The Family's Genetic Battle — Part II: The Father I Was Meant to Meet
I drove in with my red Maruti Swift and switched off the engine with my right hand — but my eyes were fixed on the open room in front of me.
There were no doors.
Just iron windows and bare cement walls.
Inside, large men sat and lay in clusters — fatigued, sweating, yet strangely alert.
At least twenty-five of them were cramped into that small space.
A dark towel was tied around one man’s head as he leaned against the iron window frame, lost in the rhythm of the bidi between his fingers.
He looked neither curious nor concerned — as if the world had stopped needing his reaction.
Two more men in lungis lay on the cement floor, exhausted.
The air was thick with smoke, sweat, and silence.
As I watched, crows circled above, crying kaka-kaka-kaka.
A man brought out a half-eaten food parcel and gently poured the rice onto the portico wall.
All the crows swooped down at once — chaotic, loud — yet there was something tender about the moment.
The birds ate quickly and flew away.
The man smiled faintly.
I was unsettled.
Am I ready to speak to them?
Will they accept me?
Will they see me as one of them — or as a distant outsider, an intruder, someone from another world?
All of this ran through my mind as I hesitantly opened the car door and stepped out.
“Sir has come!” Prakash shouted excitedly.
A man in a neatly pressed shirt approached me.
“Vanakkam, sir. I am the supervisor here,” he said, his voice carrying quiet pride.
I felt relief — at least someone welcomed me.
But the others… tired, sweaty, silent in the background — I wasn’t sure.
I lowered my head for a moment, then looked up and smiled.
I reached out and shook as many hands as I could.
“Tough day?” I asked gently.
“Aamam, sir… daily appadithaan.”
His reply struck me like a slap.
He probably imagined my life was comfortable — air-conditioned rooms, timely meals, clean beds.
The gap between us felt suddenly visible.
As I walked deeper inside, more faces turned toward me — curious now.
“Saptacha?” I asked.
We had arranged biryani for everyone.
“Super biryani, sir!” three voices said together.
I smiled — but that wasn’t why I had come.
Prakash and Prithvi quickly set up a small makeshift Dias and gathered everyone to one side of the room.
Then I heard Nandhini — young, dynamic, confident — the scrub nurse I had personally trained, from holding instruments to assisting in brain surgery.
She carried herself with pride, the quiet pride of someone who knows she has saved lives.
In a loud, excited voice she called out,
“Akka, please table podunga — let’s begin the skit!”
They didn’t want to wait.
Not for me.
Not for the crowd.
I saw it then — the belief in their eyes.
They had already changed someone’s life.
They had seen what was possible.
Prakash, Prithvi, Nandhini — none of them had seen a neurosurgeon or a brain surgery before working with me.
But now, they didn’t just see me as a doctor.
They saw me as someone who made them believe they could matter.
That was my pride.
I stepped back against the wall and said softly,
“Please go ahead.I’m more eager to watch.”
And for the first time that day — I truly was.
The table was set.
Nandhini and Prithvi stood on the left side.
Prakash and Sister Saranya stood on the right.
The sweat-drenched men, tired from hours of loading and unloading trucks, gathered in front of them.
They watched — but not with excitement.
Not with resistance either.
More with distance.
When I looked closely, I realized something.
They weren’t frustrated.
They weren’t curious.
They simply felt we were random outsiders who had come to “show something” that had nothing to do with their lives.
The event felt disconnected.
I stood near the open doorway.
I was the only one wearing a tie, a properly tucked shirt, polished shoes.
For a moment, I felt painfully out of place.
Was I inappropriate to this setting?
Was I a barrier instead of a bridge?
Would they see me as someone distant, privileged, irrelevant?
An existential doubt crept in — about my role, my presence, the very purpose of why we had come.
But then I looked at my team.
They were electric.
None of them — except Sister Saranya — were above 25 years old.
Nandhini, Prakash, Prithvi — all young, all once unsure, all now transformed by witnessing lives change.
They had seen a brain surgery for the first time in their life.
They had seen a patient walk home.
They had felt their own hands matter.
Suddenly my existential crisis dissolved.
When you believe in people…When you involve them…When you allow them to participate in impact —they discover their own meaning.
I stepped back against the wall.
“Please go ahead,” I said.
“I am more eager to watch.”
Nandhini, in a green saree, played the role of a teacher.
The others sat like students.
Prakash raised his hand dramatically.
“Miss… intha paya oru mathiri ayitan, miss!”
Nandhini shouted, “Listen to the class!”
Suddenly Prithvi let out a loud cry and collapsed, shaking violently.
His legs jerked, his head turned to one side.
The crowd leaned forward.
This was no longer entertainment.
Prakash shouted, “Put a key in his hand! I have seen in movies!”
Nandhini stopped him.
“No.”
Prithvi froze mid-jerk.
The others stood still like statues.
Then Nandhini stepped forward alone, close to the audience.
“This is what movies teach you,” she said firmly.
“Please do not give keys or objects in the hand during seizures.”
“Do not put anything in the mouth.”
“Make sure the surrounding area is safe.”
“Seizures usually stop on their own within 5 minutes.”
“Turn the person to one side.”
“Loosen tight clothing at the neck.”
“Do not give food or liquid until they regain consciousness.”
She then added clearly:
“Rush to hospital if:
The movements continue beyond 5 minutes.
There is no recovery of consciousness within 30 minutes.
There are repeated seizures.”
The room was silent.
Then murmurs began.
The belief systems were cracking.
One bearded man in a brown vest stood up.
“What are you saying? In our hometown we burn chilli and show it to the nose — it stops!”
Another said loudly,“For decades in our family we give milk when this happens. It works.”
It hit me then.
I had thought I came to deliver advanced neuroscience.
Instead, I was standing in front of a belief system decades old.
A system that needed unlearning.
I paused.
“Yes, I understand what you are saying,” I replied calmly.
“If someone is unconscious and cannot swallow their own saliva… do you think they can swallow milk?”
They fell quiet.
“We support seizure patients with oxygen in hospital. Do you think burnt chilli helps them breathe?”
One man nodded slowly.
“aamam, sir,” he said.
But most were still unconvinced.
And I understood why.
It is hard to believe something you have never seen.
Just like my team once doubted their own impact — until they saw it.
Then a man stepped forward.
He was calm.
Different from the others.
“Sir… I have two sons.”
“My boys… they don’t look normal.”
“I went to many doctors. They said nothing can be done. They don’t even know the disease.”
“One of them has seizures. We noticed it stops after 5 minutes… when he misses medicine he gets it.”
He showed me a photo on his phone.
Two boys.
Short stature.
One with a disproportionately large head.
Prominent jaw.
Coarse facial features.
Short limbs.
Six and seven years old.
The father continued, his voice breaking.
“One doctor told us there is water collection in the elder son’s head. They said surgery is needed.”
Tears rolled down his face.
His pain was layered.
Two sons who looked different.
Medicines draining his income.
And now someone saying “water in the head.”
Sister Saranya stepped in.“Anna, kavala padathinga.”
Logu added softly, “Sir will help you.”
I felt their trust.
But I also felt my limitation.
This looked like a storage disorder — genetic.
Something I could not cure. Something I could not reverse.
But perhaps I could relieve the hydrocephalus.
Perhaps I could give them clarity.
Sometimes people do not need a happy ending.
They need truth.
Closure.
Understanding.
I told him to bring the child to the hospital.
“I will see him personally. If surgery is needed, we will do it free under trust support and crowdfunding.”
He agreed without hesitation.
As I walked out of the godown, I realised something profound:
That day was not about teaching seizures.
It was about meeting a father who had been wandering without answers.
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