Healing Amid Grief: A Doctor’s Story Of Surgery In Kashmir’s Vale

Around noon on April 22, the peaceful meadows of Baisaran, which look out over Pahalgam in South Kashmir, were suddenly shaken by violence.

The day began with sunlight spreading gold across the slopes, the valley breathing in its summer rhythm.

By early afternoon, peace was torn. Gunshots ripped through the green silence as gunmen opened fire on families strolling among the wild grasses.

Families walked through the wild grasses. Children fell, and so did mothers and fathers. Twenty-six lives were lost, counted again and again, as if the number could not be real. The attack left the valley exposed, its grief sharp and real, not just a headline but a deep wound

By the time the stretchers arrived at our hospital, about 47 kilometres away, every ward already knew what had happened. Nurses checked updates that spread faster than the sirens and ambulances. No one could find the right words for what was coming. Their hands shook as they got ready, made the beds, prepared the theatre, and steadied themselves for the shock. Grief arrived before the wounded, taking up space in the hospital.

Balachandran, sixty-four, a visitor from Tamil Nadu, arrived pale and unsteady. His wife, Kastoori, followed, her composure shaped by endurance. The ECG told its own story. Years ago, an artery fitted with a stent in Madurai had closed again, now blocked by a stubborn clot. We, as doctors, know the disappointment of failed interventions. Hope never comes with a guarantee in medicine. Here was another reversal: a bridge turned barrier, futures balanced in millimetres. 

Balachandran was taken to the Cath Lab. Our team was ready, led by our principal, who is also a critical care specialist. The three of us—Dr. S Maqbool, Dr. Shamim, and I—had become close through many emergencies and long hours since the department opened and the Cath Lab was installed. We moved into our familiar routine without speaking. Years of night shifts had taught us to work together with just a nod, a gesture, or a hand offering the right tool. While the world outside felt uncertain, inside the lab our teamwork was steady and reliable. Outside, the world might shake or shatter; in here, the rhythm was bone-deep, steady as a pulse.

The procedure was tense. The clot stayed in place, and the wire could only move forward a millimetre at a time. On the other side of the glass, Kastoori watched with her fingers tightly clasped, her eyes following our every move. Each heartbeat carried a quiet hope. Inside the lab, time seemed to stop. All that mattered was the flicker of the monitors, the sound of anxious breathing, and the very thin line between failure and survival.

Finally, the artery opened and blood began to flow again, first slowly and carefully, then with more strength. There was no celebration, just three tired sighs and three pairs of eyes meeting in quiet agreement. Without stopping to celebrate, we went back to checking the numbers, adjusting the drapes, and finishing the procedure.

The patient was moved to the ward. A nurse covered Balachandran’s legs with a blanket, her hands steady and gentle. A resident doctor sat with Kastoori and explained every detail in a soft, clear voice, making medical terms easy to understand and offering comfort. These small acts are not recorded in official notes or statistics, but they give real meaning to our work.

In Kashmir, medicine is more than just a technical job; it is a choice to stay. Doctors, nurses, and staff decide again and again to keep working through uncertainty, violence, and the challenges of fate. Here, patriotism is quiet. It shows in the daily routines, in hands that do not hesitate, and in the decision to remain even when the valley is hurting. When it was time for discharge, Balachandran stopped at the window. The chinar trees outside caught the first light of morning. Their leaves glowed softly, offering a quiet promise. He stood there, holding his papers, not just as instructions but as proof. It showed that resilience can be both ordinary and extraordinary.

“My heart feels softer now,” he said.

These few words settled in the quiet morning. While Kashmir mourned its visitors, the hospital carried on. Steady, persistent hands, tired but sure, kept working. In pale new sunlight, the work continued. By healing one heart and holding space for many more, doctors and nurses keep a part of the valley’s spirit alive. They quietly braid this into their daily acts of care.