I’ve never been one to share much of my life publically—it’s just never been my thing. But today, as I sit in isolation (and I’ll explain why) with just a device with me, I felt the urge to document 72 hours of my life.
I’ve always been the kind of person who sets strong goals, with my life shaped by an unwavering focus on data. For over 35 years that I’ve been working, this mindset has guided my professional journey, and I take immense pride in what I’ve achieved along the way. My career has led me to explore more than 50 countries, and travel has been a passion of mine since I can remember. I spent almost 20 years working in the financial services industry before retiring on my 40th birthday.
When I embarked on my studio journey in 2014, I set a heartfelt goal of completing 5,000 shoots in 10 years. The data-driven part of me was determined to reach that milestone. I dedicated myself to my craft, tuning out the distractions around me, and took incremental steps toward my ambition. What I didn’t anticipate was that I would surpass that goal, completing over 7,500 shoots in that time. I am truly proud of this accomplishment and grateful for the journey that has brought me here.
In November of this year, I treated myself to a week-long break and traveled to Phuket, with the intention of exploring the city on foot for 6 to 8 hours each day. During my 8 days there, I walked a total of 110 kilometers, and I felt incredibly happy and healthy with all the beach walks. I was in great shape, and it was a wonderful feeling to see my life goals progressing as planned. My health was great for a 52 year old. I returned back to India on Nov 27th not knowing that life was going to throw me it’s biggest challenge in exactly 2 weeks.
Then came the moments in life that change everything, and for me, the past 72 hours have been nothing short of life-altering. Everything I thought I knew about planning, dreaming, and setting goals has been turned on its head. I never imagined when I started my day on Wednesday that the plans I held so dearly would suddenly feel insignificant compared to the unexpected course that life was about to take.
It began like any other day, photographing a beautiful 11-month-old girl. We set up a Tiffany theme, dressed her in a cute teddy bear outfit, and did a fairy setup. The shoot went smoothly, just as planned, and we finished on time.
I had a cup of tea to unwind, but within minutes, what I thought was a mild discomfort, maybe acidity, began to escalate. I decided to step outside for some fresh air, but the pain kept growing, and soon it became unbearable.
I returned to the studio and asked my staff to turn on the fans as I tried to sit down. Within seconds, I knew something was wrong—my body was telling me I needed to lie down. I asked my office boy to bring the BP machine from upstairs, and when I saw the SYSTOLIC reading at 240—I realized this was serious.
My mom, who had been at home alone, rushed down to the studio. Panic set in as she screamed for someone to book a cab. My father, who had been in Saket, was already on his way back, and my wife was in Karol Bagh meeting a friend – she was too far to be near Defence Colony. But in that moment, all I wanted to do was close my eyes and sleep. My mom, sensing the urgency, instructed the studio staff lift me and managed to get me outside to the gate just as my dad arrived. With the help of three people, I was helped into the car, and we began the drive to the hospital.
Thankfully, the traffic was light around 3 p.m., but by the time we were halfway there, I could feel my body losing control. My hands started trembling, my speech became incoherent, and I struggled to breathe. I remember rolling down the window, desperately trying to catch a breath of air, feeling as though I might not make it. My parents and I knew that something serious had happened.
As I was being driven to the hospital, a wave of regret swept over me. It hit me just how careless I’d been for not updating my will since Covid. I asked my dad to call my lawyer and have him meet us at the hospital.
We reached Moolchand Hospital in what felt like a lifetime but was actually just seven minutes. I was rushed to the emergency room. My father, already at the registration desk, didn’t speak a word to the staff. The look in their eyes said it all. The severity of my condition was unmistakable—I was having a very serious heart attack. A junior doctor performed an echo within 30 seconds, confirming it was a major one.
