Illness

It all started one day when Mom cam back from work, her face slicked with sweat. Her saree clung to her body obscenely.

"Ma, what's wrong?" I said, hurrying over to her side.

As I steadied her, she spoke, "Beta, it's nothing," she stumbled, "I'm not feeling very well." Her voice was shaky, her breathing uneven. I helped her to the couch, noticing how her pallu had slipped entirely off her shoulder, revealing the sweat-slicked skin beneath. She didn’t even seem to notice—something was off. Mom never let her pallu fall off like that.

Her fingers trembled as she reached for a glass of water, the liquid sloshing over the rim onto her damp blouse. The thin fabric turned translucent where it stuck to her skin, outlining the curve of her breast in a way that made my stomach twist. This wasn’t just fatigue—this was something worse.

I rushed Mom to the doctor's clinic, but it was of no use; the doctor's couldn't determine anything conclusive. Moreover, Mom wouldn't be able to go to work until she was healthy again. That meant we only had a week until we would end up on the streets, our bank account emptied.

I tried to sooth Mom, "It's alright, you'll be better after some rest."

I was wrong. The next couple of days yielded no results. We had only 5 days until our rent was due. We were getting ****.

I took Mom to the doctor again. The doctor sighed, rubbing his temples as he flipped through Mom's charts for what felt like the hundredth time. "There’s nothing clinically wrong with her," he admitted, frustration bleeding into his voice. "But if you’re ****..." He hesitated, then scribbled an address on a crumpled prescription slip. "There’s a... practitioner. A baba, some call him. People go to him when modern medicine fails. I don’t endorse it, but..." His shrug said everything—we were out of options.