When this little Angel landed in my life all broken and burnt and with his life hanging by a string, I simply knew I had to save him. There was no question about it. None at all. At that time saving him meant giving him back his little life, healing his wounds, easing his pain and smothering him with love. It was not easy but it did some the Gods were on my side. The child that had been declared moribund by the hospital and sent home with a death sentence refuted all prognostic and decided to live. With every passing day, despite excruciating pain, he cooperated in every way. He bore the pain of his dressings, gulped the chicken broth, ate whatever we gave him and fought his battle like a brave heart. Soon he was smiling again and as the bandages came off one after the other and the scars began to look less scary we all heaved a huge sigh of relief.
The years passed. Slowly we discovered the sordidness of his life: his parents' drinking, the lack of stability in their life, the lack of money for food, the brutal beatings. We tried to address them one at a time: gave the mom a job, got the little family a decent room, pitched in when needed but the bottle was too big an adversary and things began to fall apart. That is when I realised that mending the family was not the way to go. Harsher measures were to be taken as everything was falling apart. Visits to the cop station in the middle of the night; violence at homes, nights spent without food and strange men appearing with regularity. And above the innumerable visits to doctors and hospitals as the bonny fellow had fits and breathing problems and was pumped with steroids. This had to stop!