A Salute to the Miracle
It was the winter of 1991. The bitter cold had begun to grip the Saurashtra region. At an old government hospital in Rajkot, a couple sat on a stone bench in the dim corridor, their faces heavy with fear and fatigue. Their eight-year-old son, Pritesh, was battling a strange, agonizing illness—his joints had swollen without warning, rendering him immobile.
Pritesh had been an active and joyful child. But over the past few days, he could barely walk. First his knee swelled up, then his ankle, followed by his shoulder, and now even his jaw had stiffened. He could not eat, speak, or cry. The pain was visible in his eyes, but his voice had vanished.
The doctors, unable to diagnose the condition definitively, were trying everything from anti-inflammatory drugs to experimental injections. The worried father, a humble schoolteacher from a nearby village, watched helplessly as his son suffered in silence. Pritesh’s body, still childlike in its fragility, had become stiff as a board. He lay like a log, unresponsive to touch, sound, or light.
“Will our son survive?” the mother asked softly, holding back tears.
“There’s little hope. We’ve done what we could,” replied the orthopedic surgeon, who had just completed his night rounds.
The mother collapsed into sobs. The father sat silently, staring blankly at the floor. The hospital’s gloom, the eerie stillness, and the flickering tube lights added to their despair.
Suddenly, around 11:30 PM, a new doctor—young, tall, and sharp-featured—entered the ward briskly. His eyes scanned the patients like a searchlight. Spotting Pritesh, he approached the boy, checked his vitals, examined his joints, and gave urgent instructions to the night nurse.
“Start this new injection immediately. And bring me his latest reports,” he said with quiet authority.
The nurse, hesitant at first, looked around nervously.
“But doctor, this wasn’t on the prescribed chart…”
“I said now!” he snapped. “We’re losing time.”
Within minutes, the injection was administered. For the next few hours, silence loomed. But by dawn, something miraculous happened.
Pritesh moved.
First his fingers twitched. Then his neck turned ever so slightly. By sunrise, he opened his mouth and let out a faint whimper. The stiffness had begun to melt away.
By noon, Pritesh could sit up. His eyes were alert. He whispered the word “Ma…” and reached for his mother’s hand. She broke down in tears, clutching him tightly.
The same doctor returned for rounds later in the day. The parents folded their hands in gratitude.
“You saved our son’s life,” the father said.
The doctor smiled gently.
“He just needed the right push. Sometimes, recovery is waiting behind one right decision,” he replied, and walked away.
Years passed. Pritesh grew into a healthy young man. The family tried to track down the doctor who changed their fate that night—but no one seemed to know his name. The hospital had no record of such a visiting physician.
Was he a real doctor? Was it divine intervention?
They never found out.
But even today, the family folds their hands and bows to the unknown miracle worker who appeared from nowhere, rewrote destiny, and disappeared just as mysteriously.
A salute to that miracle.