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The Mantra
It was evening. Dr. Chadda was getting ready to play golf. A pair of bearers, carrying a palanquin, were visible in front of the motor gate. Following behind the palanquin was an elderly man, leaning on a walking stick. The palanquin stopped in front of the dispensary. Slowly, the old man approached and peered through the wicket. He felt a shiver of apprehension at setting foot on such immaculate ground, fearing any mishap. Even though he saw Dr. Chadda standing there, he lacked the courage to speak.
Dr. Chadda, from within the wicket, roared, "Who is it? What do you want?"
"Your honour," the man said, folding his hands in respect, "I am a very poor man. My son has been ill for several days."
Dr. Chadda lit a cigar and said, "Come tomorrow morning. Tomorrow morning, we don't see patients at this time."
The old man knelt, placing his head on the ground, and said, "I implore you, sir, my son will die! Sir, he hasn't opened his eyes for four days."
Dr. Chadda glanced at his wristwatch. Only ten minutes remained before his golf game. As he unhooked his golf club, he said, "Come tomorrow morning, tomorrow morning. This is our time to play."
The old man took off his turban and placed it on the threshold, crying, "Sir, just glance at him. Just one glance! Sir, my son is fading away. He is the only one left of seven children. We will both die of grief, Sir! May your prosperity increase, benefactor!"
These impoverished villagers frequented the clinic daily. Dr. Chadda was well-acquainted with their nature. No matter what they said, they would continue with their own repetitive pleas. They would not listen to anyone. He slowly lifted the wicket and walked towards his motor, the old man following behind, saying, "Your honour, great virtue will prevail. Sir, have mercy. I am deeply distressed, and there's no one else in the world, sir."
But Dr. Chadda did not even look at him. He sat in his car and said, "Come tomorrow morning."
The car drove away. The old man stood motionless for several minutes, like a statue. Perhaps he still had hope that Dr. Chadda would return. He then told the bearers to take him away. The palanquin returned the way it had come. Disheartened, he had come to Dr. Chadda. His reputation was great. He left the clinic without going to another doctor. He had to accept his fate.
That very night, his cheerful seven-year-old son passed away, leaving this world after completing his childhood games. This was the sole support for the old man and his wife. They lived for their child's gaze. With the dimming of this light, the night of their life grew dark and gloomy. The vast maternal love of old age, emerging from a broken heart, began to weep in despair.
Years passed. Dr. Chadda amassed considerable wealth and fame; but he also carefully protected his health, a common practice. His disciplined lifestyle ensured that at the age of fifty, his vitality and agility were impressive. Every activity was scheduled. He adhered to this routine without fail. Often, people only adhere to health rules when ill. Dr. Chadda well understood the secrets of healing and discipline. His family life also adhered to this routine. He had only two children, a boy and a girl. There was no third child, so Mrs. Chadda still looked young. The daughter was married. The son was studying in college. He was the mainstay of their lives. A paragon of virtue and modesty, a cheerful person, a generous young man, the pride of the school, the adornment of society. A brilliance radiated from his countenance. Today was his 20th birthday.
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