Posted: June 29, 2014 in My Fiction Closet
Tags: , , , , ,

I open my teeny weeny eyes to a cramped room, chock-a-block with unknown faces. I do not agnize them. All I can glance at are some sort of white colored uniforms worn by some silhouettes sauntering about the room. I cannot discern the hues of this novel experience right in front of my beady, doe-eyed face as I can only see in black-and-white. All I can see is this pristine place that is abounding with lots of people and whatsit items stacked on top of the other. I burst out crying, like a rainstorm. A female approaches my cot and picks me up instantly on her soft shoulders, while another female comes to her with a smile on her face, too.

“Congratulations, Alhamdulilah (Arabic for “All thanks to ALLAH”: الحمدلله ) she’s a baby-girl with a prepossessing countenance! You should be very proud!” verbalized a voice near by, of some white coated figure.

“Yes, yes! Thank you, doctor! Jazak’ALLAH (Arabic: May ALLAH reward you). But she’s too weak, what to do?” uttered a very feminine voice.

“Oh, that is NOT a problem. ALLAH blessed you with a female neonate, why fret over it? It’s a miracle! You see, we could solely save you OR the child, but am glad ALLAH saved you both and blessed both of you mother and daughter with a new life – stay blessed,” assured the doctor to the woman holding me in her arms.

“How much does she weigh, doctor?” asked the tan-skinned woman to the very same female doctor, while clutching me more tightly in her arms.

“Oh, she weighs only a few pounds. She’s very weak, you know. But with good attention to her nutrition, you can get her growing healthy!”

During this conversation, I noticed a tinge of a womanly figure, convulsed with laughter with the doctors and nurses in the background. She looked jolly and was wearing a red lipstick on her lips, with her long maroonish-ashen, blackish locks spread on both her shoulders and back.

“Congratulations to you, too, madam. If it were not your collective efforts alongwith the divine power of ALLAH, the neonate wouldn’t have been born so easily.”

“Oh, no, doctor. I am really happy about it. I don’t have words to express my inner feelings. It was not my sole effort, it’s all due to the neonate’s biological mother, too. Besides, this wasn’t a Caesarean case.”

“You’re very right, madam. Would you mind me asking a personal question?” inquired one of the doctors, while a few nurses hoarded around that woman.

“Yes, please. What is it?”

“You’re here from Canada, right? What is your age? I suppose you must be 28 or 30.”

“Well, yeah. I previously dwelt in Montreal, Canada, but then I moved onto the States. Well, no! Ha ha, you’re wrong right there! I am 41!” exclaimed the lady.

“Forty-one? Are you sure? You must be hiding your young age! Wow, but you seem very young, like, in between the age of that neonate’s biological mother. Where in the States exactly?”

“New York City. My husband is dwelling there. I came here in March 1996 with my nine year old son for a visit,” replied the lady.

“Okay, today is 20th October, you must assign this date of birth on a birth certificate from some nearby office,” advised the doctor.

“Sure, I will. Thanks for the concern,” the lady responded.

That middle-aged lady then approached my mother holding me, a neonate in her arms. I was cuddled inside a soft blanky, American manufactured.

“Here, give me the baby,” she asked.
“Okay, where are we going next?”
“My sister alongwith her husband are coming here for a visit in the next few minutes. We cannot go somewhere else right now.”
“I see, okay, where is the formulated powder milk and the feeder?” inquired my mother.
“It’s . . ” the lady bends over to the table and picks up a bag full of Johnson’s baby products and some formulated milk powder tin cans and feeders, “it’s right here. Mix a few heap teaspoons of this formula powder in this much of water inside this feeder, the doctor said ’tis not dangerous for the neonate,” assured the lady, while pointing her fingers towards the feeder and the can of formula-milk powder.


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