Blooming Rose - Part One

Author’s note: This is not a fictional piece. Only little parts of the plot, real names of the characters, and names of some institutions have been changed.
The smiling, light green leaves danced with the spring wind. Magpies whistled sweetly, jumping from branch to branch. A fresh, pink rose winked through the window, casting a perfumed spell, with its magical smell.

Nazmul slowly walked towards the window. Natural beauty always soothed his eyes. He bent down on the rose, inhaling deeply. The man massaged his aching head. Nothing could stop the tornado of worries in his mind. “What will happen? Just what will happen to my love?” He kept asking himself.

The sickening odor of medicines took over the pleasant smell. Cleaners walked past Nazmul, busily cleaning the hospital floor. Doctors began visiting the patients. Nurses carried neat trays of breakfast.

Nazmul even forgot hunger. He could only think of his wife, Sultana. Just an hour back, she got admitted to the maternity department. She had conceived their sixth child for the last six months. It was not a planned pregnancy. Still, the older siblings were really excited about their new, living toy. Even the parents had many dreams surrounding that child.

The couple usually woke up at 6:00 am. That morning, when Nazmul was in the washroom, a painful groan shook every living cell of his body. He ran out, finding himself in the middle of an unexpected, horrifying scene.

Some coconuts were kept under their bed, because coconut-water was a very good drink for expectant women. Sultana had tripped over one of those. The culprit fruit rolled to Nazmul’s feet. The lady was in a curved up position, her stomach pressing against the floor.

Sultana Hussein and Nazmul Hussein got married in the year 1964, at fourteen and twenty-four respectively. A very strong emotional bond made them inseparable. Their passion regarding flowers was reflected in their nicknames. Nazmul was known as Komol (Lotus) while loved ones called his wife Beli (Jasmine).

“My baby! Oh Lord Almighty! I want my baby back!” Startled, Komol looked at the nearest cabin. It was definitely a mother, wailing.
“Excuse me…” He called a nurse passing by. “What happened?”
The nurse looked up at him. Her somber expression reflected sorrow. “None of the babies delivered today could survive.” She replied.

A few minutes later, Dr. Rowshan Ara, a well known gynecologist, came out of Sultana’s cabin:
“Mr. Nazmul, I can either save your wife or your child.”
Komol stood silent for a few minutes:
“Doctor…my wife…she can’t leave me.” The helpless father buried his head in his folded arms, to hide the overflowing eyes.
Rowshan sounded soft, yet firm:
“We’re doctors. Our job is saving lives, not killing.”

Back in 1984, the upgrades of medical science did not reach the small, developing, Asian country they lived in. Komol was well aware of the constraints doctors went through regularly. He had brought Beli in one of the most expensive, but well equipped hospital of that time. Supervised by The Red Crescent, that was the place where people entered ailing, but returned home smiling.

“Mr. Nazmul, I can still see a glimmer of hope. I can try to save both if you agree.” Komol gave Rowshan a questioning look.
“Right after separating the baby from the mother’s body, I’d have to push a live-saving injection.” The doctor almost whispered, as if lost in thoughts.

“So? What’s wrong with that?” Komol was getting impatient now.
“The injection has a fatal side-effect. The organ it will be pushed through, will not develop properly. Your child will be alive, but physically challenged.” Rowshan stood still, waiting for his decision.

Komol felt as if someone was hammering on his skull. Physically challenged people were considered as social burdens. It was a dark side of their society. How could he, being the father, endure his child’s sufferings?

“Go ahead, doctor.” Komol declared, signing the documents required. “Please save my child.”


Sultana was taken to the operation theatre. About half an hour later, a young nurse came out:
“Congratulations, Mr. Nazmul. It’s a little girl. Your wife will regain consciousness soon; I’ll tell you when to meet them.” She smiled.
Komol put his hands together, facing westward. “Oh Lord Almighty, thank you, thank you so much!” He prayed silently.

The happy father held his wife’s hand, as she rocked her newborn, wrapped up in a yellow blanket.
“See Komol, it seems as if she has caught all our delight in those tiny fists.” Beli whispered. Pleasure sprinkled all over her pale face.
“She needs a name now. Let’s see…” Nazmul pretended to be immersed in thoughts.
“I’ve already thought of that.” Sultana announced. “Farhana Hussein. The Arabic word ‘Farhan’ means ‘joy’ and she’s our bundle of joy.”
“I’ll think of a nick…yes! Golap (Rose). That’s my favorite flower.” The father grinned at his little princess.
“I love you, my sweet Rose.” Beli whispered, kissing the small fists.
A tiny smile spread across the baby’s soft lips, as if she was trying to say: “I love you too, Mom.”

A pink Band-Aid on the tiny left foot did not escape Komol’s eyes. “The Injection.” He murmured, out of Beli’s audible range.

[To be concluded in Part 2.]