Eshal, 24

I take care of hearts all day at the hospital — mine is still accepting applications.

Hyderabad Doctor 5'3" MBBS

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Mahnoor, 23 Karachi → Rabia, 27 Lahore → Laiba, 24 Multan → Ayesha, 24 Lahore →

Every morning in Hyderabad begins the same way for me: the rumble of a Qingqi rickshaw outside our house in Latifabad, the smell of my ammi’s adrak wali chai mixed with the faint antiseptic that never quite leaves my dupatta, and my little brother stealing the paratha off my plate while I am still half asleep. I am Eshal, I am twenty-four, and I am usually running five minutes late for my ward round — a family tradition at this point, honestly.

Being a doctor in Hyderabad means this city raised me twice: once at home, once at Civil Hospital. I did my MBBS pulling impossible hours, learning to sleep sitting up in the doctors’ room, learning that a patient’s hand in yours can do what no medicine can. My first night shift, I was terrified. A senior nurse — Sister Naseem, forty years in the wards, heart of a lion — took one look at my shaking hands and said, Beta, dua parh ke kaam shuru karo, Allah madad karega. I still whisper a dua before every difficult case. Ammi’s duas travel with me too; she calls before every night shift, and I swear her Allah khair kare works better than any energy drink.

Hyderabad is not Karachi and not Lahore — it is its own warm, stubborn, wonderful thing. The Pacco Qillo standing guard over the city like a tired old soldier. Shahi Bazaar, where the shopkeepers have known my family for three generations and still try to overcharge me for juttis because doctor sahiba can afford it. The Indus flowing past Kotri, wide and unbothered. In the monsoon, the whole city smells of wet mitti and fried samosas, and everyone — everyone — argues about whose biryani is better while secretly agreeing it is all delicious.

People ask if medicine leaves room for a life. Honestly? It leaves room for a very specific, very precious kind of life. My friends from college — most of them doctors now too — have a group chat that never sleeps, because one of us is always awake on call. We celebrate birthdays at 2 a.m. in hospital canteens with cake from the bakery across the road. We have seen each other cry, faint, and fall asleep mid-sentence. And on my rare days off, I am fully, gloriously, a normal twenty-four-year-old: sleeping till noon, fighting my brother for the TV remote, and going to Resham Gali with my cousins to try on bangles I absolutely do not need.

My ammi is my best friend and my unofficial life coach. She raised three kids while managing a house that always had one extra guest, because in our home, no one eats alone — the neighbour’s son studying for exams, the maid’s daughter, whoever happened to be around. Eshal, she tells me, you fix bodies, but remember to feed souls too — starting with your own. So I am learning. Learning to take the evening walk along the river when I can. Learning that it is okay to say no to an extra shift sometimes. Learning that the dua she makes for my naseeb every single Friday might actually be working.

I will be honest: the aunties have noticed I am twenty-four. At every dawat, someone’s eyes drift meaningfully toward any unmarried male cousin within a ten-mile radius. My phuppo has a list. She showed it to me once — it was colour-coded, I am not exaggerating. I love my family fiercely, but I have told ammi: I want to choose my own person. Someone kind. Someone who understands that my pager might buzz during dinner and that my heart will always belong a little bit to my patients. Someone who will bring me chai at the hospital gate at midnight and not make me feel guilty for loving my work.

Here is what I dream about on the quiet drive home after a long shift, when Hyderabad is finally asleep and the streets belong to the stray cats and the night-duty doctors. I dream about slow mornings — real ones, not the five-minute-late kind. About making nashta together and arguing over whose omelette technique is superior. About a small house with a sunny aangan where ammi can visit and take over the kitchen immediately, because she will, and we will let her. About someone who asks about my day and actually wants the long answer — the one with the baby who finally went home healthy, and the old uncle who held my hand and called me beti.

I am not looking for perfect. Perfect is boring, and also probably fictional. I am looking for real: someone who laughs easily, who respects his mother, who can handle a woman with opinions and a stethoscope. Someone who will dance with me at my cousin’s mehndi even though we both have two left feet. Someone who understands that when I say I had a good day, it might mean I saved a life — and when I say I had a hard day, the best response is silence, a hand to hold, and eventually, biryani.

So if you are reading this — salaam! Come say hello. Tell me about your city, your work, the thing that makes your eyes light up. I will tell you about the time I delivered twins at 4 a.m. and cried harder than the babies — a story for our third conversation, maybe. And if we get along, I will introduce you to Hyderabad properly: sunset at the Qillo, chai at a roadside dhaba while the Indus breeze does its magic, and my ammi’s cooking, which I warn you now will ruin all other food for you forever. Fair warning. Doctor’s orders.