Till Fate Do Us Part

1

It was a day like countless others. Long, hectic and draining. Doctor Gaurang was yearning for it to end, even though the clock had barely ticked its way into the morning.

The door of his room was closed. He didn’t need it to be open to know what was happening on the other side.

The narrow corridors of the outpatient department teemed with more patients than chairs, while the hospital staff bustled about, appearing occupied but accomplishing little of substance. First-time visitors wandered, bewildered, searching for the elusive billing counter, their initial enthusiasm quenched by the doctor coordinators who firmly redirected them to the billing desk before any consultation. Every ten minutes, another practitioner emerged from the OPD, citing an ‘Emergency’, leaving despondent patients waiting, the long queues getting longer.

Everything outside was so predictable and precise to the extent of being dull.

However, it was different for Gaurang today. He had no procedures scheduled at the Operation Theatre. His OPD was devoid of visiting patients. A rarity in his work life, it gifted him an expanse of time that felt almost uncomfortably extended.

Rising from his chair, Gaurang traversed to the furthest corner of the room, where a washbasin stood. He could not claim the room as his room—it was allocated to him for the duration of his OPD hours. He had seen his patients in another room the day before. The dynamic room allocation system for medical practitioners made the ever-changing room allocation the norm. He looked into the mirror. That was his only other view in the space with no windows. A handsome visage, looking somewhat older than his years, stared back through silver horn-rimmed glasses.

Standing tall at five feet eleven inches, Gaurang’s long face complemented his expansive forehead. The aquiline nose gave an apt masculine touch to the pristine fair skin visible outside the salt and pepper beard that started just above his ears and covered a quarter of his face on either side, almost obscuring the chin. The thick, wavy strands of hair bestowed him a scholarly look from the front while the small ponytail at the nape added to his persona. Lips slightly parted, an ever-present, perhaps unshakable hint of a smile graced his countenance—twelve years of medical practice had yet to efface it.

The white shirt he wore clung unapologetically to his well-toned arms and upper body, the indigo jeans embracing his tucked-in shirt accentuating his lean form at all the right angles. The results of his daily commitment to the gym—every single evening in the last twenty of his thirty-three years—were evident in each contour and line.

Gaurang returned to his chair, retrieved the white coat adorning its back, and donned it again. In the symphony of the hospital’s bustle, the person in him had to take a backseat for the doctor in him to come to the fore. The oppressive and unforgiving humid month of May be damned!

Dr Gaurang worked as a paediatric orthopaedic surgeon in Medicare—one of the country’s most prestigious private hospitals in Gurugram, near Delhi. The multispecialty hospital attracted well-heeled patients from across India and beyond, transcending the confines of the nation’s borders. He also spent two hours twice a week in a renowned hospital in New Delhi, a long drive he didn’t mind at all.

Someone first entering Medicare will be pardoned for thinking they had arrived at a five-star hotel in the city. A fountain at the centre, encompassed by plush sofas flanked by coffee and tea corners, greeted them. Signposts directed patients to the admissions counter and the ground-floor food court with equal prominence. The glass barriers enclosing various sections invoked images of corporate offices before the harsh reality of interacting with the ruthless admissions staff on the opposite side sank in.

Behind the veneer of glamour lurked a cut-throat workplace with no soul. Gaurang had been trying hard to maintain the principles he had promised to uphold since the day he joined the profession. Something that was becoming increasingly difficult every day. The fact that he dealt with children kept him sane. For how long? He wondered.

The sharp ring of the cellphone interrupted his solitude and came as a relief. It was much easier to deal with the patients, surgeries and other day-to-day work that came his way rather than confront life’s deeper quandaries. Mending a fractured bone for an eight-year-old was less daunting than seeking answers to the dilemmas plaguing his thoughts daily. It was best to stick to familiarity—his comfort zone.

He picked up the call from a fellow doctor and was so engrossed in understanding the complicated procedure the latter was entangled in, that he missed the knock on his door.

