I have always been fond of creating beautiful signatures. Since my school days, I kept practicing in different styles, and eventually, I succeeded in crafting good signatures—or at least I thought so. I happily signed the marriage certificate, after all, all eyes were on that moment. But then two phases of my life came where I grew to hate signing my name.
The year was 2010. My father was struck by dengue fever and fell into a coma. He was admitted to Ziauddin Hospital and placed on a ventilator on the second day. After eight days, when both his body and our pockets were drained, they sent him to SIUT with a summary report. The doctors, after seeing the report, said that due to heavy doses, his heart and kidneys were severely affected, and they could not give more than two days’ assurance.
That night, while still in a coma, he suffered a heart attack. They revived him with electric shocks, but the senior doctor told our family the next morning that they could not do it again. Even though I was the youngest, I was given the responsibility to speak with the doctor. The doctor was straightforward, telling me they couldn’t put him through that pain again if it happened. Then, he placed a form before me that required my consent.
Those signatures still weigh heavily on my shoulders. You might think it’s just the patient who dies when you sign, but in reality, the person who bears that burden dies first. The only difference is that the world still sees them breathing.
Then came the year 2022. My youngest son was diagnosed with cancer. Chemotherapy and radiation took their toll. When he vomited blood for the first time, the doctors arranged for a blood transfusion but placed another form in front of me. I looked at them with questioning eyes, and they explained that due to his weak immunity, the transfusion could cause a fatal reaction. They needed my signature for consent.
I used to think that once someone dies, they don’t feel pain anymore. I signed twelve times for 32 white blood bags and 12 red blood bags. Every time I signed, I felt myself die a little. Those weren’t signatures; they were gulps of poison that still occasionally drip from my words.
Yesterday, I started watching the movie “Signature” and finished it today in the hospital. I saw myself in every character. I was Ranvir Shorey, with my father’s body lying in an ambulance. I was Anupam Kher, first running around for money, and then crushed under the weight of signatures. I was also Mahima, bravely battling cancer with a smile on her face and mischief in her eyes. But where am I now? Even I don’t know. What I do know is that I still have courage.
I carry my own corpse with me!
Don’t question my resolve.
I apologize for venting my sorrows instead of writing a proper review, but this film reflected everything I’ve been through—and am still going through. During the treatment, I wrote a small piece that said: Losing your parents is a pain that cannot be expressed, only felt. But the greater pain is the fear parents experience when they fear losing their child. I have already endured one agony, and I am enduring another now.
Watch the movie; it’s a masterpiece. If possible, make sure no one is ever forced to sign their name under such circumstances. The burden is unbearable, and the courage to let go is impossible to muster. Please share your thoughts, and thank you.
