We were a happy family — my wife Rajni and I, our 10-year-old son, Pulkit, and our darling daughter, Sadhika. Sadhika is the apple of my eye. Before she came, I had wanted a daughter desperately — our family felt incomplete without one. She was born six years after we married, after many prayers and mannats at the shrine of Vaishno Devi in Jammu.

I named her Sadhika, which means “simple”. I would rush home from work with goodies for my little one who would be waiting patiently for me, her face pressed against our front door’s wire-mesh. “Papa,” she would yell as soon as she saw me and all the fatigue of my day would melt away — I was in seventh heaven the moment I saw her smiling face. I tried to be the best father I could within my modest income. God had given me everything, I would often tell myself — a caring wife, an obedient son and an adorable daughter.

Sadhika still waits for me eagerly. And each day, after work, I still negotiate my scooter through the Delhi traffic, trying to get home quickly. But now there is always a heaviness in my heart. Every time I stop at a red light, I think of the red light ahead for my family. I live now in constant fear for my Sadhika’s life. My little one has been diagnosed with leukaemia.

I still shudder when I think of how it all started. Sometime in January 2006, Sadhika was playing and all of a sudden she could not get up. The doctors thought at first that she had calcium deficiency or rickets. When her condition did not improve, the doctors at the Employees State Insurance Corporation (ESI) dispensary in Mayapuri urged us to shift her to the All India Institute of Medical Sciences (AIIMS).

On August 18, 2006, Dr Tulika Seth at the Haematology department at aiims called my wife and I for counselling. We sat in the doctor’s room, little Sadhika on my lap, full of apprehension. “After the blood tests we have come to this conclusion: she either has tb or blood cancer. If it’s tb, it is curable, but if it is blood cancer, you need not sell your house, land or ornaments. We will direct you to where you will get social and financial aid.” Then she blurted it out. “Your daughter has been diagnosed with blood cancer or leukaemia.”

Both Rajni and I were numb. We went back home and shut ourselves inside for three days. During the second counselling session at aiims we were told that the whole department was with us. The estimated cost for the three-year course of treatment was Rs 7.5 lakh. We were cautioned that there could be a relapse after five or six years.

One night soon afterwards, my wife and I sat together and cried out loud. How could God do this to us? Then Rajni reassured me. She said we had to try and do our best to save Sadhika. We decided we would strive together. It was a cathartic moment. We sensed God’s will behind it all. Maybe it was part of God’s master plan for us.

We then informed our friends and family. We did not want to hide anything from anyone, in part because we also saw this as an opportunity to generate awareness about blood cancer. We told Pulkit that his little sister had a blood infection and we would all have to work hard to help her become well again. The reactions from those we knew were mixed. Some supported us; others told their children to stop playing with Sadhika.

But we were undeterred. I work for a private firm, and they supported me and granted me leave whenever I needed it. Rajni’s family, and my sisters and their families supported us and were always ready to donate blood.

It was as if we had embarked on a new voyage. And the waters were turbulent — sometimes we had to rush for cover and wait for the tide to ebb. But we met many co-travellers along the way and learnt about the new world around us. Organisations like Can Kids Kids Can and CanSupport, and the entire staff at aiims helped us realise that terrible though Sadhika’s situation was, it was not the end of the world. People like Poonam and Anita Narang of Can Kids Kids Can helped us immensely. CanSupport runs a 24-hour help-line for parents in distress. We would have been nowhere without the financial aid provided by ESI.

We started becoming stronger emotionally. We exchanged the earlier narrow focus of our social life for a new approach and new outlook. At one point, Sadhika was hospitalised for a harrowing two months — on three occasions, the doctors gave up on her life. Our life began to revolve around the hospital and other leukaemia patients. Seeing children Sadhika’s age succumb to the ailment before our eyes, we began helping others, particularly outstation patients, in whatever ways we could.

We had Pulkit DNA-tested, in case Sadhika had to undergo a bone-marrow transplant. They took his blood-sample eight times. We were told that if after three years of rigorous treatment there was a relapse, we would have to go for a bone-marrow transplant which would cost Rs 25 lakh. I keep hoping and praying that we won’t have to face that day, as I know I won’t be able to afford it. Rajni, Pulkit and I have also registered ourselves as bone-marrow donors, in case we can be of help to other cancer patients. I know I would have never dreamt of doing anything like this before Sadhika’s illness.

In a year’s time I have learnt to be more practical or, at any rate, more street-smart. I know where I can get cheaper medicines, and how and when to bargain while shopping. I am also learning how to save because now every penny counts for us. And we have to be very careful that Sadhika doesn’t get hurt. “Save Infection, Save Life,” the doctors have told us many times. It means she can’t play as hard as other children her age do, but she seems to accept it. In fact, she is quite used to her medical regimen, the painful injections and the bitter medicines. Sometimes she plays ‘Blood Test’ and tries to take her brother’s blood samples, her eyes twinkling mischievously. She doesn’t complain when we take her for a check-up and injections every Monday. Her medicines are expensive, costing as much as Rs 300 per dose. Sometimes she vomits it all out. I don’t want to admit it, but though I hate it, I do find myself tallying up the monetary loss.

Does she really understand what she is going through? This angel of mine doesn’t know how fragile her life is — that anything can happen to her anytime. But we are determined to fight till the end, and we know that we will emerge victorious. I will leave no stone unturned for my little girl.

I am trying these days to learn how to use the Internet as I want to find out about the Bone Marrow Bank in Australia. I did finally manage to create an email-id for Sadhika. If any kind soul can help us, even with information on how we should proceed, I would be grateful. Sadhika’s disarming smile says to me almost everyday — Papa, I want to live. Please write to her. Her email id is sadhikamahra@hotmail.com.

As told to Teresa Rehman

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