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Everyday holds the possibility of a Miracle

5 months ago9 min read33 comments

What a wonderful view of the sky and the sea! I loved sitting in the balcony enjoying the ocean breeze and catching up on my reading. I had just finished reading a collection of short stories written by a friend which was partly spiritual. My thoughts flew back in time, more than 5 decades to 1971. I was naïve, and new to Chennai.

The steel chair felt cold against my skin. Despite the discomfort, I was thankful for the chair, as so many people were standing in the crowded room and corridor. The hospital waiting room wasn’t a happy place. Nearby, a family huddled together, their wide eyes anxiously awaiting news from the operating theatre. A young mother sat dazed, with a bawling child on her lap. My thoughts wandered to Rashmi, my one-year-old daughter, who usually refused to eat a morsel while I was away. Hopefully, Thayamma was able to coax Rashmi into eating her lunch.

Athai’s surgery must have ended by now. My mother in law Rajeswari, whom I fondly call Athai has been diagnosed with breast cancer, and her mastectomy was taking place at Devaki Hospital in Mylapore. Slowly, I was getting used to Madras, my home since marrying Madhavan. Although I missed Delhi, where I grew up, I was becoming fond of Madras and its simple, always-ready-to-help people. Meenakshi Mami, the landlady who lived upstairs, had been so helpful. It was she who had arranged for Thayamma to assist with housework when Athai fell ill.

“Rajeswari Attender!” a nurse called out. I hurried over to her.

“The surgery is over. The doctor is asking for you. Please go to the last room,” she instructed.

My heart was pounding. I wished Madhavan was with me, but he was out of town on an important office meeting and was unable to get a train to reach Madras in time.

“The surgery was successful. Your mother-in-law will need to stay in the hospital for a month to recuperate. You might need help from relatives to stay here,” the doctor advised.

I listened carefully to all the instructions and decided to ask Thayamma to stay at the hospital while I managed the household, especially taking care of sending food to the hospital.

Despite the accessibility of modern medicine through numerous hospitals, professional nursing attendants were uncommon. During health crises, people often relied on the support of extended families, relatives, and well-meaning neighbours.

A month flew by, and today Athai was getting discharged. I was busy preparing her room, changing sheets, and making sure it was completely dust-proof. Little Rashmi was cranky and insisted on being carried. I walked back to the stove where the urad dal and red chillies were roasting. Everyone loved the ridge gourd thuvaiyal that I make. I was thrilled when they polished it off the first time I made it. I might not know as many dishes as Athai and Amma, but I can manage well enough.

Little Rashmi was playing with my thaali chain while perched comfortably on my hip as I added the ridge gourd pieces and sautéed the ingredients.

I placed Rashmi gently on the floor, giving her a tumbler and a cup to play with. As I ground the now-roasted ingredients with a little tamarind and salt, I thought to myself how relieved I was that  Madhavan, was back home. He had been a great help, especially in ferrying food to and from the hospital.

On the 10th day after discharge, I took Athai for a checkup. She was still very weak and could barely walk. The doctor, reading Athai’s blood reports, seemed very upset. My heart sank.

“Is something wrong, doctor?” I asked.

“I’m sorry to say that Amma has jaundice. Her liver is severely affected. This is totally unexpected and unfortunate, especially after a major surgery. Some active cancer cells might have mixed with her blood and settled in the liver. I’m prescribing some medicines. I’ll see her in two weeks,” the doctor explained.

Later that evening, I was taking the clothes off the line and folding them into neat batches while keeping an eye on little Rashmi, who was sitting on the floor playing with a mug of water and little cups. She loved playing with pots and pans and usually wasn’t allowed to play with water because she would get thoroughly wet. But today, I just let her do what she wanted. My mind was with Athai and her recovery.

Athai was resting in her room, listening to her favorite Annamacharya Keerthanas.  M.S Subbulakshmi’s voice was like a balm to the weary soul.

“Oh here you are! I was looking for you in the kitchen”

In came Meenakshi mami, the landlady.

“What did the doctor say, Mythili? All well, I hope,” she asked.

“No, Mami. Unfortunately not…I wanted to come up and see you to tell you what happened,” I replied, recounting the events at the hospital.

“This is like a double whammy—cancer and jaundice!” remarked Meenakshi Mami.

