A True Story of Sabr, Shifa, and Sujood

 

Bismillahir Rahmanir Raheem.

Today, I want to tell you a story — not a fiction, not a folktale — but a real journey that unfolded in front of my eyes.

A journey of pain and healing. Of loss and miracles.

A story of a 10-year-old girl who faced a test so great, yet bore it with patience that would humble even the strongest of us.

It was 2007. Our family was on the road, together in a car, like any other day. Laughter. Togetherness. A simple moment.

Until everything changed.

A sudden, terrible accident.

The car was crushed. The windshield shattered.

And my little sister — sitting in the front — was hit by shards of glass that tore into her eye.

The screams. The confusion. The blood.

And then the silence — that terrifying silence when the doctors said:

“She may lose her vision.”

I still remember our parents’ faces. Their world collapsed in that moment. They did everything they could — spent lakhs, sold whatever they could, borrowed, prayed, cried, begged. They held her hand through surgeries and hospital corridors, hoping for a miracle.

And Allah, Ar-Rahman, Ar-Raheem, sent us one.

Though the glass had pierced deep, her eyeball remained intact. The surgery was successful. Over time, she began to see again through that eye. It wasn’t easy. It took months, even years, of treatment, eye drops, check-ups, and patience. But she never complained. Not once.

Where many would have given up, she rose.

She returned to her books, to her dreams.

She not only studied — she excelled.

She outperformed in her board exams, and made a bold decision — she chose nursing as her career.

Not just to work, but to heal. To become the hand that comforts others, the voice that says, “You’ll be okay.”

She earned the PM Scholarship and moved far from home — to Rajasthan — to pursue her B.Sc. Nursing.

There, she didn’t just survive the challenges of a new city, tough academics, and the weight of her past — she topped the university for three consecutive years.

SubhanAllah.

But again, life tested her.

This time, it was glaucoma. A silent thief of vision.

I remember her final-year exams were going on. Her eye pressure kept spiking. She would study during the day and visit hospitals at night. The pain was constant. Her eye was red, irritated, and blurry. Doctors placed contact lenses to relieve the pressure, but they failed — three times.

Still, she did not lose focus.

Still, she held on to tawakkul.

Still, she gave her best.

She completed her degree with distinction.

Then, she returned home — but not to rest.

This time, her journey led her to AIIMS Delhi, where top doctors confirmed she needed a cornea transplant.

Today, she underwent surgery for glaucoma.

And in two months, she will have her corneal transplant.

Behind her is a mother who now suffers from hypertension, and a father who has been her rock — traveling across states, sitting in waiting rooms, praying silently while she’s in surgery.

And then there’s me — her sibling — watching from a distance. Wishing I could be by her side.

And feeling a pride I cannot describe in words.

My Reflection as Her Sibling

If I hold my head high today, it’s because I’ve watched someone walk through fire without ever losing their grace.

She never asked, “Why me?”

Instead, she said, “Alhamdulillah,” and kept going.

“Allah does not burden a soul beyond that it can bear.”

(Surah Al-Baqarah 2:286)

She is my sister, but more than that — she is my teacher.

She taught me what sabr really means.

She showed me what shukr looks like — even when you’re hurting.

She reminded me that no matter how dark the world feels, Allah’s light is always near.

And even though I’m far from her today, my duas reach her every moment.

Ya Allah, grant her complete shifa.

Ease her pain.

Strengthen her heart.

And reward her for every silent tear she has ever shed.

She is not just a survivor.

She is a believer.

She is a fighter with a soft heart.

She is the dua our family continues to make.

And she is my hero.