As they rushed me into a treatment room, they asked my mom to step outside. With tears rolling down her eyes, the only question she could muster was, “Will he make it?” and the answer, based on my condition, was anything but hopeful. That’s when the gravity of it all really hit me. Tears filled my eyes, and I couldn’t stop screaming my son’s name, over and over again. I needed to see him. I needed to tell him I loved him, just in case I never got the chance again. But he was in class in London, without his phone, and I couldn’t reach him.
I couldn’t fathom the thought that I might not see him a last time. The pain in my chest was so intense, it felt like a 5000 kg weight was crushing me. In that moment, I truly understood what it means to have a heart attack—it’s not like the movies. It’s raw, it’s excruciating, and it makes you realize just how fragile life really is.
Everything I took for granted, every plan I made, suddenly seemed so small in comparison to the preciousness of each moment.
In the span of just one minute, I was surrounded by nearly a dozen medical professionals, each of them moving with such precision and urgency, knowing exactly what had to be done. There were no words exchanged—just a quiet, synchronized effort, like a well-oiled machine working to save my life. I felt like I was running out of time, with every passing second threatening the function of my organs.
The team was led by Dr. Rajnikant N. Shastry, a cardiologist at Medanta (@rajnikant5678), and I was in the hands of experts who knew the gravity of the situation. By the second minute, it was confirmed—one of my two main arteries was 100% blocked, and the second was 95% blocked. With each passing moment, it became harder to breathe, the weight of the reality settling in. Dr. Shastry immediately began an emergency thrombolytic therapy, a life-saving procedure designed to thin the blood and allow the small amount that was still flowing through my heart to sustain me, just long enough to give me a fighting chance.
In those moments, my entire life didn’t flash before my eyes in the way it’s often described. Instead, what came rushing back were happy memories—cherished moments from my childhood spent with cousins and extended family. It felt surreal, almost as if I were watching a movie, scenes from 45 years ago playing out vividly in my mind. Some of these people I hadn’t seen in over 20 years, yet there they were, smiling and laughing in my thoughts. It was a strange feeling, one I can’t fully put into words. It was as if my brain was gently pulling me back to those happy memories, a reminder of all the love and joy I’ve been fortunate to experience. It was both comforting and surreal, an experience I’ll never forget. It was very very weird and I find it totally unacceptable to admit that my brain was forcing me to stay positive and not give up. This is as weird as I have felt in a lifetime.
Shipra arrived about 40 minutes after it all began. Her father, a renowned cardiologist, had given her a solid foundation in understanding medicine. By then, Dr. Shastry had spoken to my father-in-law and secured his approval for the thrombolytic treatment. When Shipra approached Dr. Shastry, she asked directly which artery was blocked. Her medical knowledge gave her the courage to ask, but it also meant she was prepared for the truth. Dr. Shastry didn’t mince words: “It’s the widow-maker artery,” he said bluntly.
The reality hit Shipra like a tidal wave. The heart attack I was experiencing was the infamous “widowmaker heart attack” (yes, that’s the medical term) a name that carries such heavy, emotional weight. Overcome with emotion, Shipra struggled to hold it together—and her pain was only magnified by the fact that she wasn’t allowed to see me.
The survival rate for a widowmaker heart attack (a blockage in the left anterior descending artery) is already extremely low, around 6%, especially if medical attention isn’t immediate. If a second artery is 95% blocked, the odds of survival drop dramatically due to the compounded strain on the heart and the reduced blood supply to critical areas. My chances of survival were almost nonexistent—fragile, fleeting, and hanging by the thinnest of threads.
From this moment on, my memory becomes a blank canvas. I have no recollection of what unfolded next. Time seemed to dissolve, the world around me faded, and even my connection to my own body slipped away. Though my eyes were open and I was responding to commands, all I remember is being surrounded by a bright, white void—an empty expanse that felt surreal. It was as if my brain chose to shield me from the gravity of the events, refusing to store them in memory. Even now, it feels almost fictional, almost impossible to comprehend.
My next clear memory comes from hours later. I was shifted to a Cardiac ICU. Though I was conscious during the last few hours—responding to the doctor’s questions and seemingly present—I have no recollection of those 3-5 hours of my life. It’s as if those moments were gently erased, leaving behind only a blank space where they should have been.
