<div>Some of you might recall a forward that did the rounds a few years ago. It was about how a church group was asked to pray for a very sick infant and how the child recovered and thrived as people, even those far removed from that child, continually prayed for him. The child eventually became a doctor and learnt that a whole lot of people’s prayers were at play every time he encountered a problem and surmounted it. The message was touching even if dubious.<br /><br />The following incident brought back that forward to my memory. Sunny, our 8-year-old cherubic neighbour suddenly took ill. The little fellow was a familiar and popular presence in the street. People chatted with him while he waited for his school bus or returned from his tuitions. His fear of open spaces, darkness and imagined snakes caused much mirth among the older boys. This also made us, the mothers, mollycoddle Sunny and force our boys to let him play with them. <br /><br />When one fine day, the gentleman next door informed me that Sunny had been hospitalised and was in the ICU, I was shocked. “But I saw him playing football just two days ago!” I exclaimed. “No, it’s been a week since he took ill.” Wanting him to be mistaken, I accosted another neighbour, a doctor, and was told that Sunny was indeed seriously ill and was suffering from septicaemia. “Unless they can identify the infection the prognosis is bad. We can only pray,” she added shaking her head sadly.<br /><br />For the next few days all that the distraught neighbours could talk about was Sunny’s health. The shaken father told us, “Please pray for him.” The entire street had been doing just that. “I am reciting the mrityunjaya mantra” declared one. “I have done a ‘harake’” said another. <br /><br />The children went to the temple. I gave up coffee for a week. Another friend said she would never ever scold Sunny for plucking the flowers from her garden. There was discussion about the soaring bills too. And then, Sunny recovered! He was shifted to the general ward. The whole neighbourhood rejoiced. I wanted to believe that our collective prayer had helped.<br /><br />Soon after this, I met Sunny’s father and asked when the child would be brought home. “I have got him discharged with great difficulty. It has been a nightmare. To say that the hospital fleeced us is an understatement. I don’t even know whether my son’s condition was serious to start with.” He went on to narrate horrific tales of poor patients’ troubles and the unholy nexus between the labs, the doctors and the hospital. Now, if only our healthcare system could be cured by collective prayers.</div>
<div>Some of you might recall a forward that did the rounds a few years ago. It was about how a church group was asked to pray for a very sick infant and how the child recovered and thrived as people, even those far removed from that child, continually prayed for him. The child eventually became a doctor and learnt that a whole lot of people’s prayers were at play every time he encountered a problem and surmounted it. The message was touching even if dubious.<br /><br />The following incident brought back that forward to my memory. Sunny, our 8-year-old cherubic neighbour suddenly took ill. The little fellow was a familiar and popular presence in the street. People chatted with him while he waited for his school bus or returned from his tuitions. His fear of open spaces, darkness and imagined snakes caused much mirth among the older boys. This also made us, the mothers, mollycoddle Sunny and force our boys to let him play with them. <br /><br />When one fine day, the gentleman next door informed me that Sunny had been hospitalised and was in the ICU, I was shocked. “But I saw him playing football just two days ago!” I exclaimed. “No, it’s been a week since he took ill.” Wanting him to be mistaken, I accosted another neighbour, a doctor, and was told that Sunny was indeed seriously ill and was suffering from septicaemia. “Unless they can identify the infection the prognosis is bad. We can only pray,” she added shaking her head sadly.<br /><br />For the next few days all that the distraught neighbours could talk about was Sunny’s health. The shaken father told us, “Please pray for him.” The entire street had been doing just that. “I am reciting the mrityunjaya mantra” declared one. “I have done a ‘harake’” said another. <br /><br />The children went to the temple. I gave up coffee for a week. Another friend said she would never ever scold Sunny for plucking the flowers from her garden. There was discussion about the soaring bills too. And then, Sunny recovered! He was shifted to the general ward. The whole neighbourhood rejoiced. I wanted to believe that our collective prayer had helped.<br /><br />Soon after this, I met Sunny’s father and asked when the child would be brought home. “I have got him discharged with great difficulty. It has been a nightmare. To say that the hospital fleeced us is an understatement. I don’t even know whether my son’s condition was serious to start with.” He went on to narrate horrific tales of poor patients’ troubles and the unholy nexus between the labs, the doctors and the hospital. Now, if only our healthcare system could be cured by collective prayers.</div>
