“Hello… are you there?” Pause. Every such attempt was followed by silence — a very harsh silence.

What began as nonchalance slowly segued into ruthlessness, defining this ritual of “no reply” that had started a month back.

​

“Okay… let me try again.” I gathered myself for another round of volleys. “Hello,

Mom! Are you there? I am your son.”

​

This attempt was more personal; I could feel a lump in my throat. But again, every question remained unanswered.

​

An otherwise nondescript vector — a mosquito — carrying an ethereal speck of protein called the dengue virus, too small to be measured in nanograms, was heavy enough to sink not only towering individuals, but entire families. It had stung my mother.

​

A doting mother and vivacious grandmother, who never missed her early morning prayers after a ritual bath, was struck down and rendered bedridden for months.

​

As a doctor, I grew up among such tragedies and was trained to become immune to the miseries around me. In a way, it is a safety mechanism — a shield to protect budding doctors from burnout in the stressful milieu where we are cultivated.

A fleeting glance, a perfunctory nod, and a mechanical exchange of pleasantries keep professionals detached from their surroundings, helping them remain focused on the task at hand.

​

After completing my clinical duties, I would embark on an hour-long, lumbering journey to the ICU where my mother was battling for her life.

​

As the sun set, the city rose into utter chaos, and traffic followed every trajectory except a linear path. Long, zigzag queues appeared like part of some prescription yet to be initiated.

​

The twinkling stream of taillights moved in synchrony with my palpitations — red, a missed beat; green, a return to sinus rhythm. I wished the cacophony on the road would linger in my ears, drowning the echoes of blaring monitors.

​

A jaded tea seller at the corner, a broken road divider, and ebullient street urchins at the crossing unknowingly became my milestones.

​

I could never have imagined myself sitting on humble benches outside an ICU, waiting for my turn to visit my ailing mother.

​

Waves of hushed stories — of travails and tragedies — drifted past me as relatives exchanged them in low tones. There was a full gamut of emotions, from grit to grief, all seeking some kind of closure.

​

As a doctor, these words rarely found space in my ears, and drooping faces were conveniently forgettable. Neither wrinkled foreheads made doctors pause, nor did their banter amuse them.

​

The attendant’s gate pass gradually became their alter ego, reciprocated by a gentle nod from the guard. A kind pat from the janitor and an assuring smile from the nurse reminded me of our shared vulnerabilities.

​

The signs, the symptoms, the scans, and the reports kept hovering in my mind, trying to join the dots, only to end in an endless loop.

​

Every beep of the monitor seemed to whisper a prognosis. The bellows of the ventilator whooshed as if to console me. I tried hard to decipher their language.

​

For the first time in my life, I sincerely hoped to know less.

​

The shadows of loved ones exiting ICUs loomed large in the long, dimly lit corridors, as if drowning in their own grief.

On the way back, I found myself torn between two selves — a healer who was helpless, and a son, wounded and indistinguishable from those sitting on the pews.