“Yes, Mami. I never expected this. Athai is such a dear. She hardly complains.”

Meenakshi mami lifted Rashmi, who demanded to be carried, and settled her comfortably on her hip. She gurgled happily.

“Jaundice can be cured by chanting a special mantra. But not everyone can recite it. There is a priest in Apparswamy temple at Royapettah. Go see him. He will guide you. I can come along, but tomorrow I am leaving for Madurai with Shankar.”

Shankar was mami’s son who worked in Madurai.

“Okay, Mami. Perhaps I’ll ask Saamikannu, the rickshaw man, to take me to the temple. I’m sure he knows where it is.”

Apparswamy temple Royapettah

Dusk had settled by the time I reached the temple. It was quiet, with only a few people around. I entered and first offered my prayers to Lord Ganesha. While I stood there, a middle-aged woman approached and stood beside me. I glanced at her and smiled.

“Are you new to this area? I haven’t seen you here before,” she remarked.

“Yes, I’m new to Madras. Do you know if there’s a priest here who can cure jaundice?” I asked.

The lady nodded and gestured towards the shrine of Lord Shiva, directing me to go there.

The temple loudspeaker suddenly came to life, and I expected a devotional song by LR Easwari to play. Instead, it was “Thiruvasagam.”

“Kangal Irandum Avan Kazhal Kandu Kalipana aaagaadhe”

(கண்களிரண்டும் அவன்கழல் கண்டு களிப்பன ஆகாதே)

The lyrics were one I had learned from my mother years ago. It felt like a good omen, and I sensed that good things were about to happen.

A priest was doing arathi to the Shiva Lingam and while he was distributing the vibhuti he asked me whether I needed any help.

I related about my mother in law’s health condition.

“I will visit your house at 5 AM tomorrow. But you must arrange the transport for me as I have to be back in the temple sharp at 6 am to start the temple duties.”

I introduced Saamikannu, the rickshaw man to the Priest and told him that he will pick and drop him back. Saamikannu eagerly responded, “Paapaa. I will take care. You don’t worry”

It was 4:45 AM the next day, and I hoped Saamikannu hadn’t forgotten his pick-up duty. Athai was already awake; the rest of the house was asleep. While watching the milk boil over, I heard the screech of our front gate. Quickly switching off the stove, I hurried outside to greet the priest.

He smiled, clearly a man of few words.

“Get me a large plate and a tumbler of water,” he requested. I directed him to Athai’s room.

He greeted her, “Vannakam Amma.”

He found a spot on the floor, spread out a mat he had brought, and sat down. Then, he poured water into the large plate and placed a needle from his belongings into the water.

“You go outside the room and wait for 20 minutes,” he instructed me.

I went outside, feeling a bit nervous about leaving Athai alone with the priest. However, I trusted him completely and never doubted his intentions—perhaps because I was a naive 23-year-old, unaware of the darker aspects of the world.

Returning to the kitchen, I saw Rashmi looking for me. I picked her up and began preparing her milk bottle.

The priest called me into the room and showed me the plate of water, which was tinged with yellow. This ritual continued for the next two days. On the third day, as the priest summoned me, the water in the plate had turned the shade of turmeric powder—dark yellow.

I didn’t fully understand what was happening, but I trusted the priest. Meenakshi Mami had recommended him, assuring me that he could cure the jaundice.

A week later, I took Athai to the doctor for a check-up. Meenakshi Mami, who had returned from Madurai, came with me this time. The doctor reviewed the blood reports, his eyes reflecting disbelief.

“This is a miracle! There is absolutely no trace of jaundice. You’re completely cured, Amma! I’m astounded by how this happened in just two weeks.”

Meenakshi Mami and I exchanged a glance and smiled, but we didn’t utter a word.

Athai looked at the doctor and said, “It’s all His immense grace. Nothing else.”

I was amazed. The priest’s special mantra had indeed possessed the power to expel the jaundice from her body. The faith and the ritual had worked wonders.

The doctor’s stunned silence spoke volumes, as did Athai’s serene conviction. Sometimes, miracles unfold through the simplest rituals, fuelled by unwavering faith. Rajeswari, my mother-in-law, lived a healthy life for several years.

“Amma, coffee’s ready! Where are you?” called out Rashmi from the dining room.

I snapped out of my reverie, returning to the present day.

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