Adi was doing fairly well with regular medications, therapy, and check-ups. There were good days when he didn’t have any seizures, and then there were those other days — the ones with the absence seizures. During those moments, we felt so helpless. There was nothing we could do except wait for it to pass. The seizures would last only a few seconds, and then he’d be back to his playful self. An outsider wouldn’t even realize anything had happened.
In those times, my only mantra was, “It’s okay. He’ll be fine. This too shall pass.” I started being thankful that medications were working in controlling bigger seizures. Panicking never helped — it only made things worse. So every time it happened, we’d hold him close and whisper, “You’re fine, babu. You’re okay. Mamma loves you. Mamba loves you. Deta loves you.” And moments later, he would just smile and go back to playing like nothing happened.
By the time Adi was 12 to 15 months old, he had started standing on his own. He had taken his first little steps. He had started pointing at things, saying a few words—tiny things that brought us so much joy. I began to believe that maybe miracles do happen.
There’s something Sid once said that I always remembered. He said, “Adi has come to us for a reason. His soul is on a journey, and he chose us to be his parents. We’ll do whatever we can to support him while he walks his path.”
That thought gave me hope and helped me keep going.
My Adi had a special bond with music. My daughter is a huge fan of Phil Collins, Bryan Adams, and Taylor Swift — and Adi picked up that love from her. Adi loved whatever his Mamba loved. The moment a song began to play, his eyes would light up in recognition, and he’d start dancing. His movements would change with the beat, and he’d be totally lost in the rhythm.
Another favourite spot was the kitchen. He’d follow me there every day. He loved opening the fridge, letting the cold air hit his face, picking out tomatoes or apples to nibble on. He’d open cupboards, pull drawers, and sometimes even crawl inside them.
He would often wait right outside the kitchen to play peek-a-boo. I hadn’t introduced him to TV or mobile yet, so most of his time was spent just playing on his own or with me. As I write this, I can still see him… waiting outside the kitchen, hiding and playing peek-a-boo.
Once I accepted the situation and started focusing on the present, I found myself smiling more, feeling lighter. We created so many beautiful memories together — memories that now hold me together on the hardest days. Those little everyday moments — his laughter, his dancing, his curiosity — are now etched deep in my heart. I didn’t realise back then how much strength and light they were filling me with. Looking back, I’m just grateful we got to live those days fully, together.