle he didn’t even know existed.

A sharp pain sliced through me. My throat tightened. My stomach churned. My legs wobbled. A wave of dizziness hit me. My vision blurred. My heartbeat pounded in my ears. The sterile white walls seemed to close in. I felt myself sway. The floor tilted and my body couldn’t hold itself.

A pair of firm hands grabbed my shoulders. "Hey, sit here!" a nurse’s firm voice cut through the haze. She hurried to my side, steadying me. I collapsed onto the nearby bench, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

Another nurse rushed over with a stethoscope, oximeter, and blood pressure monitor, wrapping the cuff around my forearm. The machine beeped. "Your readings are fine," she said gently, "But you need to calm down.” She held for a while and added, “Don’t you worry dear. He’s in safe hands."

‘Safe hands? How? When he not with me?’

She handed me a bottle of water and motioned to a ward boy. “Four cups of coffee,” she instructed, her voice calm yet commanding.

I nodded numbly, gripping the water bottle. But I wasn’t sure I even remembered how to drink. Her words barely got registered.

‘My precious nephew is trapped in a glass box and I can do nothing. I was supposed to protect him. I promised myself. And yet, here we are?’

It felt as if a part of my own body had been torn away and placed inside a disinfected glass container. Yes, my nephew had become that precious to me. Like a segment of my very own.

In that moment, all I could do was sit there.

Frozen, helpless, and waiting.

Waiting for hope. Waiting for a sign. Waiting for him to come back to me.

***

Ten Minutes of Forever

The hospital lobby buzzed with a noiseless intensity, the air thick with worry and whispered prayers. The night stretched endlessly as we waited outside the NICU, staring through the glass at the tiny figure inside, fighting a war.

The nurse’s words swirled in my head. “He needs to urinate within this hour.”

Every passing minute felt heavier, stretching time into something unbearable.

After the long assurance, Mom and Dad agreed to go home, reluctant, exhausted beyond words, promising to return at dawn.

Both me and Bhaiya decided to stay back at the hospital. He was to remain besides his wife, while I refused to leave the NICU.

I was left alone in the sterile silence of the hospital, where all I could do was whisper silent prayers. Time passed in a blur until a voice pulled me back.

 “I just changed his soaked diaper.” A sigh of relief finally escaped when the nurse continued, “Also, the colour of his urine looks fine.”

Something inside me loosened at those words, like a tight wound thread finally giving way. My mind, numb until now, began to process reality again. Without wasting a moment, I called my brother, who was somewhere within the hospital campus.

“She’s stable for now,” he said. “But the doctor mentioned that next 21 days are crucial.”

“Did you eat anything?” I asked, already certain of the answer. Not waiting for his response, I added, “Let’s grab something quickly from the hospital canteen. See you there in five.”

We sat across from each other, staring blankly at the steaming plate of poha. The warmth of the food did nothing to thaw the heaviness in the microclimate. Just silent. As if weighed down by an invisible force. Our minds were a whirlwind of endless unspoken thoughts, yet in that moment, there was nothing to say.

We ate mechanically, forcing down each bite, swallowing without tasting for the sake of our physical bodies that demanded it. Hunger and thirst had long ceased to exist.

When the plates were finally empty, we looked at each other. Then, stood up in unspoken understanding and started walking.

Bhaiya walked back with me to the Paediatric department. He stood outside the NICU for a while, watching his child through the glass, then exchanged a few words with the nurse on duty. Finally, he turned to me, exhaled, and gave a small nod.

“Call me if you need, alright?”

I nodded, “You too,” as watched him get inside the elevator.

I had barely settled into my seat when the nurse walked up to me.

“We need more diapers.” Paused and continued, “Yes and also, ORS. Please get them from the pharmacy on ground floor.”

Without a second thought, I rushed downstairs to the drugstore located at the extreme end of a long corridor. The chemist, utterly unfazed by my urgency, looked up and asked, “Madam, how old is the baby?”

“Four days,” I said. Then thought for a while, looked at my wrist watch and revised, “Five, actually,” my voice almost cracking.

He nodded, then casually added, “Which flavour ORS do you want?”

“Flavour?” I blinked, thrown off by the absurdity of that question. “There are… flavours?”

“Yes, madam. Apple, orange, mango, pineapple, strawberry, peach…”

For a moment, the weight of the night wavered, just a bit.

‘A four-day-old baby choosing his favourite ORS flavour? Should I laugh or be exasperated.’

It felt so absurd that I could almost hear the sarcasm in my own head.

