Mrs. Shetty came to my clinic last month carrying three bags, four medical files, one water bottle, and everybody’s future. “Doctor, please tell her to eat properly,” her son said. Mrs. Shetty looked deeply insulted. “What is this?” she asked. “Morning, I made neer dosa, chutney, packed lunch, cut fruits for grandchildren, and prepared avalakki also.” “Aunty,” I asked carefully, “what did you eat?” She adjusted her saree pallu, thought for a moment, and said the most dangerous sentence in Indian medicine.
“I am fine, doctor.”
Every Indian doctor knows this smile. It is the smile of a woman whose blood report reads like a crime scene, yet she still asks whether her husband should avoid curd at night. Over twenty-five years of practice, I have learned something important. Indian mothers do not become unwell suddenly. They disappear slowly into responsibility.
First, the breakfast shifts later. Then the sleep becomes lighter. Then the knee starts hurting during staircase climbing. Then comes acidity. Then fatigue. Then one day, the daughter says, “Amma, you are forgetting things.” By then, the body has already been filing complaints for years.
Indian mothers have extraordinary talents. They can identify everyone’s medicines by the colour of the strips. They remember vaccination dates from 2003. They know which family member prefers soft, crispy, or “hotel style” dosa. Yet many cannot remember when they last checked their own blood pressure.
One woman brought me five files. Husband’s diabetes reports. Son’s cholesterol tests. Daughter’s thyroid scan. Grandson’s vaccination chart. And one folded prescription of her own from 2018, crushed inside her handbag like an old bus ticket.“What is your problem?” I asked.“I just came to show my husband’s reports, doctor.”Her haemoglobin was 6.2. Healthy women usually have around 12. She was cooking for six people daily while carrying roughly half the oxygen she needed. Nobody at home knew. Including her.
In Indian clinics, mothers rarely sit like patients. Fathers sit. Sons sit. Children spin around chairs like small cyclones. Mothers remain standing near the wall, holding handbags, water bottles, reports, snack boxes, and, occasionally, the emotional stability of the entire family.
One mother fainted in my clinic during her son’s diabetes consultation. The son was worried about his sugar reading of 148. Halfway through the discussion, she quietly slipped sideways in the chair. Blood sugar: 54. Dangerously low. She had cooked breakfast for eight people that morning and left home after drinking half a cup of tea. While recovering, she apologised to me. “Sorry, doctor, a little weakness.” Little weakness.
Indian mothers use these two words to describe conditions that would make army generals apply for medical leave. Another patient once told me proudly: “Doctor, in thirty-two years, I never rested for one day.” She expected applause. Her thyroid did not.
Modern medicine now knows something families have ignored for generations. Chronic caregiving changes the body. Sleep hormones change. Stress hormones rise. Inflammation increases quietly for years. Fatigue becomes so normal that the brain stops treating it like a warning signal. Exhaustion becomes personality. One mother told me she had not slept properly since 2009. “What happened in 2009?” I asked. “My son joined engineering,” she said. The entire clinic laughed. Her son did not.
Somewhere between CET coaching, hostel admissions, marriage negotiations, grandchildren, WhatsApp family groups, and remembering who likes less salt in sambhar, Indian mothers slowly lose the ability to ask a simple question:“What about me?”One afternoon, I asked a patient, “What food do you enjoy eating?” She stared at me for several seconds. Then she laughed.“Doctor, whatever is left after serving everyone?” That sentence stayed with me longer than many textbooks.
Ayurveda recognised this long ago in a quieter language. A person can continue functioning long after vitality begins to decline. Like a lamp still giving light even when the oil is dangerously low.
Indian mothers are experts at burning steadily through depletion. The frightening part is how invisible this becomes inside families. A mother forgetting her calcium tablets becomes normal. A mother postponing scans becomes normal. A mother eating last becomes normal.A mother sleeping four hours becomes normal. Entire Indian households are currently running on one woman’s untreated Vitamin B12 deficiency.
Last year, I asked one patient why she delayed her surgery for almost two years.“First, my daughter’s wedding, doctor. Then, my son is shifting house. Then, the husband’s cataract surgery. “When were you planning your surgery?” “After everybody settles.” Her son was forty-three. That day never arrives. Perhaps that is why Mother’s Day feels emotionally complicated inside clinics. By evening, my phone fills with beautiful family photos. Cakes. Flowers. Restaurant dinners. Matching outfits. Smiling captions. Meanwhile, in the same house, a mother says, “No, no, you all eat first.” Again.
This Mother’s Day, ask your mother one extra question after she says she is fine. Then wait quietly. The real answer usually arrives after the smile fades. Every doctor knows that pause. It is one of the saddest sounds in Indian life.
