Not because Suhana cried.
Not because she was afraid.
But because I did not sleep.
I sat beside her bed, a small notebook open in my lap. The dim yellow lamp cast shadows on the wall, and I kept writing.
Restless between 2:00–3:00 am
Calls softly before nature call
No fear response to male voice (positive sign)
Smiles when spoken gently
Slight finger movement on right hand
I underlined the last point twice.
My eyes became moist.
“She is fighting…” he whispered. “And if she can fight, I have no right to be weak.”
As Morning arrived like a silent witness.
After Rukmini & Suhana went to their house, i did not wait for anyone’s advice anymore. I spoke to doctors. A Physical Medicine and Rehabilitation specialist had outlined the long journey ahead. Physiotherapy. Occupational therapy. Speech sessions. Trauma-focused counselling. Play therapy. Years, not months.
Years.
But I was not afraid of years.
I was afraid of losing hope.
Without wasting time, I went to Suhana’s house. She had just bathed and was ready, as if she were waiting for me. She looked very happy to see me.
I placed a small table near Suhana’s bed. On it, I arranged:
A scribbling pad, Bright pencils, Soft erasers, A small slate, Alphabet flash cards
Suhana watched me with curious eyes.
“Good morning, warrior,” I smiled gently.
Her lips moved faintly. No sound came. But her eyes sparkled.
“You know what today is?” I asked.
She blinked slowly.
“Today is Day One.” I replied
I knelt beside her.
“You are safe here. Nobody will hurt you. Not now. Not ever.”
Her fingers trembled slightly.
I did not rush.
The specialists had told me — trauma healing begins with safety and trust. No forcing. No pressure. Gentle repetition.
I took her hand softly and placed a pencil between her fingers.
Her hand slipped.
Frustration flashed in her eyes.
Tears gathered.
“It’s okay,” I said quickly, my own voice breaking. “It’s okay, Suhana. We are not racing anyone.”
She tried again.
The pencil fell again.
This time, a tear rolled down her cheek.
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I closed my eyes for a second. The helplessness hit me like a storm.
Why her?
Why this tiny child?
Why this cruelty?
But i swallowed my anger.
Because she was watching me.
And she needed strength, not rage.
I gently supported her wrist.
“Together,” I whispered.
Slowly… slowly… the pencil made a crooked line on the paper.
A simple line.
But for me, it was the first sunrise after endless darkness.
“You did it!” I exclaimed softly.
Suhana’s lips curved faintly.
A tiny smile.
Later that afternoon, I turned therapy into a game.
“Okay,” I announced dramatically, “today we are training your superhero fingers!”
I moved her arms gently as taught by the physiotherapist. No rigid commands. Only playful tones.
“Lift… and drop! Lift… and drop!”
She giggled silently.
I noticed something.
She wasn’t flinching when i touched her.
She wasn’t shrinking away when i leaned closer.
That fear of men — the silent terror that once clouded her face — was fading.
She had accepted me – rechecking whether she is confident.
She had accepted Raju too as a friend.
That realization hit me deeply.
“She is stronger than we think,” i murmured.
In the evening, I sat facing her.
I showed her a flashcard.
“A.”
I exaggerated the lip movement.
“Aaaaa.”
She stared at my mouth.
Her throat tried to respond.
Only air came out.
Frustration flooded her face.
She began to cry.
This time loudly.
I panicked.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, we’ll stop, okay?”
But she shook her head faintly.
No.
She wanted to try.
That determination broke me.
I held her hand and whispered, “You don’t have to speak perfectly. Even a whisper is victory.”
Her lips moved again.
“A…”
Barely audible.
But it was there.
I covered my mouth, sobbing silently.
“You said it… Suhana, you said it…”
She looked confused for a second. Then she smiled, seeing my tears.
The days blended into each other.
For seven continuous days:
Morning physiotherapy exercises, Afternoon scribbling practice, Evening speech attempts, Night reassurance
I was completely involved.
I stopped thinking about Gajendra.
That chapter of anger was fading.
Even though Suhana was staying in her own home, I had made a decision — I would spend maximum time with her. Day and night.
Not out of obligation.
Not out of sympathy.
But out of responsibility… and something deeper that I could not even name.
When I told Rukmini and Sanjeev about my decision, they didn’t hesitate. They simply looked at me for a long moment and nodded.
“We know,” Rukmini said softly. “She responds to you. She feels safe with you.”
Sanjeev placed his hand on my shoulder. “If anyone can bring her back fully, it is you.”
Prema smiled in a way I had never seen before — proud, relieved.
“You’re changing,” she said. “And I like this version of you.”
My routine completely transformed.
I started waking up before sunrise.
I began writing observations daily — every blink, every finger movement, every sound she tried to make.
I started reading books about child psychology, trauma recovery, spinal rehabilitation. I underlined lines like a student preparing for the most important exam of his life.
I practiced basic physical therapy movements on my own so I wouldn’t make mistakes while helping her.
I spoke to doctors frequently — asking questions, taking notes, sometimes even arguing when I didn’t understand something.
For the first time, I wasn’t drifting through life.
I was focused.
Disciplined.
Present.
One evening, my sister watched me carefully as I adjusted Suhana’s exercise routine.
She smiled knowingly.
“You think you are rehabilitating Suhana,” she said gently. “But along with her… you are also rehabilitating yourself.”
I didn’t respond immediately.
But deep inside, I knew she was right.
Suhana was learning to move her fingers again.
And I was learning to move my life in the right direction.
She was rebuilding her voice.
And I was finding mine.
Now, my only mission was rehabilitation.
By Day Three, she could hold the pencil for five seconds.
By Day Four, she traced half of “A”.
By Day Five, she slept without nightmares as confirmed by Rukmini
By Day Six, she laughed — an actual soft sound.
By Day Seven, she looked… confident.
More alive.
More present.
She even playfully blinked twice when i joked, as if answering me in her own code.
“You are becoming bossy,” I teased.
Her eyes sparkled mischievously.
But not every moment was victory.
Some nights she cried without reason.
Some exercises caused visible pain.
Sometimes her body refused to respond.
Once, she threw the pencil away in frustration.
“I hate this!” her silence screamed.
I picked it up quietly.
“I know,” i said softly. “I hate it too. But we will fight it.”
I leaned my forehead against hers.
“You and me. Until your legs listen to you. Until your voice becomes thunder.”
She breathed slowly.
Calm returning.
On the seventh night, I sat again with my notebook. Noted all the observations
Increased eye contact, No fear response, Slight improvement in vocal sound, Smiles more frequently, Sleeps peacefully
I smiled.
“She is healing.”
Outside, the wind blew strangely.
Inside, peace settled gently.
But somewhere beyond their small world, fate was shifting.
God, perhaps, had not finished writing their story.
Something forgotten.
Or something intentionally buried.
Someone would come.
To dig it out.
I closed the notebook.
I looked at Suhana sleeping peacefully.
“Whatever comes,” I whispered, “I am ready.”
The happiness in the room felt warm.
Fragile.
Like a candle flame.
Bright.
But vulnerable to the slightest wind.
It was not about dramatic twists.
But in reality, those tiny steps are mountains being moved.
Healing will take time.
Strength will be tested.
And sometimes, just when things begin to feel stable… life may choose to shake them again.
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