A Mother’s Plea Against Medical Negligence
Sheela Pandit
On Friday, October 17, my 18-month-old son Ahmed woke up burning with fever—101°F—vomiting repeatedly and listless from what seemed like a routine flu. As a mother, I refused to wait. I called every paediatrician in Srinagar. Most were booked until evening. Only Dr. Tanveer Bashir at Noorani Hospital was listed as available from 11 AM to 4 PM. I dialled twice to confirm. “Yes, madam, doctor sahib will be here,” the receptionist assured me both times.
We reached the hospital at 12:05 PM. The receptionist shrugged: “Doctor is in ER, will come in 10–15 minutes.” We waited. One hour became two. Each inquiry yielded the same lie: “Still in ER.” Hungry and exhausted, we stepped out briefly for food, leaving my husband’s number with strict instructions: “Call the moment he arrives.”
At 2:30 PM, we saw Dr. Bashir strolling in—not from the ER, but from the street outside, briefcase in hand. By 2:45 PM, we were finally ushered in. What followed shattered every expectation of care.
He never touched Ahmed. No stethoscope on the chest, no thermometer under the arm, no pulse check—nothing. The receptionist had noted only his weight. I described the vomiting, the fever, the sunken eyes. “He looks dehydrated,” I pleaded. Dr. Bashir scribbled a prescription without looking up. “Give these medicines. He’ll be fine.” We left clutching a strip of paracetamol and oral rehydration salts, trusting blindly because he was the expert.
That trust killed my son.
By nightfall, Ahmed refused even sips of water. He grew restless, his cries weaker. At 3 AM on October 18, we rushed to Sher-i-Kashmir Institute of Medical Sciences (SKIMS), Srinagar’s premier tertiary hospital. The paediatric ER was a ghost ward. One junior doctor, Dr. Tahir, manned the entire section. The duty nurse was nowhere—later we learned she was asleep in the corridor.
Dr. Tahir glanced at Ahmed. “Just ORS. Go home.” We begged: “He can’t swallow.” Only then did he order DNS (5% dextrose normal saline). The nurse surfaced after 15 minutes. She jabbed Ahmed’s tiny veins—once in the left hand, twice in the right, again in the foot. Eight agonising pricks later, blood finally dripped. IV inserted, sample drawn for CBC, she vanished. Dr. Tahir switched off the lights and dozed on a stretcher—inside the emergency room.
Hours crawled. Ahmed’s breathing grew shallow. My husband shook the doctor awake for the CBC report. “Take the sample to the lab yourself,” Dr. Tahir mumbled, eyes half-shut. We woke him again when Ahmed began gasping. Without examining, he ordered an ultrasound. The report showed mesenteric lymphadenitis—an infection. I thrust it under his nose. “Possible typhoid. Go to OPD at 10 AM,” he said. It was 6:30 AM.
“But we’re in ER!” I cried. “Admit him!” He waved us off: “Morning team will decide.”
At 7:15 AM, Ahmed’s lips turned blue. His fingers were ice. We checked his oxygen saturation on the ER monitor—64%. My husband tested his own—94%. Dr. Tahir yawned: “Machine is faulty.” Another nurse tried a different pulse oximeter. “He’s cold; reading won’t come,” she said. In Kashmiri, she told her colleague: “Chod yem, thanda chu. Doosri patients gachh.” (Leave this one; he’s cold. Attend others.)
Something snapped inside me. I screamed. Only then did Dr. Tahir sit up. A senior consultant stormed in, took one look, and exploded in Kashmiri: “Trada ye kya kuruth?” (What have you done?) Chaos erupted. They pumped adrenaline, called NICU, wheeled Ahmed away. Twenty minutes later, a nurse emerged: “Oxygen didn’t reach the brain. I’m sorry… Ahmed is gone.”
Time of death: 10:15 AM, October 18.
We walked out of NICU in silence. I didn’t wail; other children were fighting nearby. But silence ends here.
We filed written complaints with SKIMS Medical Superintendent, the Directorate of Health Services, and the J&K State Human Rights Commission. Acknowledgements came. Promises followed: “We’re investigating; we’ll call you.” Weeks later—nothing. No suspension, no explanation, no apology. Dr. Tahir still works night shifts. Dr. Bashir still practises at Noorani Hospital.
Ahmed was not a case file. He was my heartbeat in tiny shoes, learning to say “mama,” chasing pigeons in our courtyard. He deserved a doctor who stayed awake, a nurse who didn’t walk away, a system that valued his life over protocol.
I share every excruciating detail so no parent repeats our nightmare. Demand CCTV footage from SKIMS Paediatric ER (3 AM–10 AM, October 18). Demand duty rosters, IV records, ultrasound reports, death summary. Demand accountability.
Justice for Ahmed is justice for every child who enters a hospital trusting it to be a sanctuary, not a graveyard. Help me raise this voice. My son cannot speak. I will speak for him—until someone Listens.