Knock, knock. The repeated tap was louder, compelling Dr Gaurang to swivel his chair around. A pair of wide, expectant eyes greeted him, framed by the door’s half-open entrance.

The six-foot distance comprising a table and three chairs separating Dr Gaurang from the door could not mask the vulnerability those eyes behold. He noticed the apprehensions, doubts and questions in those eyes. There was very little hope in them. What could be the reason?

He could not gauge further—partly due to the black cloth mask that concealed the area below the eyes. The hunched shoulders visible from the door embodied the body language of a person with limited expectations. He was suddenly irritated with the phone conversation that he was having, wishing that it had come another time.

‘Give me two minutes,’ he said to the lady in the orange kurta1 with white accents, his other hand covering the handheld. The face on the other side nodded, and the door swung shut, leaving Dr Gaurang alone again.

He heard the details from the party on the other side without listening. His thoughts were ensnared by the eyes that had briefly graced his doorway—they were the most captivating pair he had ever encountered.

***

‘The doctor will call us in another two minutes,’ Vedika informed Rohan, her husband, who was seated on the chair meant for the waiting patients. They looked at Samiksha, their five-year-old daughter, who sat beside Rohan. For the time being, Samiksha was quiet behind her mask.

Rohan gestured towards the vacant chair on the other side of their daughter to his wife, but Vedika waved her hand. She intended to knock at the doctor’s door again if he didn’t call them shortly. Casting a quick glance at her wristwatch, she noted it was two minutes to three—still a couple of minutes shy of their appointment time.

Vedika and Rohan had come to Medicare with their daughter during a busy workday to meet the doctor. Samiksha’s tiny eyes twinkled as Rohan played word games with her while Vedika checked her official emails on her phone.

Vedika Sanyal was a General Manager in the Print division at New Era Company Limited, one of India’s foremost media conglomerates. She managed a team of ten individuals overseeing key client accounts, generating over five hundred million rupees in annual revenues for NECL. In addition, Vedika orchestrated pan-India marketing campaigns and strategies for launching new newspaper editions. At present, she was spearheading the preparations for the new English edition launch in Madurai.

The mid-day appointment on a Tuesday was an inconvenience. But Dr Gaurang Doshi, rated 4.8 out of 5 in Google Reviews, was based closer home in Gurugram instead of the neighbouring city of Delhi, and was available for OPDs only during the first half of the days. Rohan had initially tried to make an appointment for Saturday, but all the doctor’s slots were booked on the weekend.

‘Next week would be too late,’ Rohan had mentioned to her. ‘The booking app shows the 2 p.m. slot is available on Tuesday. I can take a half-day off and take Samiksha alone in case you cannot make it for the appointment.’

The notion of Samiksha going alone with Rohan to the doctor was anathema to Vedika. She wanted to hear first-hand about Samiksha’s prognosis. Besides, the doctor was sure to enquire about the child’s mother in her absence, and she did not want to give a reason to someone to judge her because of her professional commitments.

So, here she was, standing in front of the doctor’s cabin.

The door opened while Vedika was going through her emails. ‘You may come in now,’ a warm, resonant voice beckoned her attention, and she looked up straight into Gaurang’s eyes. He stood aside and held the door ajar for her to enter.

‘Come, Samiksha,’ she called out to her right. The father-daughter duo paused their engrossing game and rose to their feet.

Vedika held Samiksha’s hand as she entered the room and guided her to the stool beside the doctor. Gaurang studied Rohan as he followed the ladies.

Standing tall at six feet, the thirty-eight-year-old exuded a blend of confidence and introspection. His wheatish complexion radiated a natural warmth, lending his face an inviting glow. A chiselled jawline accentuated his resolute, clean-shaven countenance, drawing attention to the sharp angles of a well-defined nose that sat proportionately in the centre. His deep eyes, framed by thick, expressive brows, reflected wisdom and experience beyond his years.

Here's someone I can trust, Gaurang thought while re-entering the room. ‘Who do we have here?’ he asked Samiksha playfully, settling on the chair opposite his visitors. ‘What is your name?’

