Friday, 26 January 2024. Republic Day.

Dawn broke, quiet and cold. I woke up at 5 a.m., as I always did. Ashwini had taken a late-night flight from Pune, delayed for hours. His plane finally touched down in Nagpur at 3:30 a.m. By the time he reached home, it was 5. I was already at my desk, scrolling through the morning news on my desktop screen.

The Padma awards had been announced. My classmate from GMC Nagpur, Dr. Chandrashekhar Meshram, a neurologist from Nagpur, was among the awardees. A well-deserved honor. I felt a surge of happiness.

I picked up my phone and called him. So what if it was 5:30 a.m.? The call couldn’t wait.

“SP!” he answered, surprised at the early hour.

“Congratulations, Chandrashekhar!” I said. “The Padma Shri—what a wonderful recognition!”

He laughed, a mix of joy and disbelief. “Thank you! It’s overwhelming.”

We spoke for ten minutes, reminiscing, celebrating. Then, I opened WhatsApp to share the news with our GMC Class of 1973 group. 

I had barely finished typing when it hit me.

*****

A Physician, Now a Patient

A deep, dull discomfort. Right at the center of my chest.

I stood up. Took a breath. Walked to the bedroom and lay down. But the sensation stayed—not sharp, not searing, just firm. Refusing to go. 

I nudged Bhavana awake. “We need to get to the hospital,” I said.

She blinked, surprised, but didn’t panic. She never did. Instead, she asked, “Would you like to change into a formal shirt?” She was always particular about what I wore.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “Just get the car. We need to move fast.”

She didn’t ask again. She had read my face. She knew. We both did. This was cardiac.

Ashwini came running down the stairs. Within minutes, we were in the car, racing toward the Medicine department of Sevagram Hospital.

*****

The Sevagram ICU

I had felt this before. Eleven years ago. Back then, the pain had been vague, almost elusive. An angiogram had revealed a severe blockage, and a stent had been placed in my heart’s main artery. But this time, there was no doubt—no room for denial, no wishful thinking. This was my heart, and I had no time to waste.

At the department gate, there was no wheelchair. I didn’t wait. I climbed the ramp and walked straight to the ICU on the first floor.

The residents, groggy from a long night on duty, looked up in surprise. They assumed I had come to check on an emergency. I sank into the resident’s chair at the nursing counter and turned to one of them.

“I’m having some chest pain. Can you do an ECG?”

She hesitated. “Sir, there’s no bed in the ICU…”

I cut her short. “Take me to the preparatory beds in front of the Cath Lab. Do the ECG there.”

I walked the few meters and lay down.

She moved quickly now, her hands steady but her face betraying doubt. Maybe it was nothing serious. Maybe she was overthinking it. Then the ECG machine confirmed the truth—early signs of a heart attack. My coronary artery was blocked. My heart muscle was gasping for blood.

She froze. She had treated countless patients with heart attacks before. But this was different. This was her professor.

The pain intensified. My shirt clung to my damp skin. Sweat pooled at my temples. I reached for Bhavana’s hand. I had no words left.

“Why are you sweating so much?” she asked, dabbing my forehead. “It’s January, and we’re in an air-conditioned ICU.”

I knew the answer, but I wasn’t in a position to explain.

For a fleeting moment, uncertainty hung in the air. The ICU residents hesitated—young, raw, caught between protocol and urgency. Paralyzed by indecision.

And then, the ICU male nurse stepped in. Unshaken. Steady. He took charge. Blood thinners. Cholesterol medicine. A swift jab—an anticoagulant injected into my muscle. No hesitation. No wasted movement.

The ICU staff followed his lead. Hands moved swiftly. Voices dropped to a hush. The monitors beeped in rhythm with my heart’s struggle. A silent battle unfolding.

Within minutes, a team had assembled. Then, like a military general stepping onto a battlefield, Dr. Sumedh Jajoo arrived and seized control. His voice was sharp, almost harsh, cutting through the tension.

“Shift him to the main Cardiac ICU. Now!” he ordered, his tone leaving no room for hesitation.

The room snapped into motion.

*****

A Battle Against Time

The first wave of pain had barely settled before I spoke. “Go for reteplase.”

IV lines were secured. Monitors blinked to life. The beeping filled the room, steady yet urgent.

A needle pierced my vein. The rush of medication. The first dose of the clot-buster. Another followed ten minutes later.

I turned my head toward the ICU clock. Thirty minutes.

Half an hour since the first twinge of pain. The fastest I could have received this, anywhere in the world. Because when it comes to a heart attack, every second counts. The sooner the drug enters the bloodstream, the faster it dissolves the clot, keeping the heart muscle alive.

Fifteen minutes passed. The pain refused to fade. My back was drenched in sweat, my systolic pressure climbing to 170 mmHg.

A resident pressed a stethoscope to my chest, then froze. Later, she would tell me she had closed her eyes for a moment, taken a breath, and prayed.

Thirty minutes. I tossed on the bed, gripping the sheets, bracing against the waves of agony. A flicker of doubt crept in—I might not make it.

I turned to Ashwini. “Call Diti and Nivi. I want to see them.”

They arrived with Shaily—Diti, eleven, and Nivi, eight. Small, uncertain figures at the foot of the bed. Their eyes wide, filled with questions they didn’t ask.

And then—suddenly—the pain was gone.

A deep, almost unnatural silence filled my chest. Relief. The clot-buster had worked. The artery had opened. My starving heart had found its lifeline.

I exhaled. And smiled.

The residents let out a breath. The nurses exchanged glances. Bhavana and Ashwini, still gripping my hands, squeezed them gently.

