*This year, Ramzan feels different in our home.*
Bismillah-ir-Rahman-ir-Raheem. In this blessed month of sabr and dua, when we greet each other with Ramzan Mubarak and pray for Allah’s mercy, our house carries both faith and a quiet worry.
We live in a small town in Bihar where mornings begin with the call of the azaan and the creaking sound of hand pumps. I leave early for my work as a gardener, carrying my worn tools on my shoulder. Tafsir, my son, usually sits near the doorway with his books arranged in a neat pile. He has always loved order. Even now, though he does not attend school regularly, he wakes up early, washes carefully, and smooths his hair as if preparing for an invisible classroom.
It was a few years ago, while he was helping his mother peel potatoes for lunch, that I noticed a small swelling on his lower lip. It looked harmless. “Children change with age,” someone at the tea stall had said. We believed it would pass. But the swelling did not pass. It grew slowly, steadily, without announcing its intentions.
Later, doctors gave it a name — lower lip hemangioma. They explained about abnormal blood vessels and the danger of sudden, heavy bleeding. I listened carefully while Tafsir sat quietly beside me, trying to appear brave. When the swelling began increasing more rapidly, the doctors warned us not to delay treatment.
Tafsir is intelligent, gentle, hopeful. He often says with confidence, “I am very good at studies.” He dreams of becoming a teacher one day. On good days, he revises his lessons and even pretends to teach his younger cousin. But he has stopped going to school regularly. Some children tease him. He hides his face with his hand. One evening after Maghrib, he asked me softly, “Abba, will my face ever become normal?” I replied, “Inshallah, after surgery you will go back to school.” He nodded, holding onto that promise.
Our life now moves between home and hospital. The treatment plan is detailed and necessary: thorough investigations, a PET CT scan to understand the condition fully, chemotherapy and targeted therapy to reduce the growth, surgical excision under expert supervision, followed by physiotherapy, dietician reviews, and supportive care so he can eat and speak comfortably again. The doctors have made it clear that waiting longer could lead to severe bleeding or permanent damage.
The total required amount for his complete treatment is ₹7,31,000. I state this simply because it is what the estimate shows. We have used our small savings. I have borrowed from relatives. As a daily wage worker, every hospital visit means lost income. We have reduced household expenses and postponed needs quietly, without complaint.
During Sehri, Tafsir wakes with us and drinks water slowly. At Iftar, he eats carefully, even when he wishes to smile freely. During Taraweeh prayers, I find my duas growing longer. In this sacred month of mercy and giving, when hearts soften and hands open for charity, I pray that Allah sends help through kind people.
I imagine a day when Tafsir returns to school without covering his face, carrying his books proudly, ready to become the teacher he already believes he can be. For a father, that hope is my greatest dua.
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