‘She doesn’t speak, Doctor,’ Vedika said. ‘Her name is Samiksha.’

‘Oh, I am sorry.’ The doctor was taken aback for a moment. ‘What is the challenge with her speech?’

‘She is on the autism spectrum disorder,’ Rohan intervened, ‘and is non-verbal and less sociable for her age.’

‘I see.’ Momentary silence hung in the air before Gaurang looked at the child’s parents and asked, ‘What brings you to me today?’

Vedika produced a file and extracted the topmost pages for his perusal.

Gaurang looked down and tried to pull the papers towards him while Vedika simultaneously pushed them to his side. Their hands brushed briefly—their contact fleeting, almost electric. Gaurang promptly withdrew his hand.

‘These prescriptions will throw some light,’ Vedika said, rising from her seat. Gaurang looked at her curiously as she approached the stool where her daughter was sitting and gently beckoned her to stand up. Leaning down, she pulled the little girl’s palazzo up to her knees.

Before the puzzled doctor could ask her to stop, his eyes went to Samiksha’s legs, and the words froze in his throat.

Samiksha’s knees were curved together into a bow-like position with no space between them. In contrast, the slender lower limbs extended outwards, a stark inversion to the customary human anatomical positioning. In essence, the legs resembled a markedly inverted Capital D.

‘Genu Valgum,’ Dr Gaurang pronounced reflexively. It was the worst manifestation of knocked knees he had witnessed in his career.

2

The poor girl! A wave of compassion swept Gaurang as he observed Samiksha. With her two cute pigtails bouncing with each step, framing her round, cherubic face, the adorable child had developed this peculiar gait at a tender age, her struggles overshadowing her innocence.

‘Does she experience any discomfort while walking?’ he asked Samiksha’s mother, anticipating an affirmative nod.

But he was in for more surprises. ‘We don’t know, Doctor,’ Vedika replied in a muffled voice and shrugged her shoulders. ‘She doesn’t speak, making it difficult for us to gauge her pain. Samiksha hasn’t displayed any obvious sign of discomfort. But her pace of walking has slowed, and she has stopped running around. So, the knocked knees are certainly affecting her in some way.’

Vedika choked, her eyes a whirlwind of emotions. Gaurang could feel her unspoken struggles through her gaze alone, even if she were silent.

He had an irrational urge to peel the mask from Vedika’s face and was suddenly afraid he would end up doing it.

‘You may please pull down Samiksha’s trousers. I have seen what I needed to, Ma’am,’ Dr Gaurang said, hastily.

‘Please call me Vedika,’ Vedika replied as she went back to sit on the chair beside Rohan.

Vedika. The name rang in Gaurang’s ears for a considerable time. The noun seemed to hold a unique power over him.

As Vedika returned to her seat, Gaurang’s trained eyes observed her carefully. She gracefully carried her svelte figure and five-foot-four-inch height in a fitted orange kurta and white salwar. She tilted slightly to the right while walking, a fact indiscernible to the average eye but unable to escape an orthopaedist’s attention. Was Samiksha’s condition hereditary?

Gaurang’s gaze returned to the papers on the table before him. They were prescriptions from six months ago, written by a doctor from another prestigious hospital in the city. The diagnosis of ‘Bilateral Genu Valgum’ was written in black, along with the underlying cause—Vitamin D deficiency. The reports showed that the latter had been treated, preventing further deterioration of the condition. But the existing situation was already severe.

‘How did this happen?’ He posed the question to the father, deliberately avoiding Vedika’s eyes.

‘Honestly, Doctor, we don’t know,’ Rohan replied, his words carrying a weight of responsibility. ‘She was not born with the condition. Samiksha crawled and walked before the usual age. She was a very playful child who loved spending hours in the park. Then Covid came, and the excursions to the society’s park stopped. The school went online, and she spent two years in front of the laptop, trying to follow the lessons. Her tantrums and meltdowns increased during this difficult period. My wife’s and my workload increased manifold during this time, and we started seeing less of our daughter even while spending more hours in the house. I know we come out as bad parents, and maybe we were, but it was a crazy and difficult time.’