How did I get the life-saving heart medicine so quickly?

Because I didn’t second-guess the pain—I knew it was my heart.
Because the hospital was only two minutes away.
Because it was my hospital, my people—nurses, residents, faculty—all mine.
Because there were no formalities, no delays, no wasted time.
Because everything fell into place.
Because I was simply lucky. Very lucky.

I had made it.

*****

The Morning After

The rest of the day passed in quiet vigilance. Gini, the ICU nurse, took charge. She had spent two decades in the ICU and shared a special bond with me. She ran a tight ship—keeping well-wishers at bay, ensuring that nothing disturbed the steady hum of care around me.

My residents, the ones I had mentored, sat by my bedside, their eyes fixed on the monitors, watching over me as I had watched over so many others.

Amrita, seven months pregnant with Samanvi, was in Chandigarh when she got the news. Visibly shaken, she asked for my ECG to be sent to Dr. Rajiv Rathi, her father-in-law, a cardiologist at Max Hospital in Delhi. Moments later, his response came through. “This is standard treatment worldwide,” he reassured everyone. “The clot-buster got in at the right time and did its job.”

By midnight, to everyone’s surprise, Dr. Rathi arrived in Sevagram.

The night passed uneventfully. I slept on the very bed where, for years, I had paused to examine patients, adjusted treatments, and moved on. Thousands of times, I had been the physician making decisions.

Now, I was the patient.

*****

In the Hands of Friends

Morning came. Ashwini drove the four of us—Dr. Rathi, Bhavana, Dr. Sumedh, and me—to Dr. Pramod Mundra’s cardiac hospital in Nagpur. The 90-minute drive was quiet, each of us lost in thought, the weight of the past day settling differently on our shoulders.

Dr. Mundra was already prepared. Dr. Rathi had briefed him the night before. The team was waiting.

He knew my heart well—its quirks, its past troubles, its stubborn resilience. A decade ago, it was his hands that had guided the catheter through my arteries, confirming that my pain was cardiac, placing the stent that had kept my heart beating all these years. And now, once again, my heart rested in his hands.

The timing couldn’t have been worse. The very next day, Neha, his daughter, was getting married. A grand reception was planned—thousands of guests, family, and friends gathering to celebrate. The wedding festivities were in full swing. Yet, without hesitation, he stepped away, walked into the hospital, and stood by my side. No second thoughts. No reluctance.

“Your heart matters just as much as my daughter’s wedding,” he said simply.

His presence was steady, reassuring—a pillar of quiet strength in the storm.

Dr. Rathi was no different. The moment he heard, he had caught the next flight from Delhi. No delays, no excuses.

“That’s just who he is,” Amrita told me later. “For him, family comes first.”

He stood in the Cath lab, watching over every step, working in perfect rhythm with Dr. Mundra. Two experts, two steady hands, two minds focused on a single goal—restoring my heart.

How do you even begin to thank people like that?

*****

The Familiar Table

Pink hospital gowns replaced my shirt and trousers. The air in the Cath lab was crisp, cold, sterile, and heavy with quiet urgency. I lay on the table—familiar, almost too familiar. The fourth time in a decade. Same hospital. Same table. Same cardiologist.

Was history repeating itself?

The first time, a decade ago, for an angioplasty. The second and third, just routine angiograms, my coronaries passing the test each time.

But this time was different. This time, I had had a heart attack. The ECG had told its grim tale: my major artery must have been blocked, a deadly dam of cholesterol and thrombus choking the flow of life.

I knew the drill. An angiogram takes just a few minutes. If an angioplasty is needed, another forty-five. The warmth of the dye, the chill of the air-conditioned lab, the sterile atmosphere, Machines would beep, and whispered orders would pass between masked figures—it was all familiar. A controlled battlefield, where every eye stayed glued to the large screen, deciphering the intricate geography of my heart. Every move was calculated, precise.

“LAD again,” a hushed voice murmured.

“Yes, total occlusion,” another confirmed. “And right above the previous stent.”

A pause.

“The circumflex is also blocked. Might need another stent.”

They nodded in silent agreement.

I almost smiled. My old stent had lived in solitude for a decade. Now, it was about to get company. No longer a lone sentinel, it would have neighbors, comrades to talk to, to share the weight of my beating heart.

Injections. Dye. More dye. Catheters snaking through arteries, balloons inflating, metal expanding against fragile walls. I closed my eyes and counted.

Fifteen minutes. Thirty. An hour.

Then, the voices turned lighter. Relief. Satisfaction. A job well done.

“We’ve opened your coronaries. No more blocks. And look how beautifully your heart is pumping.”

I could picture it—like a river once obstructed by a boulder. The stone removed, the waters now flowing free, dancing in the light, carrying life to the farthest shores.

*****

Recovery

Two days in the hospital. One in the ICU, another in a private room. They wouldn’t let me out of bed. The simple act of passing urine turned into a battle—the bladder stubborn, the ward boy hovering too close. Meals came to me where I lay—breakfast, lunch, dinner—all on the bed.

Then, on the third day, they let me go.

I walked out of Dr. Mundra’s hospital and returned home.

Alive.

Grateful.

A week later, I walked back into the ICU—not as a patient, but as a doctor. My residents stopped mid-step, eyes widening.

“I’ve started all my daily activities,” I told one of them with a smile. “Even cycling.”

She exhaled, tension melting from her shoulders. Relief, not just for me, but for the proof that medicine had worked, that the right decisions had been made, that life had prevailed.

Later that night, I wrote a thank-you email to Dr. Pramod Mundra and the ICU team. Some things should never go unsaid.