The Village Doctor

The Village Doctor

BY: Masarrat Kalanchvi

Dr. Sidra threw her appointment letter on the table in frustration.
“I can’t go work in a village hospital! Never!”

Her mother, Shireen Begum, frowned. “You worked so hard to become a doctor, passed all the government exams and interviews — and now they’ve appointed you to some small village hospital!”

Sidra’s father, Ahmad Khan, sighed. “It’s all right, Sidra. Don’t go. I’ll find you a position in a big city hospital. Why should my daughter suffer in a remote village?”

Shireen Begum nodded approvingly. “Exactly. You grew up in the city — in comfort, luxury, and ease. You can’t live in a place where there’s dust, no electricity, and no decent water.”

During this entire discussion, Sidra’s grandfather sat silently in a corner, lost in deep thought. Finally, Ahmad Khan asked, “Father, what are you thinking?”

The old man looked up. “Sidra will go to the village.”

The words shocked everyone.

“Grandfather!” Sidra stood up. “You know I’ve never spent even one day in a village. How could I possibly live there?”

“Because the people there need you, my child,” the old man replied calmly.

“Someone else can go, Dada. Other girls will take that job — girls who need the salary.”

He shook his head. “No, Sidra. That village needs you. Not someone forced to go, but someone willing to stay. Those who go unwillingly, they leave at the first opportunity.”

Shireen Begum raised her hands dramatically. “Just listen to Father! He wants Sidra not only to go to that village but also to stay there permanently!”

Ahmad Khan added, “Please, Father, don’t force her. Let her decide for herself.”

The old man nodded. “Yes. Sidra will decide. And whatever she decides, we’ll all accept.”

That night, Sidra sat awake by her window, listening to a lone bird crying on the tree outside. Her grandfather entered quietly, carrying a glass of milk.

“You’re still awake, my child?”

“Yes, Dada. I couldn’t sleep. I keep hearing this bird. Its voice sounds so sad.”

The old man smiled gently. “Perhaps it’s lost its flock. When birds lose their companions, they can’t sleep. They sing out in the night, calling for them.”

“Do you think it will ever find them again?” Sidra asked softly.

“Yes,” he said. “Someday its cry will reach them, and they’ll come for it. You see, Sidra, sometimes people, too, are separated from their roots — from the land they belong to. But the earth calls them back. Every grain of soil has a claim on its children.”

The next morning, Sidra agreed to visit her grandfather’s village — just for one day.

“But promise me, Dada,” she said, smiling. “You won’t ever ask me to work there.”

He laughed and took her hand. “I promise.”


---

When Sidra told her parents, her mother was horrified.
“Never! You’re not going to that filthy place — where the roads are covered in dung, flies buzz everywhere, and there’s not even clean water!”

But Ahmad Khan said calmly, “Let her go. She’ll see what it’s really like and come back by evening.”

The dusty road to the village was lined with fields of green wheat and mustard flowers swaying in the breeze. Children bathed in the canal, women filled pitchers at the well, and farmers worked the soil under the wide blue sky.

It was beautiful — but Sidra found no attraction in it. “Yes, Father was right,” she thought. “I’ll be back before nightfall.”

Then she saw a signboard with the name of the very same village written on it — the one mentioned in her appointment letter.

“Dada! Stop the car!” she cried. “I’m not going there! You tricked me!”

The old man smiled gently. “This is Baba Noor Din’s village, my child.”

Sidra’s voice trembled. “You said we were visiting him — not this place!”

“We are,” he said softly. “But first, we must stop somewhere else.”

He parked the car near the village graveyard.

“Come, Sidra.”

Puzzled, she followed him to a simple grave. They recited Fatiha together.

“Whose grave is this, Dada?” she asked quietly.

He looked at her tenderly. “A woman from this village. She died giving birth. There was no lady doctor here to save her. She was being carried to the city hospital, but she died on the way.”

Sidra’s heart sank. “That’s so tragic. What happened to her baby?”

“She lived,” he replied. “A relative from the city adopted her, raised her with love, and made her a doctor.”

Sidra looked up, confused. “Do you… know that girl?”

The old man’s eyes filled with tears. “Yes, my child. That girl is you. This is your mother’s grave.”

Sidra froze. The world around her blurred. She fell to her knees, her arms spread over the grave, and wept as though her soul was tearing apart.

Her grandfather placed a trembling hand on her head. “Now you know the truth, Sidra. This village is your home. Your mother’s soul rests here — and her unfinished work is waiting for you.”


---

Later, they went to Baba Noor Din’s house. The old man embraced Sidra warmly. “So this is my daughter — now a doctor! Praise be to God!”

The villagers brought fresh butter, lassi, and corn bread for them. Sidra tasted the food — it was simple but full of warmth.

Just then, an old woman came running. “Baba Noor Din! My daughter-in-law is very sick. There’s no lady doctor in the hospital again. We’ll have to take her to the city tomorrow.”

Sidra stood up immediately. “Dada, I need to go back to the city — now.”

He frowned. “So soon?”

“Yes,” she said with calm determination. “To pack my things. I’m coming back tonight. That woman’s daughter-in-law will be my first patient.”

Tears of pride filled the old man’s eyes. “I knew you would return to your roots, my child.”


---

When Sidra reached home, her parents looked relieved. “See?” her father laughed. “I told you — the morning’s wanderer always returns by evening.”

But Sidra looked different — her eyes shone with new purpose.

“Father,” she said firmly, “I’m going back — to serve where my mother’s life was lost. No more women should die on the road to the city. Not if I can help it.”

Her mother’s lips trembled. She saw not just her daughter, but the reflection of her late friend — the same face, the same eyes.

With tears in her voice, she said, “Go, my child. We are proud of you.”

Sidra bowed her head and whispered, “Thank you, Mother… Thank you, Father.”

And as she left for the village, the morning sun broke through the clouds — lighting the path that would change countless lives forever.