Subtitle. “The Goddess Must Have Smiled “
Let me introduce myself. I’m Doctor Mala. I’ve been a family physician in the temple town of Kanchipuram for almost 30 years now. Not the kind with a hospital wing and assistants—just a small, simple clinic on KTS Mani Street with a signboard that read: Dr. Mala. Family Physician (MBBS )
My patients? Mostly the people of the town—tailors, teachers, weavers, shopkeepers, young mothers, and the occasional college student with an upset stomach before exams. They came when they needed help, and I did what I could. My patients are the heart of this town. Some pay in cash. Others bring me tender coconuts, bunches of spinach, or freshly made vadais. It’s all part of the rhythm of life here. I never kept accounts. Somehow, it all balanced out.
My clinic was open mornings and evenings. After seeing patients till noon, I’d go home, eat lunch, and take a short nap—the kind that helps you survive the Kanchipuram heat. Then I’d return at 6 pm and work till about 8:30, before heading home again. Sundays were strictly off-limits for anything medical except for emergencies!
That was my day for filter coffee, temple visits, and watching old Tamil movies.
In a small town like Kanchipuram, life moves at its own gentle pace. The rhythm of temple bells, the scent of jasmine, and the trust between a doctor and her patients form the heartbeat of the community.
Life in Kanchipuram was simple yet full of charm. The town bustled with activity, known far and wide for its exquisite silk sarees and the sacred Kanchi Kamakshi temple. During the wedding season, the streets would come alive with families—some from nearby villages, others from faraway cities, and even a few foreign tourists—all hunting for the perfect saree. The heat was relentless, but locals had their remedy: cold, fizzy paneer soda sold at every corner. Shops often served free lunches to customers, hoping to win them over with both hospitality and handwoven beauty of the silks !
The buzz of the looms, the hum of temple bells, and the clink of paneer soda bottles on hot afternoons were all part of the soundtrack of this town.
One day, two young women walked into my clinic—separately, a few minutes apart.
The first was Meenakshi, in her late twenties, soft-spoken, accompanied by her husband. She looked nervous, clutching her dupatta, asking with her eyes more than her words. The second, Kamakshi, came in with her mother-in-law, who did most of the talking.
Both women wanted to know if they were pregnant. It was something I’d seen countless times, and yet, each time felt different. I examined them both and gave them prescriptions to get the test done at a nearby lab. The results would be delivered to my clinic the next morning.
That night, I remember lying down thinking how life keeps offering hope to people in small ways—a late period, a craving, a prayer answered.
The next morning, the reports arrived in sealed envelopes. I opened them carefully.
Meenakshi: negative
Kamakshi: positive
But the names had been switched. The lab assistant had made a mistake. A simple clerical error. One I didn’t catch.
I trusted the lab. Why wouldn’t I? I had been sending patients there for years.
Later that day, both women returned to hear the results.
I smiled at Kamakshi. “Congratulations! You’re pregnant!”
Her face lit up. Her husband, standing behind her, smiled so widely it almost looked like relief. Her mother-in-law folded her hands and said, “Thank you, Doctor! We’ve been waiting for this news for so long.”
Then I turned to Meenakshi. “It’s not positive this time,” I said gently. “But don’t lose hope. Sometimes it takes time.”
Meenakshi’s face fell for just a second. Her husband reached out and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “Next time.”
They both nodded and left quietly.
At Kamakshi’s home, the news had turned into a celebration. Sweets were distributed. Neighbours came over with congratulations. The pooja room had new flowers and extra lamps.
But life has a way of nudging us when something isn’t quite right.
A few weeks later, Meenakshi came back. She had nausea. Morning sickness. Fatigue. All the signs I knew too well. I frowned, my mind running in circles.
“I think we should repeat the test,” I said.
She looked confused. “But it was negative, Doctor.”
“I know,” I said, “but just humour me.”
I sent her to a different lab this time.
The result came back: positive.
She was pregnant all along.
I didn’t know whether to feel joy or guilt. Probably a bit of both.
“Meenakshi,” I said the next day, “You’re pregnant. Congratulations!”
Her eyes widened. She looked at her husband. He blinked once, then again, then smiled. They both broke down in tears.
They brought me homemade laddoos the next day.
But in my mind, there was someone else I had to think about—Kamakshi.
She was due for a check-up soon, and when she came in, something seemed off. There were no signs. No change in her health. Just the belief she had clung to.
I gently asked her to take the test again.
She looked confused, but agreed.
The result this time: negative.
I knew I had to tell her.
That evening, I sat her down alone in my consultation room.
“Kamakshi,” I said softly, “There’s something I need to explain. That first report… was incorrect. It was a mistake by the lab. You weren’t pregnant then.”
There was a long silence.
She didn’t cry. She just stared at the floor for a while, her lips pressed together.
Finally, she looked at me and said, “So… I believed it for nothing?”
“No,” I said gently. “You believed in something beautiful. And that belief kept you happy. It’s not nothing.”
She left quietly.
For the next few weeks, I didn’t see her. I worried. Sometimes, silence weighs heavier than words.
Then one morning, she walked into my clinic with a familiar glow on her face. A new report in hand.
This time, it was real.
She was pregnant.
“I just had a feeling,” she smiled. “So I checked.”
I smiled back, this time with complete certainty.
⸻
Months later, both Meenakshi and Kamakshi had healthy babies —just two weeks apart. They became close friends. They’d sit together in my clinic during checkups, chatting like old classmates.
Their babies would grow up calling me Doctor Paati.
And the lab? Let’s just say they double-checked every single report after that. Mistakes happen, but when they involve people’s dreams, they leave ripples. A 'Message' sent wrongly can disrupt lives.
I still think about that time sometimes—how two women walked into my clinic hoping for the same thing and walked out with stories they never expected.
I’ve learned over the years that being a doctor isn’t just about giving answers. Being a doctor is not always about diagnosis or prescriptions. Sometimes it’s about comforting someone who isn’t ready to hear the truth. Sometimes, it’s about accepting that even small mistakes can carry huge emotional weight. And often, it’s simply about bearing witness to life’s strange, beautiful timing.
Sometimes, it’s about holding space for hope, for confusion, and healing—even when it comes late.
In the end, both Kamakshi and Meenakshi became mothers. Not in the way they expected. But in the way life intended.
And me? I just continue to do what I’ve always done—open my clinic, offer a seat, listen with care, and keep a box of tissues nearby… just in case hope walks in needing a little help.!
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