A narrow mud path led to the Primary Health Centre near Palvancha, on the outskirts of Kothegudam in Telangana, winding through vast cotton fields heavy with burst white bolls. Near the PHC gate, pink and purple balloons swayed against the walls, and handmade posters announced a Women’s Day Health Camp. Parvathi walked this path in a freshly pressed nursing uniform, steadying her breath, aware that she was not just reporting for duty but taking baby steps back into a life she had once been asked to set aside.
Inside the PHC, the air carried the sharp, familiar smell of disinfectant and medicines. Extra chairs lined the corridor. The waiting hall was only half full.
Five years earlier, this future had been postponed for her.
Parvathi had met Dr. Suresh Rao during his brief posting as a house surgeon at the Palvancha PHC. Their courtship was swift, coffee dates after duty hours, phone calls stretching late into the night. His family resisted the match. A nurse from a village, they said, would not fit into a doctor’s household. Though the resistance softened once the wedding date was fixed, it never truly disappeared.
After marriage, Dr. Suresh Rao’s career flourished. He completed his postgraduation and eased seamlessly into a physician’s role at his father’s Rao Super Speciality Hospital at Vijayawada. Parvathi’s life, meanwhile, was lifted abruptly from village lanes and cotton fields into a polished city life. In Vijayawada, she lived far from dust and open skies, in an apartment with glass balconies and a private lift.
At gatherings, Parvathi was introduced warmly but never by her profession.
“Doctor Suresh gaaru’s wife.”
When she spoke of returning to duty, Dr. Suresh Rao smiled with easy certainty.
“Why work now, Parvathi? Family comes first. You can always go back later.”
Later never came.
The conversations between them became shorter, and unspoken moments stretched as days passed.
He seemed immersed in long, continuous texts on his phone, the screen angled away.
“A complicated case discussion,” he said.
Parvathi believed him. She wanted to.
One afternoon, hoping to surprise him, she cooked his favourite biriyani and carried it to the clinic. The hospital was quieter than usual. She walked down the corridor toward his cabin and pushed the door open.
Inside, Dr. Suresh Rao stood close to another woman, close enough that her knees touched the edge of his desk and his body shielded her from view. His chair was pushed aside. One hand rested at her lower back, his head bent toward hers, their voices lowered, their ease unmistakable. It was not a moment borrowed in haste, but one settled into comfort.
Parvathi stopped.
For a moment, the world reduced itself to that frame. Then Dr. Suresh Rao looked up.
“Parvathi…” he began.
She turned before he could say more.
She walked back down the corridor slowly, the steel box of biriyani heavy in her hands. Past the nurses’ station. Past the reception. Out into the sharp afternoon light.
At home, Parvathi locked herself inside her room. She lay staring at the ceiling fan as it turned endlessly. Sometimes the tears came without warning. Sometimes nothing came at all.
The marriage ended quietly, in a lawyer’s office thick with dust and tired files. Dr. Suresh Rao spoke of incompatibility. Of expectations. Of lifestyle.
Parvathi returned to her parents’ tiled house near Palvancha with her belongings and a silence that accompanied her through the cotton fields.
When the PHC called asking if she could assist with the Women’s Day Health Camp, she did not hesitate.
That morning, her mother watched as Parvathi braided her hair and smoothed the pleats of her uniform.
“Go, Bujji,” she said. “This work will steady you.”
The camp was already underway. Behind the wooden desk sat Dr. Leelavathi, a senior physician long retired, her grey hair neatly tied back. She had agreed to work on extension after the post remained vacant for months.
She looked up and smiled.
“Bujji ma… you are back!”
“Yes, Doctor Aunty.”
“I thought city life took you away,” Dr. Leelavathi said.
“It did,” Parvathi replied. “But not completely.”
Dr. Leelavathi studied her for a moment, then nodded. “Good.”
Parvathi moved through the clinic with quiet confidence, conducting routine check-ups with care, speaking politely, and explaining patiently. She took time where it was needed. The women admired her demeanour, some recognising her, others asking if she would rejoin.
By evening, the camp wound down. Her body ached, but the tiredness felt earned. As she washed her hands, Dr. Leelavathi stood beside her.
“There’s a temporary vacancy coming up here,” she said. “Apply when it’s notified. I’ll recommend you. If you stay on, we can work toward something permanent. You belong here, Bujji ma.”
Parvathi nodded not out of gratitude, but resolve.
On the bus ride home, cotton fields stretched endlessly on both sides, white and patient. She watched them steadily, no longer measuring herself against what had been lost.
That night, she folded her uniform and placed it carefully at the top of the trunk. Beneath it, she laid out her certificates and old log copies, not as memories, but as plans.
She was no longer waiting to be chosen.
She was choosing.
On Women’s Day, Parvathi did not reclaim the life she had lost.
She claimed the one she was ready to build.
This time, she did not postpone herself.
PC: Unsplash.com