“Please, give me one of each,” I said, exhaling sharply.

Armed with my stockpile, I hurried back upstairs and handed everything over to the nurse. Just as I turned to leave, she gestured for me to come inside.

“Wear these,” she said, handing me a shoe cover, a sterile disposable gown, and a cap to cover my hair, all like what she was also wearing. The only difference was in the colour. I put them on along with gloves of the same material as she smoothly led me inside the NICU.

She guided me to sit on a chair, placed besides my nephew’s transparent bed case. Then, ever so gently, she placed him in my arms and…

… the world stopped!

His warmth, so delicate, so familiar. As if he had known me all along. He stirred slightly, his tiny body shifting, nestling closer. My heart clenched.

‘Hey! he knows it’s me. He recognizes me.’

The nurse smiled. "You can stay for ten minutes. I saw how worried you were and requested special permission. Take your time with him and I shall be back in a while."

But time didn’t exist in that moment. It was just me and him. The prayers, the fears, the exhaustion, they melted away. He belonged here, in my arms, safe.

When the nurse returned, I barely registered her presence. She gently took him back and placed him where he belonged, for now.

Then turning towards me with disbelief in her eyes, she whispered, "You’re his Bua, aren’t you? Not his mother?"

I nodded absently, still lost in the moment, "Yes, he’s my brother’s child."

She exhaled, shaking her head. "I just found out now. Oh my God! How is his mother doing?"

"She’s stable for now but the doctor says that next 21 days are crucial."

"Don’t worry, all will be fine. It’s just a matter of time."

I nodded, offering a small, grateful smile.

"Actually," she hesitated, glancing at me, "I thought you were his mother. Even the other nurses were saying the same until now when the head nurse shared your story with us. We’ve never seen a Bua like this." Her voice softened. "You love him that much!"

I looked down at the tiny face nestled against me and smiled through my tears.

By morning, Mom and Dad had returned. They met Bhabhi’s doctor first, then all three of them joined me outside the NICU, just in time for the 8 AM rounds. The paediatrician finally gave us a proper update.

"The infection is under control, but the baby needs to stay here a few more days. He developed gastric issues due to the sudden switch from mother’s milk to formula. His sensitive gut couldn’t process the heaviness of it, leading to infection and severe dehydration. I’m prescribing another formula now. This one should be fine."

He paused, his gaze steady and reassuring. Then turning towards me, with a gentle nod, he added, "He’s doing well."

The sterile air, the rhythmic beeping of monitors, and the hurried footsteps of the hospital staff had become our world, as if time itself had dug in its heels, refusing to move forward. However, after a long and relentless week, we could finally take him home.

As we carried him out of the hospital, the nurses gathered around, their voices warm with admiration.

"We’ve never seen a Bua like you. Not in this lifetime."

He was all chirpy and full of life, as if he had befriended the entire department. He laughed, cooed, and responded in his sweet, melodic voice, as if sharing secrets with them while saying goodbye. The nurses giggled back. Their affection evident.

He was safe. And I, forever, was his Bua.

***

A huge crisis had been averted, but the ordeal wasn't over yet. Bhabhi was still fighting, completely unaware of everything that had transpired.

The baby cried often at night. Mom and I took turns soothing him. Every time I rocked him to sleep, I whispered prayers in his tiny ears.

Then, the moment of relief. One I’ll never forget.

“She’s responding well. We’re shifting her to a private ward today. You can take the baby to her,” the Neurologist said.

Recovery was slow, all small steps felt monumental and then, she finally managed to hold her child. Tears flowed like rivers. Countless prayers and unconditional blessings soared from the hearts. An unforgettable moment was woven. One that could never be forgotten.

A bond was born from love, from survival, from the countless instants that made my brother’s child as my own.

***

‘Days have turned into years. By god’s grace, Bhaiya, Bhabhi, my nephew, and all of us have been living a life of good health, happiness, and contentment. My little nephew is ten now. With unwavering certainty, he tells the world,

“Meri Bua meri best friend hai!” (My Bua is my best friend.)

Every time he says it, my heart smiles.

I may not have given birth to him, but he is mine. My firstborn.

And will always be!’

***

“Dear Readers, of all the stories I have shared, this one is the closest to my heart because it is my own. A story of an extraordinary love, an unbreakable bond, and a journey that continues to unfold in this very lifetime, with my dearest nephew.

This story is a #Distend of my other story, titled "Fragile Yet Resilient," submitted for Quintale-69.”