Excerpt: Charu Malik’s Wings of Courage Tells A Moving Story Of Love & Resilience

Most of us have had moments where we thought: ‘Why, God? Why me?’ At the age of twenty, when she was just settling into a happy married life, Charu Malik was diagnosed with muscular dystrophy, a debilitating and life-threatening disease. Within a few years, she was in a wheelchair. But then something special happened: the birth of her son, Alok, who became her reason to live and be happy. Over the next two decades, Charu’s life turned upside down again. She wondered, ‘Why would God be so cruel as to take my son away?’

Wings of Courage is a true story of how unforgiving life can be. The things we take for granted—whether being able to lift a finger or breathe normally—are no longer available to Charu. How does someone who has been bedridden for more than a decade stop blaming God for the repeated injustices dealt to her and find the courage to move on?

Here's an excerpt from Charu Malik's Wings of Courage

In January 1987 on a trip to India I learned that I was pregnant again. My excitement bubbled over on my visit to Dr R.P. Soonawala, the gynaecologist I had consulted earlier. It was snuffed out when he advised against continuing with the pregnancy. He believed that childbirth would put my life at risk.  

Even though, like me, Sunil longed to have a child, he was inflexible. My life could not be compromised. It was hard for me to accept the decision but eventually I capitulated to a medical termination of pregnancy.  

I felt I walked through an emotional minefield with detonators laid for me by God. He would give me moments of joy and then, even as I revelled in them, the happiness would explode in my face, leaving me in more pain than before.  

In the days after, I flagellated myself for giving in to  Sunil and the doctor. Hadn’t Dr Cornblath encouraged me to conceive, believing the pregnancy would help my physical condition? Hadn’t he guaranteed that my illness could not be passed on genetically to my child?  

I was plagued with the thought that I had done something terribly wrong. Often, late at night, after Sunil was asleep, I  would whisper a prayer, asking for forgiveness. 

There were also questions that swirled relentlessly through my mind, demanding but receiving no answers. Would I ever have a child of my own? Should we adopt? Should I resign myself to the fact that my weak muscles would be unable to bear the weight of the foetus? 

Looking back, I realize that I wanted to gift Sunil with a child who would be his strength and solace when I left this world. I wanted to leave behind a part of me that he could cherish. It was my way of thanking him for all the sacrifices he had made for me over the years, with such grace and dignity. By August 1987, my condition weakened. Sunil, as always, fought my illness with greater ferocity than I did. He was my physical and emotional crutch, refusing to let me give up on life and living. Though I could barely walk even a few steps and every step was dogged by pain, I learned to smile through it all. I had to. For Sunil. For Baba. 

And then Sunil took a momentous decision. He would resign from his job. We would move back to India the following year. I was ambivalent about the decision. I loved the life we had created in Lagos. I would miss our circle of friends. But I also accepted that life in Lagos had grown increasingly unsafe.  Fear stalked the streets, with armed robberies, muggings and break-ins on the rise. People increasingly started confining themselves to their homes. 

Later that year, I flew to India for Archana’s engagement. It became a double celebration when I learned I was pregnant again. This time I felt I had Baba’s blessings. My transcontinental band of doctors gave me a heads up. They truly believed that the pregnancy was the right way forward. 

My cousin Alok recommended I consult Dr M.R. Dutta. He was a gynaecologist experienced in dealing with complicated cases. I was in the vanguard of those cases. Though I knew my life could be at risk, I made a decision that I would be emotionally stronger this time. I would not succumb to pressure. I would have this baby, the expression of the deep love I had for my husband.  

‘My longing to have a child was even stronger than Charu’s,’ Sunil recounts. ‘I was heartbroken when Sir John Walton, after diagnosing her illness, advised us against it. The news felt like a devastating blow, as if a part of our shared dream was being taken away. But when that decision was reversed, the joy was indescribable. It felt like a surge of hope, and possibility had  returned to our lives.’ 

Baba once said: ‘Turn your worries into worship and watch Him turn your battles into blessings.’ I truly believed that God would turn my battle into a blessing. 

