“Do not despair of the mercy of Allah.” (Quran 39:53)
Crescent Hospital, Nilambur.
Dr. Saira, Chief Obstetrician and Gynaecologist at Crescent Hospital, paused outside Room 222 and peered through the glass partition.
Safina Ansar, thirty-eight, lay motionless on the hospital bed. Beside her sat her husband, Ansar Ahmed. Between them rested a blue gift bag.
Three days earlier, they had arrived at Crescent Hospital carrying years of hope. There had been failed IVF cycles, miscarriages, endless consultations, and prayers offered at Nagore and during Hajj. After years of disappointment, Safina had finally conceived.
The pregnancy had been perfect. Every scan was normal. Every blood test normal.
Then, at thirty-eight weeks, the baby’s movements slowed.
A rushed scan confirmed every obstetrician’s nightmare.
No heartbeat.
No explanation.
No warning.
Dr. Saira still remembered Safina’s scream when she delivered the news. It was not a scream of pain. No medical training could prepare a doctor for that deafening agony.
****
She entered inside.
“How are you feeling today?” she asked softly.
Neither answered.
Safina pointed towards the blue bag.
“My sister brought it.”
“The baby’s things?” asked Dr. Saira.
Safina smiled bitterly.
“Everything.”
Ansar finally spoke.
“She bought them all the way from Kochi. Clothes, blankets, feeding bottles…”
He paused.
“And shoes.”
The conversation entered a zone where medicine had no answers.
****
Two weeks later, Safina returned for her postnatal review.
Physically, she was recovering well. Emotionally, she looked hollow.
Dr. Saira reviewed the reports.
Everything was normal.
In medicine, there was no harsher word than normal when tragedy remained unexplained.
As she prepared to leave, Safina hesitated.
“Doctor, what do people do with the baby’s things?”
Dr. Saira thought for a moment. Over the years, she had seen parents preserve everything, donate everything, or destroy every reminder.
“There is no definite answer to that,” she said. “Do whatever helps you heal.”
Safina nodded.
“Padachon knows I am trying, Doctor. But I don’t think I can look at them.”
****
Months passed. The monsoon arrived, battering Nilambur like every other year, with days of relentless rains. One evening, after work, Dr. Saira stopped at a bakery. A rain-soaked notice pasted on the wall caught her attention.
FOR SALE
BABY SHOES
NEVER WORN
No phone number.
No price.
Just four words.
Something about it felt painfully familiar.
The bakery owner noticed her staring at the poster.
“Kashtam, Doctorey,” he said, opening the door for her. “Poor girl. Padachon tests some people more than others.”
“You know who pasted it?”
He pointed across the road.
“Ansar, who lives in that opposite bungalow. I heard his wife Safina, was your patient.”
Dr. Saira bought a small cake and crossed over.
****
The gate was open. Safina was sitting on the veranda, watching the rain fall over the garden. She looked surprised to see her doctor standing at the entrance.
“Doctor! Please come in.”
Dr. Saira held out the cake.
“I was passing by and thought I’d visit.”
Safina accepted it with a faint smile.
“Thank you.”
“Let’s go inside, Doctorey. ”
“Everyone brings sweets when they visit.”
Dr. Saira remained silent.
Safina forced a smile.
“The funny thing is, Doctor… nothing tastes sweet anymore.”
The rain rattled against the windows.
For a few moments, neither woman spoke.
“You saw the notice?” Safina asked.
Dr. Saira nodded.
“Why?”
Safina looked towards the garden.
“Because I couldn’t throw them away.”
“The shoes?”
“Only the shoes.”
She explained that everything else had been donated: the clothes, blankets, toys….
“But I kept the shoes.”
“You know what hurts the most, Doctorey?”
Dr. Saira remained silent.
“I never saw him walk.”
Tears filled Safina’s eyes.
“I never saw him crawl.”
For the first time since the tragedy, she cried openly.
Not the controlled tears of hospital corridors.
Not the quiet grief of condolences.
This was a mother’s heartbreak laid bare.
“I asked for those shoes because I imagined his first steps.”
Dr. Saira felt her throat tighten.
Everyone says time heals, Safina said later.
“It doesn’t.”
“No?”
“It only teaches you how to carry the wound.”
****
Almost a year later, Safina walked unexpectedly into Dr. Saira’s consultation room carrying the same blue gift bag.
“Doctorey.”
Dr. Saira looked up.
Safina looked nervous.
“I missed my periods,” she said softly. “Twice.”
Dr. Saira reviewed the reports and ultrasound.
Safina’s heart raced.
Then Dr. Saira looked up and smiled.
A genuine smile.
“Congratulations, Safina.”
Safina stared at her.
“You’re pregnant.”
The words seemed impossible.
Dr. Saira turned the report around.
“Positive.”
For a second, Safina simply stared.
Then she covered her mouth with both hands.
“Alhamdulillah…”
Tears streamed down her cheeks.
Slowly, she opened the blue gift bag.
Inside were the tiny blue shoes.
Still unworn.
Dr. Saira looked at them and then at Safina.
Safina nodded through her tears.
“We had stopped trying, Doctor. We left it to Allah. If it was meant to happen, it would happen.”
For a long moment, neither woman spoke.
Some miracles, they both knew, arrived only after hope deserts you.
“I don’t want to sell them anymore,” Safina whispered.
“Good,” said Dr. Saira.
“They belong to someone.”
“Who?”
Safina placed a hand gently on her abdomen.
The answer needed no words.
Dr. Saira smiled.
“Insha Allah, this time everything will be fine, mole.”
Outside, the winter sun shone over Nilambur’s green hills.
Inside, a tiny pair of blue baby shoes waited patiently.
Still unworn.
But no longer without hope.
****************
Glossary:
Doctorey: Slang-Doctors in Kerala are called that way
Padachon: God
Kashtam: Implying a sad situation in Malayalam
Alhamdulillah: praise be to God
Insha Allah: God Willing
Moley: Daughter (Slang- ladies are also affectionately called )
PC: Stephen Andrews for Unsplash.com
Heart touching and relatable 👍