Dr. Hema Malini: The Doctor Who Healed with Heart and Honesty

 “Who is paying you to be thin?” That was the first question she asked me.

I had visited the gynecologist after missing my periods for over 45 days. She happened to be my then-to-be husband’s friend’s mother. After listening to my story — how I was skipping meals, sacrificing sleep, jogging daily, and preparing for the CAT (race) exam — that was her response. I didn’t know how to reply, so I just offered a shy smile.

“You will be healthy with the right balance of sleep, food, and exercise," she explained. "Sleep is underrated. Even if you walk 10 kilometers a day, lack of sleep will only worsen hormonal imbalances. And who is paying you to be thin? Strive to be fit and healthy — being thin doesn’t necessarily mean being well.”

I didn’t appreciate the “lecture” at the time and thought I’d never return to her. But she prescribed medication for my immediate concern, and life went on.

Years later, when my husband and I were trying to conceive, I found myself back in her clinic. Her bluntness still unsettled me, but I followed her simple advice: “Take folic supplements and walk regularly.” It worked, and I conceived. Even then, I hesitated to continue seeing her, but my mother-in-law insisted, pointing out the convenience of her clinic on my way home from work. Reluctantly, I agreed — and it turned out to be one of the best decisions of my life.

She was straightforward, sometimes brutally so, but beneath that exterior was a compassionate, deeply wise soul. She was one of the strongest, bravest, and most unique personalities I’ve ever met. Now, when I reflect on my life, I feel profoundly lucky to have known her.

During my first pregnancy, which coincided with the COVID lockdown, I had plenty of time to talk to her. Every word she spoke carried weight, rooted in experience and empathy. She wasn’t traditionally religious (I guess) but had a spiritual depth and a minimalistic, service-oriented mindset. Her clinic was one of the most modest I had seen in an era of grandeur — a simple wooden bench, a few chairs, meaningful quotes, and books to read. In a generation where glitz is often mistaken for greatness, she remained untouched by competition, firmly believing that whatever was meant for her would come in its own time.

As I continued seeing her, my mother-in-law mentioned how she had helped our driver’s wife deliver two children without charging a penny. When the wife developed complications post-delivery, the doctor even spoke to the hospital management, assuring them that the driver would pay the bill in installments — and that she herself would be the guarantee. Hearing this only deepened my respect for her. Our mutual liking towards Sanskrit brought me closer to her.

Later, when I found out she was undergoing dialysis, it truly pinched me. I called her to ask how she was, and as usual, she simply nodded and said, “I am fine. These are all bonus days. It will go on.” I was taken aback by her calm and balanced outlook, even in the face of her own suffering.

It was during my second pregnancy, though, that I truly felt her warmth. My elder child was just over two years old, and with offices reopening for in-person work, I worried about balancing childcare, pregnancy, and work. To complicate things, I was diagnosed with Pregnancy-Induced Hypertension (PIH) and needed 16 hours of bed rest, daily medication, and injections. The emotional toll was immense, and during one tearful visit to her clinic, I confessed my fears.

“If not now, when do you think is the right time?” she asked gently.

“Maybe three years later, when my elder child is five,” I replied.

“Fair enough,” she said, “but what’s the guarantee you won’t have this condition then? Or that you’ll conceive naturally? Sometimes, it’s best to go with the flow. Consider this a blessing from God and trust His plan. It will be fine. Trust me.”

Despite my pain, those words brought me comfort — exactly what I needed to hear. She encouraged me to listen to Vishnu Sahasranama, sharing that it had helped her through difficult times. I took her advice, added the Bhagavad Gita to my routine, and eventually named my younger child after a name in those scriptures.

I believe in giving gifts that carry meaning. I wanted to bring her something that would make her smile — but knowing she wasn’t someone who enjoyed material things, it took some thought. I remembered seeing “Sri Rama Jaya Rama Jaya Jaya Rama” written beside pictures of her parents on her table. So, I asked my brother’s father-in-law, who is a retired art teacher from Kendriya Vidyalaya (Shree School of Arts, Vidyaranyapura) to create a Tanjore painting of Ayodhya Bāla Rāma. We presented it to her on Deepavali. She was hesitant to accept the gift, though visibly touched by the gesture. It took a little convincing, but it felt like the smallest token of gratitude for all the support she had given me, especially during both my pregnancies. That was the last time we met her.

When I heard of her passing, I couldn’t fathom the depth of loss her children must feel. My heart especially aches for her daughter, Madhavi akka, who cared for her mother until her last breath. Witnessing a loved one suffer and ultimately losing them is a heart-wrenching experience, and I pray that God grants her and the family immense strength to carry this lifelong void.

I can’t imagine my life without her influence — her blunt honesty, her gentle reassurances, her unwavering presence. She was more than a doctor; she was a guide, a teacher, and a rare human being whose impact will stay with me forever.