I was filled with a sense of completion at the beautiful life  I was carrying within me. Baba was giving me the opportunity to express my gratitude for the love of my life—my husband.  

Though Sunil was overjoyed at the thought of having a child, he was weighed down with fear and apprehension. It was the same with both our families. My only fear was that my baby would inherit my condition. The doctors continually assured me that IBM is not genetically transmitted. 

Sunil and I went back to Lagos to wind things up. Once again, my faith was tested. I began to have morning sickness— all through the day. Soon after, I started spotting. Fear gnawed at me, especially as I was still living in a country with substandard medical facilities. Fortunately, we were able to get an ultrasound and the report came back normal. The joy I experienced was a balm to my rapidly deteriorating physical condition.  

I knew that Baba was giving me a message. I needed to take extra-special care of this precious life growing within me. I immediately took to the wheelchair that I had till then refused to use. 

Settling into the chair one morning, a memory flashed before me. When I was sixteen, a cousin was admitted to Jaslok Hospital in Bombay. One evening, his parents informed me that he needed some medicines urgently. As there were long lines for the lifts, without giving it a second thought, I raced up 19 floors. How I had taken my health for granted in those days. Today, I could barely take 19 steps. 

As I was restricted to my bed and the wheelchair, Sunil was burdened with the responsibility of overseeing the packing. We were literally packing up the life we had lived for eight years. Being a transfer of residence, we were entitled to import into  India all our household goods, even our car. It was a mammoth exercise, but Sunil rose to the task effortlessly. 

I could travel only after my fourth month. We flew to the UK to meet Dr Walton, perhaps for the very last time.  While in London we visited Mothercare and other shops that specialized in products for children and nurseries.  

We were both excited but apprehensive as we browsed through the range of products available. Giving in to an age-old superstition, I refused to buy anything before the baby was born. Sunil also agreed. 

As always, Sunil made every trip special. He took me to  Geneva for a short holiday. Then on to Lucerne to a health spa.  

In January 1988 we moved back to India. My father-in-law had decided to build a larger home in New Delhi. He wanted us to live together under one roof. Most importantly, he wanted to welcome the new addition to the family in the new home.  

By April he had achieved the unimaginable and we were able to move in. I now had two more pillars of strength in my life—my brother-in-law Anil and my sister-in-law Kanak.  

Though the doctors had earlier recommended admission into the hospital after my seventh month, I now learned I  was doing well. I only needed regular check-ups and a weekly ultrasound. 

As I was to have a caesarean section, the gynaecologist  asked me to choose the delivery date. My first response was 20 May, our wedding anniversary. It was the happiest day of my life, one that continued to bring me joy and fulfilment.  The doctor, however, wanted to push the date as far back as possible for the baby’s health.  

In a flash, it came to me. I would choose the day of the week not the date. My baby would be born on a Thursday, Baba’s day. Baba referred to Thursdays as Guruvaar—day of the guru.  That was when he distributed udi or sacred ash to his devotees as a symbol of his blessings and to heal them from physical and spiritual ailments. I knew Baba would bless my baby in a special way.  

The universe works in mysterious ways. The Thursday chosen for the caesarean was 26 May, the day I lost my first baby. Seven years later our precious child would enter the world on exactly the same day. I knew the message being sent to me. That beautiful soul wanted to come back into our lives. 

On 25 May, the entire family drove with me to Aashlok  Hospital in Safdarjung Enclave. My in-laws, parents and  sisters were bound by a collective delight—and disquiet.  In the hospital room that night I struggled to control the mixed emotions that assailed me. Although happiness, joy and excitement were foremost, there was also a lingering fear about the health of my baby. I was also anxious about the surgery.  My old anxieties about doctors and hospitals surfaced again. A caesarean was a must, as my muscles were too weak for labour. I consoled myself with the thought that I wouldn’t have to suffer the excruciating pain of childbirth. 

Extracted with permission from Charu Malik's Wings Of Courage; published by Rupa Publications.