When I Survived Brain Haemorrhage!

It was fall. Farmers were busy plucking apples and collecting the hard work they had buried in the soil months ago. We call it Harud Watun, the time of harvest. This time around, students are bowed to books for term-end exams. I was in grade 7. Our school had decided to honour its toppers in the annual day function. Yes, I had topped. 777 marks out of 800 — Nelson’s number. They made me the prefect for the coming year. People clapped, my Baba smiled and somewhere, perhaps, an unseen eye opened. Prophet Muhammad (SAW) once said, “Al-aynu haqqun” — the evil eye is real. Three days later, at the crack of dawn, Baba gently shook me awake for prayers. I did not rise. I cried. I wet myself. I vomited. And then... darkness. When I opened my eyes, I was in District Hospital Baramulla.

Greenhorns in white coats surrounded me, their brows furrowed, their mouths tight. No one knew why I was slipping away. “Mamuli infection chus,” they said. Just a minor infection. For ten long days, they treated me for gastroenteritis — while inside me, a silent, savage storm brewed. My body was breaking. Not all at once, but slowly, cruelly — in pieces.

Baba sat beside me, terror stitched into his eyes. But fear was not what the doctors noticed.
“Yeman che fakh ewaan,” they diagnosed, noses scrunched. “These villagers stink.” I did not know then what I know now — that smell was apathy. I was rotting inside, and nobody cared.

One evening, a senior doctor pulled Baba aside and said what no parent should ever hear: “Das roz se ziada nahi chalega. Prepare for the worst.” Prepare to bury your son. And with that, they signed my death certificate — a referral letter — and sent me off to SKIMS, Soura.

There, Dr. Afzal Wani — head of neurology — examined me. “The blood flow to his brain has almost stopped,” he said. “We’ll have to operate.” I was wheeled into a cold green corridor. They dressed me in a loose green gown and prepared me for operation theatre.

I was shivering, not from cold, but from knowing that this might be the end and the last time I am bidding adieu to my lifeline, my Baba. Goodbyes are always hard, harder for a person who is being left behind. Baba was inconsolable. “Survival chances in haemorrhage are rare,” the doctor declared. “But we’ll try.” In that moment, I saw my funeral. I saw our village Molvi writing off my name, not addressing me by my first name but a body-bag (Mayyat). I saw a white shroud and trembling hands lowering me into the womb of the earth. I was watching my own Jinaza.

But then… the unexpected happened. The surgery was postponed. Once. Twice. Again. I lay suspended — between this world and the next — for 35 days. Why the delay? What did the surgeon see? Nobody knew. Do you believe in Miracles? I do. Do you believe in divine interventions? I do.

I believe in Shifay’e Aajila (immediate healing), Shifay’e Dayima (lasting healing), and Shifay’e Mustammira (Ceaseless healing). These are gifts from the Almighty. They arrive not when we want, but when He decides. We are impatient creatures.

Three days before everything changed, we visited the abode of Sopore’s mystic saint — Ahad Bab. No grand supplications. No words. I just sat before him. Twenty something souls had surrounded him but his eyes found mine. He locked his gaze and something passed between us. A silence that shook the heavens. After five minutes, we were asked to leave. Outside, people queued for tabaruk. Some received sacred soil. Some sweets. But when my turn came — the assistant handed me a fistful of rice.

“Che chi rezikh,” he said. “You will survive.” And then, magic happened.

One day before Eid, Dr. Wani walked in, his face unreadable. He looked at me and softly said, “Go home. You’re fine.” I broke. I sobbed. Doctors don’t cry — not in front of patients. But I swear to God, I saw tears in his eyes as he kissed my forehead. He was my doctor. He was my angel.

Most people leave that neurology section wrapped in white. Some leave with skulls split. But me? I walked out — untouched. Uncut. Alive. How do you explain that? How do you explain returning from the edge of death? How do you explain mercy when all signs pointed to an ending? Maybe like Bhoomi Chauhan— the Bristol student who missed a doomed Gatwick bound flight by twenty minutes on June 12. Maybe like Vishwas Ramesh, the lone survivor who walked away from the Ahmedabad crash. There is a divine scheme at play. And sometimes, the script rewrites itself. I don’t know why I survived. Perhaps, to tell you that miracles are real.

Post-Script: The recent aviation crash taught us that life is fragile. Don’t stress yourself. We all heal a little faster when we lean on each other. The tragedy is also a stark reminder to never take anyone for granted. We assume we will get the chance to call back, to say “I’m sorry,” or to remind someone we love them. But not everyone gets that chance.

Let’s not let pride, ego, or busyness rob us of connection. Life is unpredictable. If someone is on your mind, reach out. Call them. Text them. Say what you need to say — not later, not when it’s convenient, but now. Because it’s the unfinished sentences, the unsent messages, the unspoken love that haunt us most in the wake of tragedy.

 The author is a senior consultant with a Washington based social impact organization.