When Breath Defies Air

Rakhshee has never done things halfway, and I should have known from the start that her greatest lesson—the art of unyielding resilience—would be her gift to me. She is a teacher in the truest sense, but her methods are far from orthodox. Back in Karachi, she was my history teacher, and her classroom was as much a theater of stories as it was a lecture hall. She did not just teach history; she made us see it, feel it, question it, bringing figures and events to life with a voice that demanded attention. Through her teaching, she subtly reshaped my life’s course, though I did not realize it at the time.

Years later, as I drifted deeper into academic medicine, entrenched in medical charts and lectures, I was reminded of Rakhshee’s wisdom—the stories, the humor, and her knack for nudging others toward a broader view of life. Her voice, in many ways, drew me into the world of children’s literature—a realm she opened to me with unexpected passion. She taught me that the only real critics worth listening to are the children themselves; if they do not find joy or wonder in a story, it has missed its mark.

This philosophy guided her work with Bookgroup, where she crafted stories and encouraged young minds to critique, dissect, and ultimately find themselves within the pages. Writing for children, she showed me, is not about simplifying things but about honoring the richness of their imagination, trusting them to confront and question the world. 

Through Bookgroup, we collaborated on Biloongra bilingual children's books, and then we immersed ourselves in refining short stories that eventually became part of An Itinerant Observer. Here, Rakhshee’s brilliance as a linguist shone, transforming these stories far beyond their original forms. Bookgroup reprinted that book a few years back, a testament to the timeless quality she infused into each tale.

Rakhshee’s life has never followed a conventional path. She was married to Anver, who battled Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS), leaving him paralyzed but somehow never truly defeated. As a young medical student in the ER, I remember watching her by his side, holding his hand, communicating through a glance, a touch. Her life with him was one of quiet rebellion against convention, a profound partnership that needed no words to make sense to anyone else. Her selflessness shone not only in her care for Anver but in her decision to donate a kidney to her young nephew, a gesture as generous as it was courageous.

True to form, Rakhshee carried that spirit to her most recent ‘graveyard adventure,’ as she calls it. After Anver passed, she defied societal expectations by attending his graveside service—a rare sight in Pakistan: a lone woman, the wife, standing among men, daring anyone to question her presence. She laughed aloud, unrestrained, her voice cutting through the silence of the graveyard, unsettling anyone who presumed to judge her for showing up and standing her ground. ‘Gone stark raving mad,’ she would joke later, savoring the discomfort she stirred in those bound by narrow conventions. Her laughter that day was a declaration of her place in his life—and her place in this world, unflinchingly authentic and unapologetic.

Today, Rakhshee’s own battle is waged in silence but with no less fire. She has interstitial lung disease, a relentless adversary that forces her to always sit upright, hooked to high-concentration oxygen just to breathe. Lying down is no longer an option; gravity itself has become her foe. Yet she refuses to surrender. She sits, day and night, in her chair—each breath hard-won, each one a testament to her indomitable spirit. The hiss of her oxygen mask underscores each breath as a fierce rebuttal to a disease that seeks not only her life but also her voice. And true to form once more, Rakhshee has ‘gone mad’ in the most beautifully rebellious way imaginable: she considered a double lung transplant, taking on the idea with the same fierce determination that she brought to every other challenge in life.

She tells me about this with a glint in her eye, as if daring the world to question her decision. “Standing my ground,” she calls it, a phrase that seems to define her, no matter the circumstances. Her family surrounds her, steadfast and supportive, a testament to the love and strength she has fostered over the years. She does not dwell on the hardship or the constraints of her condition; instead, she speaks about possibility, as if every breath is her claim to yet another chapter in her life.

In a way, it is this defiance that reminds me so powerfully of her impact—not just on me, but on all those she has touched. Rakhshee, even now, is a teacher, an author, a life force who takes every challenge in stride, turning it into yet another story worth sharing.

I hold onto one memory of Rakhshee—a moment frozen in time, emblematic of the woman she is. It is a recollection of her hand on Anver’s, a silent gesture, their eyes locked in quiet understanding. She taught me, then and now, that the greatest battles are often fought without spectacle, that strength can exist in a whisper, in a touch. That same strength emanates from her today, from her chair, from the pages of her children’s books, from the legacy she has woven with Bookgroup. Her battle is quiet, yet it resonates with anyone who has the privilege of knowing her story.

Rakhshee is an unbreakable thread in my own narrative, reminding me every day that life is not just about what we breathe in, but about what we exhale—the stories, the laughter, the unyielding resolve.

“Life isn’t measured by the breaths we take but by the moments that take our breath away,” a sentiment Rakhshee embodies at every turn.

In her presence, I am reminded that Rakhshee’s life is a breathtaking story in every sense.

Karachi, Nov 01, 2024; Dedicated to RN & SM

 

Postscript (March 25, 2025):

Since writing this in November 2024, Rakhshee’s journey came to its natural close. Yesterday, I received this message:

“No, she was not in pain nor in major distress; she went on her own volition and she went peacefully. All her loved ones were by the side of her bed as she said her last goodbye to us. Indeed, a special person she was.”

She truly was. And always will be.

References
1. "Anver" from An Itinerant Observer by Asad Mian
2. Mian AI & Niazi R. [Neurology article co-written with Rakhshee]

from Narrative Medicine