The Story Of Our Little Warrior Neil Saiesh

Yajas was coming back.

The moment we heard it, we were excited.

His father was travelling from Canada to India for an official project for about a week, and Yajas had decided he wanted to come too.

Now, if you knew Yajas, you would know what a big deal this was.

That boy would rarely leave his mother and travel anywhere.

Yet this time, there wasn’t even much convincing required.

He wanted to come.

He wanted to be with Neil.

And looking back today, I realise just how much he loved his Neiloo.

Because for those six days, he chose his little brother over everything else.

And somehow, I think Neil knew it too.

By then, Neil’s life had settled into a routine.

Every morning began with therapy.

Then he would come home.

Sleep for a while.

Eat.

Go for another therapy session.

Eat again.

Sleep.

Repeat.

His bowel was working beautifully now.

He was pooping good amounts.

He was eating.

His body was processing food.

The STEP surgery had given us a pathway we once thought we would never have.

His weight gain, however, continued to be a challenge.

Neil hovered around 5 kilograms.

Sometimes 5.1.

Sometimes 5.2.

Sometimes he would suddenly fall to 4.8.

Whenever that happened, the Hickman line became our safety net.

A few nights of TPN support.

Additional hydration.

And we would slowly bring him back.

We knew weight gain was going to be slow.

We knew short gut syndrome would make every gram difficult.

And we knew his brain injury wasn’t helping either.

But somehow, we were hopeful.

Therapy had become our biggest source of hope.

And then Yajas arrived.

The last time he had come to India was in June 2025.

Back then, Neil had suddenly fallen sick.

ARDS had taken over our lives.

Hospitals had taken over our days.

And the boys barely got any uninterrupted time together.

This time was different.

This time Neil was home.

This time Yajas was home.

And this time, they had each other.

Completely.

The moment Yajas walked in, he wanted to carry Neil.

That was his first demand.

We would carefully lift Neil and place him in Yajas’s arms.

And every single time, Yajas would beam with pride.

The kind of pride only an elder brother can feel.

Look at me.

I am carrying my little brother.

Neil, of course, cooperated beautifully.

By now he was eating.

And that meant Yajas got promoted from brother to feeding assistant.

He would sit with Neil on his lap and feed him coconut water.

Tiny sips.

Patiently.

Proudly.

Like it was the most important responsibility in the world.

And then Neil rewarded him.

By pooping all over him.

We were laughing.

“Neil poops only on people he loves.”

That became his conclusion.

And honestly, nobody could argue with his logic.

Because Neil certainly seemed to love him.

What struck me most during those days was how naturally Yajas understood Neil.

He never looked at him differently.

He never saw the tubes.

The seizures.

The therapies.

The delays.

He simply saw Neil.

His brother.

That was it.

And like every elder brother, Yajas had his own collection of names for Neil.

Neil rarely got called Neil when Yajas was around.

He became Gudbeesan.

To this day, I think Yajas meant “Good Boy” when he invented that name, but somehow in true Yajas fashion, it evolved into Gudbeesan.

And honestly, Neil responded to it…

Then there was Loduckpandiayan.

Neil had this adorable habit of pursing his lips and making a little duck face. Somehow Yajas noticed it, amplified it, and declared that his brother was now Loduck. Eventually, the name graduated into the far more prestigious title of Loduckpandiayan.

And then there was my favourite.

Vayu.

Yajas firmly believed that Lord Hanuman was protecting Neil through his journey.

And since Hanuman is the son of Vayu, the wind god, Neil became Vayu.

It was such a simple thing.

A little boy giving another little boy funny names.

But today, those names feel precious.

Because they belonged only to them.

A language only they spoke.

A bond only they shared.

And every time Yajas called out “Gudbeesan”, “Loduck” or “Vayu”, Neil would quietly look toward him as though he knew exactly who was being called.

Maybe he did.

When Neil had seizures, Yajas would immediately become gentle.

Protective.

Concerned.

He would sit next to him.

Talk to him.

Try to comfort him.

Sometimes I would simply stand back and watch them.

And my heart would feel full.

Completely full.

Because there was so much love in that room.

After the meningitis, I had quietly started preparing myself for a possibility I never wanted to think about.

That Neil might eventually become a special-needs child.

That his journey may be different.

That his milestones may come differently.

And whenever that thought crossed my mind, I would immediately think of Yajas.

Not because I expected him to take care of Neil.

Never.

But because I knew he would always care about Neil.

There is a difference.

I always imagined that if Neil ever needed someone to call.

Someone to lean on.

Someone to simply be there.

Yajas would be that person.

Because kindness comes naturally to him.

