Picture this.
It is a warm summer evening in the border town of Joghat. Adi, a young resident, is on duty in the ER. The faint cry of sirens grows louder, echoing through the dusty corridors of the understaffed NGO hospital.
Elsewhere in the building, Dr. Mehta—Adi’s senior—sits slouched at his desk, the flickering bulb half dead like the man illuminating a half-empty bottle of Old Monk. His wiry frame is hunched in a haze of alcohol and fatigue. The darkness has consumed him.
As the ambulance screeches to a halt, Adi jolts into action. His heart races, but his hands are steady. He clears his mind and moves with surgical precision.
As the next doctor in the chain of command he steps up.
A 43-year-old man is wheeled in
—suffering a major myocardial infarction. {A lethal Heart Attack } .
Clinging to his hand is his 8-year-old son, sobbing, desperate, eyes wide with fear.
Adi doesn’t flinch at the sight before him.
He takes charge.
Hours pass.
As dawn breaks and the first light spills into the ICU, Adi emerges exhausted, bloodshot, but triumphant. He finds the boy waiting. The child rushes to him, tears of relief streaming down his face. He thanks Adi over and over before hurrying to his father’s bedside.
A crisis averted.
A life saved.
A boy forever changed.
That boy will remember Adi—not just as a doctor, but as the man who fought off death itself to save his father. The boy would grow up idolizing him, perhaps even following in his footsteps.
Adi feeling the exhaustion catching up to him climbs to the hospital roof. He sits on the ledge, cigarette between his fingers, morning sun warming his skin. The adrenaline still coursing through his veins. He exhales smoke and a sigh in equal measure.
It dawns on him.
He had done it.
All his training, all those long nights, culminated in this one moment. He had taken control where even nature had relinquished it.
He had played god.
In a place with no medical infrastructure for a hundred kilometers, where healthcare was a distant dream for the people of Joghat, he was the final line between life and death. No backup. No Dr Mehta in sight. Just him.
And he won.
For a fleeting moment, he felt invincible. Raw. Alive. Powerful.
But then he thought of the boy.
That child had looked at him with awe. Worship. The kind of reverence no one should inspire casually. And Adi remembered his own childhood—being in that same place, watching a doctor save someone he loved.
He realized something vital
It wasn’t godhood. It was responsibility.
He wasn’t divine. He was human. A human entrusted with a divine mission.
Saving lives asking,nothing in return.
In the weeks that followed, the man made a full recovery. The boy never left his side, and whenever Adi passed, those same eyes followed him—wide, grateful, unblinking. A constant reminder of the thin line he had walked.
And how easily it could’ve gone the other way.
Even though he saved the man he did not let the reality distort his understanding.
The experience changed him—marked him in a way that would never fully escape him all his life. It taught him to step up, to lead, but more importantly, to :
let go of the illusion of godhood. The idea of playing God !
He was a doctor. An honourable man.
And that was enough.
Author’s Note
This story is inspired by my dear friend, Adi — a budding doctor and a man whose quiet strength and compassion moved me deeply. Our conversation, and the glimpses into his world, taught me to truly revere those in the medical profession.
Adi, thank you for reminding me that saving lives is not just a skill, but a calling — one that demands both courage and humility. I wish you nothing but the best in your noble pursuit.
This story is also a tribute to all healthcare workers — especially the honourable ones who choose to serve, not to play god, but to stand by humanity when it needs them the most.
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