The esteemed Dr Maharaj was the only cardiologist at St Agatha’s Hospital. Although I met him many years after he first arrived from Kashmir, the nurses told me everyone had taken to him right away. How could they not? There was a sincerity in the way he spoke; a strength in the hand he put on your shoulder. And when a patient’s heart was beyond repair - because there was no way he could save them all - he held their hand and promised to help them through until the very end. Dr Maharaj was the doctor that patients would kneel next to their children and point to, saying "that doctor there - he’s the kind one”. Yet it was quite something to find a heart specialist who knew so little about the heart

Yes, when I first met Ravi, he was still in the industrious, clueless vigour of his forties. He used to bustle through the wards like a portly bowling ball; white-coated junior doctors would scatter in his wake with murmured apologies. His evenings were spent at the hospital seeing extra patients and writing clinical letters. It was ingrained in him from his medical training in India and the challenges he’d endured to become a cardiologist - there was no time to pause, no time for life - and in the process he had become a physician of surpassing quality. Though, as I remarked to him years later, if someone spent that much time at work, you’d expect them to be pretty damn good at their job.

Sometimes the mind keeps itself busy to forget what hides underneath, and I’m sure that was the case in Ravi’s middle years. In all the photos from that time, he cycles between two or three different work shirts, and his moustache is bushy and untrimmed. He was never tall and his waistline grew slowly but steadily. If he did look in the mirror, I doubt he liked what he saw - so it was no wonder his romantic confidence lay down in his boots. I was told it was shameful in his culture to reach his age unmarried.

Our first encounter was when we were sharing the care of Mr Patel. Oh, Mr Patel was delightful. An elderly gentleman who had survived two heart attacks and three stents and was now taking a bucketload of heart pills each morning. He had come into hospital for shortness of breath and leg swelling, and I brought my medical team to see him on the ward round - only to find Ravi already at the bedside. They were deep in conversation in Hindi.

“Hiren’s shop sells the best chicken korma I’ve ever had. Just another reason why we need to get him back on his feet as soon as possible,” Ravi said when he saw us, flashing a smile. I felt his eyes linger on me a little longer before he excused himself and left.

(⊃｡•́‿•̀｡)⊃to be continued (⊃｡•́‿•̀｡)⊃

the story is from mr.Shuvayon Mukherje

on blog.reedsy.com

I remember asking myself who this man thought he was, seeing my patient before he’d even been referred. But I quickly realised that this wasn’t a power move or a way to get ahead of the game. This man truly seemed to care about the community and his patients. And, appealingly, he wasn’t afraid to show it.

“I’ve been seeing Dr Maharaj through the private system,” Mr Patel said. “He knew this would happen eventually - that my heart would fail. Is there any hope for me, doctor? My granddaughter is expecting later this year, and I have another granddaughter graduating from dentistry school, and I do want to see the Eagles when they tour the world next year. There’s so much more I want to do. I just want more time.”

“You do have time,” I said simply. “Much more than you think.”

That Christmas, I saw Ravi again at the annual work function. Somehow - and I still believe this was the hand of fate - we were assigned to sit side-by-side at the dinner table. We spoke into the night about Medicine, about the limitations of healthcare, about the failings of the system we would pass down to our children. And then something unspoken passed between us, childless as we were, a warning that time was running out. I saw it in his eyes that night: a deep-rooted longing to be himself. A willingness to take a chance. And a promise that I could be the one.

the story is from mr.Shuvayon Mukherje

on blog.reedsy.com

Our love was charmingly bradycardic; the rhythm steady, the beats slow. I was surprised to learn he had never kissed anyone, let alone had sex. The first time I tried to hold his hand, he recoiled as if my hand was a viper, then embarrassed himself further by claiming that hand-holding was for teenagers. But I wore him down. By six months he was leaning into me as we walked down the cobblestones, planting hairbrush-like kisses on my cheek when he thought no-one was looking. I wasn’t afraid to tell him he was sexy; the strands of grey in his moustache were a turn-on and I didn’t care about how round his belly got. The only flaw was how clandestine he insisted on being. 

We used to go to work separately to avoid suspicion - everyone knew the gynaecologists were awful gossips. In clinical meetings we exchanged sordid glances at the back of the room where no-one could see. But the luxury of our stage in life was that we wanted for nothing: candlelight dinners where puffs of lavender-scented candles wafted in the rooftop breeze; a memorable getaway to the States, when we perched on a float at Pride and waved giant rainbow flags - all whilst wearing sunglasses to remain incognito, of course. We couldn’t have Mr Patel accidentally recognising his cardiologist on BBC News. 

One day, he sat me down and said his parents were coming to visit. I was overjoyed - maybe this was our chance, an opportunity to share our love with the world. The closet door beckoned. Who better to start with than his parents?

“I can’t tell them,” he said. He shook his head. “I can’t. In my culture, this is shameful.”

“Shameful?” I repeated. 

He just looked at me in defeat.

“You’re a grown man,” I said. “You’re allowed to do this.”

“I was hoping you would understand,” he replied. “If we just don’t see each other while they’re here…” He took my hand. “I’ll make it up to you once they leave.”

the story is from mr.Shuvayon Mukherje

on blog.reedsy.com