And I knew he would always be kindest to his brother.

Yajas became part of Neil’s therapy routine too.

He accompanied him everywhere.

Passive therapy.

CME therapy.

Hospital visits.

Everything.

At the therapy centre, Yajas carried Neil’s bag.

Like it was his official duty.

A responsibility he had proudly accepted.

While Neil attended therapy sessions, Yajas would run around the centre, explore every corner and still somehow return exactly when Neil needed him.

The therapists loved watching them together.

And honestly, so did we.

One day, we decided to take Yajas out.

Poor fellow had spent most of his vacation either at home or in therapy centres.

We thought he deserved a break.

Maybe a small outing.

Maybe some fun.

The moment we stepped out, he looked at us and asked:

“Why did you bring me here?”

We were confused.

“What happened?”

His answer still stays with me.

“I want to be with Neil.”

That was it.

That was all he wanted.

Not malls.

Not games.

Not sightseeing.

Not treats.

Just Neil.

At that moment we laughed.

Today, when I think about it, I cry.

Because perhaps those were little signs.

Little hints.

That he needed that time.

That uninterrupted time.

And somehow, he got it.

By then, Neil’s mornings belonged to CME therapy.

Cuevas Medek Exercises.

A specialised therapy focused on stimulating neurological responses through movement against gravity.

For children with neurological injuries, the brain sometimes needs to develop new pathways.

New connections.

New routes.

The exercises were designed to stimulate exactly that.

And Neil cooperated beautifully.

The sessions were not easy.

Many exercises were physically demanding.

Many were uncomfortable.

Some were painful.

But my boy had always known how to convert pain into progress.

That was his superpower.

When Dr. Reshi first assessed Neil, he told us something honest.

He would need some time to understand how much potential Neil had for recovery.

So we made a plan.

The first 45 days had one goal.

Neck control.

Every exercise.

Every session.

Every movement.

Everything was directed toward helping Neil regain neck control.

And for the first time in months, we could see progress.

Tiny progress.

But progress nevertheless.

Dr. Reshi became another important person in Neil’s journey.

His professionalism.

His knowledge.

His honesty.

Everything gave us confidence.

He never gave false hope.

But he always gave us courage.

And during those months, courage was priceless.

Evening therapy was passive physiotherapy.

Stretching.

Positioning.

Movement exercises.

Gym ball work.

Neil actually seemed to enjoy parts of it.

Watching him respond gave us hope.

Real hope.

The kind we had been desperately searching for since the meningitis.

The seizures still remained.

Those mysterious movements that nobody could fully explain.

The tunnel we were still trying to navigate.

Would they stop?

Would they affect his recovery?

Would they slow his progress?

We didn’t know.

Dr. Dinesh would reassure us.

“These are post-meningitis myoclonic movements. We cannot spend our life chasing every seizure. Let him eat. Let him gain strength. Let therapy do its work.”

And somehow, when Dr. Dinesh said something, it felt believable.

So we listened.

And we focused on therapy.

Focused on food.

Focused on progress.

Focused on hope.

Meanwhile, Yajas continued doing what he did best.

Loving Neil.

Caring for Neil.

Praying for Neil.

Cheering for Neil.

Being there for Neil.

Without conditions.

Without expectations.

Without understanding just how important he was becoming in this story.

And then suddenly, it was time for him to leave.

Six days had flown by.

Just like that.

The suitcases came out.

Goodbyes arrived.

And Yajas got something he hadn’t received during his previous visit.

A proper goodbye.

A goodbye kiss.

A goodbye hug.

A goodbye from Neil.

At that moment, none of us knew it would be their final goodbye.

Had we known, perhaps we would have held on a little longer.

Perhaps we would have taken a few more pictures.

Perhaps we would have said a few more words.

But life rarely tells us when something is happening for the last time.

So we simply waved goodbye.

And life moved forward.

Soon after came Jerrin’s birthday.

The previous birthday had been spent rushing to the hospital for Hickman line placement.

This year, all we wanted was one simple celebration together.

Nothing grand.

Nothing fancy.

Just family.

Just home.

Just Neil.

We cut a small cake.

Took a few pictures.

Made a few memories.

And quietly thanked God for allowing us another birthday together.

By then, our entire hope rested on therapy.

We wished for recovery.

We wished for progress.

We wished for milestones.

We wished for our Neil to come back to us in all his glory.

And for the first time in a long time, it felt possible.

The future no longer looked dark.

It looked uncertain.

But hopeful.

And sometimes hope is all you need to keep going.

We did not know then that February was quietly preparing us for one final lesson.

One final battle.

One final chapter.

And then… dreadful March arrived….