When Dr. Shastry came to see me in the ICU, he greeted me with a warm smile and took my hand gently in his. “How are you feeling?” he asked, though we both knew the answer. The chest pain was relentless, and when I admitted as much, he nodded knowingly. “I understand,” he said softly. He explained that I was about to undergo emergency surgery and asked if I had any questions.
I only had one request: to see my lawyer. I told Dr. Shastry that if something happened to me, it would be incredibly difficult for my son Saahir to continue his education unless I updated my will to reflect the financial changes of the past five years.
Dr. Shastry hesitated—he was clearly reluctant to allow anything that might add to my stress. But I assured him I wouldn’t take more than 7–8 minutes and even offered to let him stand by my side, monitoring my vitals to intervene if necessary. Perhaps against his better judgment, he agreed, and my lawyer was called in.
Shipra came in with him, seeing me for the first time since it all began. But I was so focused on the task at hand—knowing I had only minutes to get everything in order—that I didn’t speak with her, unintentionally deepening her worry.
I updated my will, completed the necessary formalities, and even had the lawyer record a video of me stating my will. When I finished, a surprising sense of calm washed over me. For the first time that day, I felt at peace. I turned to Dr. Shastry and thanked him from the bottom of my heart.
I know he went against protocol and against his instincts, but in that moment, he saw what I truly needed and gave me the chance to find clarity and closure. It was a gift I will never forget.
The ICU can be one of the loneliest and most isolating places in the world—a stark, sterile environment that challenges both body and mind. With white ceilings and curtains enclosing every bed, I found myself teetering on the edge of losing my grip on reality. It reminded me of “White Torture,” a harrowing practice I’d once read about, where individuals are confined to all-white rooms, stripped of any sensory stimulation. But I wasn’t going to let that happen to me.
The pain was already unbearable; I refused to let the environment amplify it. To stay grounded, I struck up constant conversations with the nursing staff in the ICU. There were two other patients in the ward, but I focused on creating small moments of connection. I requested the nurses to sit with me for just two minutes whenever they had time. They came periodically, offering me snippets of their day, and those brief interactions became my lifeline.
There were no clocks, no watches—no sense of time at all. Minutes stretched into what felt like hours. What I thought was an eternity could’ve been just a fleeting moment. It was maddening.
When my bed was finally propped upright and food arrived, I realized it was 8 pm – five hours had passed since my heart attack began. I could barely muster the energy to take two small spoonfuls. For the first time, I saw the toll the last few hours had taken on my body. The thrombolytic therapy had left bruises blooming in deep purple. The automated blood pressure cuff, set to inflate every 15 minutes, had begun to bruise my arm, and even the IV inserted hours earlier had turned the surrounding skin an alarming shade.
Despite everything, I resolved to stay strong. I wasn’t going to dwell on the pain or the bruises; instead, I chose to focus on gratitude. I was still here—that was all that mattered.
By then, my father-in-law, himself a doctor, had arrived. He was allowed to examine me personally, and after discussing with Dr. Shastry, they informed me that I would require not one but two surgeries: the first immediately, and the second within 48 hours. It was a sobering realization, but there was nothing I could do to change or control the situation. I simply had to face it.
Hours later, when they brought me the OT gown, it finally hit me. I was about to enter the operating theater—for the first time, not as an observer but as a patient. As a birth photographer, I’d been in operating rooms over 500 times, documenting some of life’s most precious moments. But this time was different. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous.
As they wheeled me into the OT, I met Dr. Abhinav Chhabra, a cardiologist from Medanta Hospital who was going to operate on me. My father-in-law reassured me that Dr. Chhabra was part of Dr. Naresh Trehan’s team—some of the best hands I could possibly be in.
