She left the world in March---just when spring begins and flowers start to bloom. She was just forty-six when she died, and now we have our entire lives to talk about her untimely death and her dreadful last 30 days in a Jaipur hospital.
My Jiji — the beloved younger sister of my father — whom I always called Jiji instead of Buaa. She was one of the people who raised me and taught me about the world so gently, along with my grandparents. She cared for me deeply and taught me how to be kind to others. She was my favourite woman.
She was traumatised, shocked, and physically unwell after the sudden death of her parents. Both passed away in the last months of 2021.
The last time I met her was two years ago at our village during a family wedding in Rajasthan's bitter February cold in 2024. She looked dusty, a bit nervous, and weak. I noticed she was attending the functions but not really enjoying them. She did not perform our traditional bandoli dance. When I asked her to dance, she said, "Mann nahi hai mera." She was coughing.
There was a strange sense of foreboding when I saw her coughing in the bathroom at midnight. I asked, "What happened, Jiji?"
"Nothing, just a normal cough. I have checked with a doctor. Medicines are ongoing. Don't worry. I will be okay," she replied and went back to bed. But I felt that something was not right with her.
The wedding ended. Relatives and family members returned to their homes and routines. My Jiji left too, giving me a warm hug and saying, "Ab teri shadi mein hi aaungi seedha."
Barely a week later, I got a call from my uncle in Mumbai. He told me that Jiji was in the ICU in Ajmer. I immediately rushed there. What I saw was beyond anything I had imagined. She was lying straight on the bed, her eyes closed. A transparent oxygen mask covered her face. Medical machines and equipment surrounded her bed. She was in a comatose state. The scene was terrifying.
I was told that her lungs had been severely damaged due to pneumonia.
We took a decision and called an ambulance to take her to a well-known private hospital in Jaipur, and from there our real struggle to save her started. I was with her in the ambulance, controlling my emotions and trying not to cry while holding her hand tightly. I was gently stroking her forehead and saying, "Aap theek ho jaoge."
We reached the Jaipur hospital late at night and shifted Jiji to the ICU.
"The patient has typical viral pneumonia. Possibly Covid-19 infection and H1N1 too. Very high sodium in blood. Both kidneys have stopped functioning properly. Possibly a minor brain injury too, that's why she is not opening her eyes. Fluid has collected around the lungs and that's why she is struggling to breathe."
These were the very first words that exploded in my head after getting a brief report from a lady doctor at the Jaipur hospital.
"Theek toh ho jayegi na?" I said to the doctor with a very heavy heart.
"90 percent of her lungs are damaged. Very little chance, but we will try our best. Have faith in God," she replied while glancing at the X-rays and asked me to leave the ICU.
The hospital had now become our home — me, my uncle, and my Jiji's husband. All of us were there day and night. From day one, we never looked back. We all believed that God could not do such a bad thing to us. Such injustice could not happen to us. And she would come out soon.
Days passed, weeks passed, but our hopes were alive. We were waiting for the day when doctors would tell us that she was ready to go home now. That she was fine.
One day, the doctor under whom Jiji was under observation told me that the collected fluid in her lungs was gradually drying. Antibiotics were working. They would continue to use the prone position for her better breathing. They would try to remove the oxygen mask soon and let her breathe normally.
I came out of the doctor's room and ran towards our group, where my uncle and my Jiji's husband were always waiting for good news from me after my daily meeting with the doctor.
"Jiji ab theek ho rahi hai. Antibiotics kaam kar rahi hai. Doctor ne kaha ki agar sab kuch theek raha toh ventilator se utaar denge," I briefed them without catching my breath.
We almost cried at that moment. That was probably the best day in the hospital.
I was the one who met Jiji most often in the ICU. Whenever I met her, I saw her with closed eyes most of the time. I used to hold her hand and stroke her forehead. I used to crack jokes and try to recall the good days I had spent with her.
She used to smile from her bed whenever I saw her with open eyes. She always tried to speak but couldn't because of the nasal cannula.
Every call from the ICU was scary for us.
"Amit, can you please come upstairs?" I got a call from the ICU.
I immediately ran upstairs and entered the ICU. I saw doctors and nurses around my Jiji's bed. I asked what had happened. One of the staff members came up to me and said, "Abhi aapki sister ki saans chali gai thi. Humne CPR diya hai toh wapas aa gai hai. But the situation is very critical today."
The very same evening, the doctor called me into his office and told me that her condition was worsening. It seemed that she could not leave the oxygen ventilator. Whenever they tried to remove the oxygen support, the situation deteriorated. That meant her lungs were not supporting her.
"No problem, sir. If she continues to rely on the ventilator, we are ready for this. You just get her out of danger," I urged the doctor with folded hands.
Two days later, Jiji opened her eyes again. I was talking to her, and she was smiling as usual. Whenever I said, "Ghar chalna hai na?" she nodded her head.
The doctors started contemplating the next and very final move to save her as her condition was worsening and oxygen levels were drastically falling.
They briefed me about a lung transplant, while issuing a warning that there was a 99 per cent chance of bleeding as the patient was very gaunt and already had a history of brain stroke.
We did our best to explore this option. We started looking for an air ambulance from Jaipur to Hyderabad for a lung transplant. We talked to many doctors and sent reports to them, but all told us that it would be a "vain endeavour". Still, we kept contemplating the idea.
The next day, on March 14, around 2 PM, I was with Jiji in the ICU. I was talking to her. It was the longest conversation with her in the hospital so far. I stood with her for around 30 minutes. I told her I would be back in the evening and left the room.
Around 4:30 PM, I received a call and the voice said, "Please jaldi upar aaiye."
I ran towards the ICU and saw the whole staff around my Jiji's bed.
A lady doctor rushed to me and said, "Amit, I am sorry. Iss baar saans wapas nahi laa paaye."
"Main samjha nahi," I asked the doctor.
"She's no more, Amit," the doctor said.
For me, it felt as if no human had ever died before. I had more questions than answers. It felt like someone had cut off one of my body parts.
"Humne CPR bhi diya but it was cardiac arrest. I am very sorry. You can see her," she told me as casually as she tells these words every day to people who have lost their loved ones.
I cried loudly in the hospital. My uncle saw me coming towards him while crying. I told him, "Jiji hume chhor ke chali gai hai, uncle." We were all crying.
My uncle told me to go back and check once again in the ICU. She can't leave like this. God can't be cruel to us.
We spent more than 22 lakh rupees in 30 days in a Jaipur hospital but could not save her.
I saw my Jiji's husband sitting numb in the car, perhaps thinking about the loss of his loved ones. His world had been shattered. His home now lay in ruins.
She was the mother of two and the beautiful wife of a man who had been searching for her in every corner of the world. The shock was overwhelming for him. He must have cried somewhere in a corner, but I saw that he tried to maintain a strong facade in front of the whole world.
Perhaps Jiji had already decided to leave us. But we are still learning how to live without her. Our only complaint is this — she could not say one last goodbye.
