My Dear Doctor

"Temperature ho raha hai tumhe," she said again, her voice a mix of worry and frustration as her cold fingers rested on my forehead. I wanted to tell her it wasn’t a big deal, but her tone left no room for argument. "Tum kabhi meri baat sunte kyu nahi," she added, almost pouting, though her brows were knit in concern.

"I’m fine," I managed to say, though my voice sounded weaker than I intended.

Her eyes narrowed. "Fine? Yeh fine lagta hai? Ziddi ho tum," she said, getting up abruptly to fetch the thermometer.

I watched her move around the room, her steps quick, her movements precise, the way they always were. Even in the middle of her worry, she carried herself like the professional she was—my dear doctor. But this wasn’t the hospital; this was home, and here, she was my wife first.

She returned, holding the thermometer like it was a weapon she intended to use. “Muh kholo,” she ordered, her voice softening slightly when she saw the sheepish look on my face.

I obeyed, mostly because I knew better than to argue when she was in this mood.

As we waited, she sat beside me on the edge of the bed, her hand automatically reaching for mine. She didn’t say anything, but the way her thumb gently brushed against my knuckles spoke louder than words. It was a small gesture, one she probably didn’t even realize she was doing, but it made my chest tighten.

The thermometer beeped, and she pulled it out, frowning at the reading. "101.5. Dekha? Fine keh rahe the na tum."

I shrugged weakly, trying to lighten the mood. "It’s not that bad. Tumhare touch se toh fever bhi sharma ke chala jayega."

She glared at me, but her lips twitched, betraying the smile she was trying to hide. "Tumhari yeh flirting na, mujhe hospital mein bhi sunni padti hai. Patients ke samne serious rehna hota hai, samjhe?"

"Main toh bas apni doctor-wife ko impress kar raha hoon," I said, grinning despite the dull ache in my head.

She rolled her eyes but didn’t let go of my hand. "Impress karne ke liye apni health kharab karna zaroori hai kya?"

I didn’t have an answer to that, so I just squeezed her hand.

"Ab tumhare liye soup banati hoon," she said, getting up.

Before she could leave, I tugged on her hand, making her turn back. "Mat jao," I murmured.

Her expression softened instantly. "Soup kaise banega phir?"

"Later," I said. "Abhi bas tum yahin raho."

She sighed but sat back down, pulling the blanket over me properly. "Ziddi ho," she muttered again, though there was no bite in her words.

I leaned my head against her shoulder, closing my eyes. "Ziddi hoon, par tumhari zidd toh chhodne ka mann nahi karta," I whispered.

For a while, we just sat there. It was such a simple moment, but it felt like a lot. Her presence, her touch, the way she didn’t need to say anything to make me feel cared for—it was enough to heal anything.

"Mera tumhare bina kya hoga?" I asked softly, not really expecting an answer.

She paused, her hand stilling for a moment before resuming its gentle rhythm. "Soup ki jagah injection," she said, her voice playful but warm.

I laughed against her shoulder, letting her words settle.

Later, when she finally got up to make the soup, she kissed my forehead before leaving. "Just 5 minutes and I will be back with soup," she said.

And for those five minutes, I missed her like it had been five years.