I shut my eyes, thought of Saahir, and let the professionals take over. I don’t remember much of the surgery itself—just answering questions when prompted and keeping my thoughts fixed on Saahir. It was a significant day for him; his college admission results were being announced today.
Saahir’s journey has been unique. During grades 5–10, he was an average student, but Shipra and I saw something in him—an untapped potential waiting to surface. He just needed the right environment to thrive. Taking a leap of faith, we pulled him out of the British School in Delhi and sent him to a boarding school in London for his final 2 years at school. It was a bold move, but one we believed would give Saahir the independence and perspective to discover his true self. Saahir worked hard and got through Charterhouse School in London. Charterhouse is considered THE best boarding school in the world and Saahir gave his 100% to ensure he got though. This was going to be the turning point in Saahir’s life – so I had wished and hoped.
As I lay there, being operated on, I clung to the hope that today would mark a milestone for him, just as it felt like one for me. Whatever the outcome, I knew we had made the right decision. Saahir was stepping into his own, and I was hopeful to be there to see it.
I have no idea how long the procedure or recovery took. When it was all over, my parents, in-laws, Shipra, and the doctors came to see me. Their faces, glowing with relief, told me everything I needed to know: I had made it through. I was going to be taken back to the ICU, but before that, I pleaded to speak with Saahir. I needed to see him, to hear his voice.
When they brought him on the screen, it felt like I was seeing him after a lifetime. Saahir’s face lit up with the biggest smile I’d seen in a long long time. He said just two words : “Emory University”. I smiled back and replied with 2 words of my own: “Heart attack.” A four-word conversation, ironic and unforgettable.
My son’s best day—the day he received the news he had worked so hard for, the day his dream of attending his top-choice university came true—happened to coincide with what was undoubtedly the worst day of my life. The sheer irony of it all was staggering. Here I was, facing a life-threatening heart attack, grappling with fear, uncertainty, and physical pain, while on the other side of the world, my son was experiencing the pinnacle of his young life, his years of effort finally rewarded with a moment of pure triumph. It was as if the universe had pulled us into a cosmic balancing act, and yet, we stood steady, supporting each other, because that’s what a father-son relationship is at its core—you stand by each other, no matter the circumstances.
For Saahir, this was a moment of culmination, the result of years of hard work and personal growth. From a boy who once struggled academically, he transformed into a young man who took ownership of his future and relentlessly pursued his dreams. I couldn’t have been prouder, even as I lay in the ICU, hooked to monitors and surrounded by uncertainty. And in that moment, I could see that he wasn’t just my little boy anymore; he was a man ready to take on the world, and my faith in him was absolute.
Since the day he was born, I set a pact—to always be truthful with each other. I wanted to honor that and tell him about my condition, to show him that trust between us remained unshaken. My family worried how he’d handle the news, being alone in London, but I knew my son. He would cry, he would feel the weight of it, but he would come out stronger, just as he always had.
Saahir though the years has been a very emotional child and has lacked leadership qualities. He just couldn’t focus. From being an average student, Saahir had worked relentlessly to crack the admissions to his dream university. Not only had he achieved it, but he was one of the select few globally to be accepted into Emory University through Early Decision. It was his moment, a triumph born from grit, perseverance, and belief in himself.
For me, it was a moment of clarity and humility. Despite my own suffering, seeing his joy was a reminder of everything I had fought for throughout my life—every effort, every sacrifice, every ounce of love poured into my family had led to this. His success was my victory, too. And perhaps in the irony of that day, there was a lesson: life doesn’t give you neatly packaged moments of joy or sorrow. They coexist, sometimes in the most unexpected ways, and what matters is how we show up for one another.
Once I was back in the ICU, something remarkable happened. Within minutes, the chest pain that had gripped me for so long was completely gone. The bruises from the procedure grew darker, swelling began to set in, but none of that bothered me. For the first time in hours, I felt the faint, reassuring hum of normalcy returning.
