A night etched in my memory; one I will never forget.
Their arms steadied me, lifting me from the bed. I
instinctively locked mine around their shoulders for balance. Together, they
carried me to the car. As its tires screeched through the stillness of the
night, my thoughts raced. Was this the end of everything I’d come here for?
The darkness wrapped around us. A&E (Accident &
Emergency services) in Brighton stirred memories of Civil Hospital, Sonipat,
where papa—who left us 14 years ago—once served as a doctor. The polished
floors and white faces were the only differences. As Mohit handled my
registration, I silently cursed my choice to skip travel insurance. Who even
does that on an international trip?
Between deep breaths and sharp pangs, I explained to the
staff how I’d tripped over the raised bathroom doorframe in my hotel. My left
foot throbbed incessantly.
The hours in A&E unravelled a floodgate of emotions. I
missed papa. I missed my son, Maulik - the only one in India who knew I was
hurt. Guilt gnawed at me for waking Mohit in the dead of night. And then there
was Abid, their employee, who was the first respondent to my cry for help. His
calmness steadied my tears, his jokes – usually annoying – were a lifeboat.
In the hotel room, after the accident, while applying ice to
my injured foot, Abid suddenly froze, his eyes wide as he stared at the wall
behind my bed. “Oh my God,” he exclaimed. I followed his gaze to a painting of
a woman with her foot perched on a pillow, eerily mimicking my position. “Did
someone paint you before I arrived?” he joked. “Yes, Leo (Leonardo Di Caprio)
was here to paint his Kate (Winslet),” I quipped back. We burst into laughter,
and for a moment, the pain and absurdity faded.
(that painting on the wall)
Back in the A&E the night dragged on. Worry churned - about
treatment costs, deadlines, and the impractical new heels I’d bought. My foot
swelled with every passing hour, and my heart mirrored its urgency.
Picture this: I had flown to the UK to manage a company’s event,
only to be in an accident, just three days before the big day. Mohit, the
company’s founder, sat beside me, patiently waiting for X-ray results, and enduring
seven hours on a rickety chair before wheeling me in himself.
After two hours, finally, relief came. “It’s not a
fracture,” the doctor announced. The pain? I could manage. Uncertainty had been
the real weight.
Back at the hotel, I spent the next day confined to my room,
oscillating between prayers, quiet meals, and event planning. By evening, I
decided it was time to reclaim control. Summoning courage, I willed myself to
stand. Tears fell uncontrollably as I silenced both pain and emotion with a
piece of chocolate - an absurd but effective balm.
The challenge was set. A Danish from M&S at Brighton
Station. Just a few steps away, yet it felt like a marathon. I dragged myself,
dodging sympathetic glances and polite offers of help. A bite of delight was
more than a treat. It was a win. To celebrate, I perched at the hotel café with
a pumpkin latte in hand. The warmth of the coffee, the hum of the café, the
faint ache in my foot - it all amalgamated into the realisation that resilience
isn’t loud. It’s the quiet choice to keep going.
When the big day arrived, I was tapping in my heels, moving
as if the pain were endurable. The joy of overcoming, of succeeding despite the
odds - had overpowered it all.
Resilience often begins as a whisper in the dark, growing
louder with every small victory. That night in Brighton taught me this: joy,
determination, and a damn good cup of coffee can get you through anything.