Gaurang could relate to everything that Rohan said. He also had to resort to online consultations during the pandemic, even though being a frontline healthcare worker meant he was still regularly going to hospital. It was only two months ago that he stopped wearing masks to the hospital, apart from when he was conducting surgery. But the three people sitting before him reminded him about the unprecedented and uncertain times they were all living in.

‘Then the situation improved, and Samiksha started going to the park,’ Rohan continued. ‘We noticed she wasn’t running around and walking as fast as before. We went to a doctor six months ago and realised the dire situation,’ he concluded.

‘I understand about you not noticing her walk and posture earlier. But the interlocking of the knees to this extent would have been visible. While giving her a bath, for instance?’ Dr Gaurang finally looked at Vedika.

‘It is Samiksha’s nanny who gives her a bath every day. She didn’t bring it to my notice,’ Vedika said. The moist eyes held guilt. Gaurang noticed something else. Was it defensiveness? He reverted his eyes to the prescriptions.

‘So, six months ago, you went to the doctor who treated her for Vitamin D deficiency. The diagnosis was made. I can see that he has advised surgery as well. What happened after that?’ What has made them come to me?

Vedika and Rohan exchanged glances. It was a long story.

‘Dr Khera had explained that the surgical procedure would entail inserting false rods in her knee sockets to alter the knees’ position, and the success of the procedure rested in Samiksha not moving her legs for six weeks. He had mentioned that any movement of the feet during the period could end up damaging the bones, and we had to restrain Samiksha during this time,’ Vedika said and paused.

The conversation flashed before her eyes.

‘Doctor, it is difficult to make even a normal child cooperate to sit still for six hours, let alone six weeks. Samiksha is a special-needs child. She would not understand the gravity of the situation. How will we make her cooperate?’A distraught Vedika had asked Dr Pawan Khera during the first meeting.

‘I understand your difficulty,’ the doctor had replied in a voice that conveyed anything but. ‘But there is no other solution. You have to make her cooperate somehow.’

Make her cooperate? It was so easy for teachers, medical practitioners, neighbours and relatives to say these words. They were not the ones dealing with the day-to-day challenges of raising a special-needs child.

Vedika gulped. The eyes that looked at her from the large, round, silver-rimmed glasses reminded her that she was discussing Samiksha’s case with another doctor in another hospital. She continued, ‘Dr Khera also advised some alignment X-ray for Samiksha. And Samiksha got scared in the X-ray room. She just couldn’t stand still. The staff at the diagnostic centre got fed up after multiple attempts and asked me to contact the doctor for an alternative. I did not have the doctor’s number, and the hospital staff could not get through to him. So, we returned empty-handed after two hours in the diagnostic centre.’

She blinked back the tears threatening to come out of her eyes. Samiksha had had a meltdown and urinated in her clothes at the centre. The staff, other patients and even the housekeeping personnel had looked at Vedika with accusing eyes. An elderly lady had whispered aloud about the ill-mannered child and the incompetent mother. Those words had stung Vedika’s soul.

Those eyes hold a lot of pain, Gaurang thought, watching Vedika.

‘Though we managed to get the blood tests done after three attempts, the doctor professed his inability to see us without the X-ray,’ Vedika concluded. ‘Hence, we decided to let it be.’

‘And what made you change your mind?’ Gaurang regretted his words as soon as they left his mouth. He may have come across as insensitive in his curiosity to know the answer.

But the couple before him didn’t seem to mind as Rohan replied, ‘We noticed Samiksha becoming reluctant to walk. While once upon a time, we had a hard time making her sit, now she sits still or lies down most of the time. Her teachers also gave my wife feedback about her being listless during the lessons. This is not her normal nature. So, we decided to start afresh…’

‘With another doctor.’ Vedika concluded. ‘We asked around our circle, and someone brought up your name. You have great feedback in the Portea app, and your Google Rating may touch the maximum someday. So we decided to take another chance and came here.’ Rohan winced at the bluntness of his wife even as Dr Gaurang smiled.