I was allowed periodic visits with family, and it was during one of these that I finally got to speak with Shipra. This was the first time we’d had a proper conversation since the heart attack began. From that moment, humor found its way into our words, lightening the atmosphere. I was officially out of danger, and the relief on everyone’s faces was unmistakable.
The worst was over. I would still be monitored for 24 hours, and another procedure was planned, but the dark cloud that had loomed so large had lifted.
I got to see everyone—my mother, steadfast as always, a pillar of strength. My father, beaming from ear to ear, masking his worry with a confident, “I knew nothing was going to happen.” Smiles were all around, a balm for the soul.
My mother brought me into this world 52 years ago, but now, she has given me life a second time. Her quick actions and unwavering presence saved me in a way words could never fully capture. I owe her my life, not once, but twice. I don’t know how to thank her, but I know I’ll forever carry that truth in my heart.
So much had to align perfectly for me to survive. The timing of the heart attack—at an hour when the roads were clear and traffic was light. We only hit one red light on the way to the hospital; even one more could have been fatal. The doctors made their decisions in under 30 seconds, and Dr. Shastry worked his magic in minutes. It was a symphony of timing, expertise, and grace that kept me alive. Being in the right place at the right time wasn’t luck—it was nothing short of a miracle.
Time seemed to finally find its rhythm again, moving at a steady pace as my body and mind began their slow but sure recovery. I found myself in good spirits, cracking jokes and sharing laughter with every hospital staff member who came by. Humor was my armor, my way of reclaiming the moment. The night was restless—I hardly slept—but the next morning brought a small victory: I requested to sit by the ICU window, where the sunlight poured in warmly. For 30 blissful minutes, I simply sat there, soaking it all in, letting my thoughts rest.
After breakfast, my father-in-law arrived with Dr. Shastry. They conducted an echo on my heart, and to everyone’s surprise and relief, my heart was functioning at 45% capacity—just a notch below the normal 55%. Dr. Shastry presented two options: proceed with surgery the next day, as initially planned, or go home, rest, and monitor my condition weekly to decide the next steps. I told him honestly that my body needed time to heal. My left arm was swollen from the IV, my right bruised from countless BP checks. My chest had experienced unimaginable pain for 48 hours. And I needed a break. Everyone agreed it was a fair ask. By 3 p.m., I was discharged from the ICU and moved into a private room.
The first thing I did in that room was something that felt wonderfully normal: I picked up my phone to watch Game 14 of the World Chess Championship. Gukesh, the brilliant 18-year-old Indian, had clinched the title, and I wasn’t going to miss his historic victory. Chess has been my quiet refuge, a game I play for hours every week, and watching it brought a sense of calm and familiarity to my shaken world.
By 4 p.m., the family gathered in my room. The emotions had settled, but the exhaustion was visible on everyone’s faces. My father, at 80 years old, had been my rock. He drove me to the hospital and didn’t leave the ICU waiting area for a moment. Later, I learned from my office boy that my father had been crying—a rare sight, as the only other time I’d seen him cry was 34 years ago at my sister’s wedding. My parents-in-law had also stayed by my side day and night. These five pillars—my parents, in-laws, and Shipra—stood unwavering, ensuring I had the strength to fight.
By 7 p.m., we sent the parents home to rest, and Shipra stayed back with me. That night, I slept early, my body finally giving in to the exhaustion it had carried for days.
The next morning brought a new wave of anticipation. Saahir was landing in Delhi. I was nervous about how he would react upon seeing me. As an emotional child, I feared I might not be able to handle his response.
When Saahir arrived at 10 a.m., he took my breath away. He had grown taller, stronger, and had this effortless charm, complete with long, stylish & sexy hair. Without a word, he lay down beside me, wrapping his arm tightly around me. That single gesture spoke volumes—it said, “I’m here now.” No words were exchanged, only raw, unfiltered emotion. I realized then that this was what I had been preparing him for all along—not just for academic success, but for life’s unpredictable twists and turns. He had become the kind of man who could handle both his highs and lows with grace, a reflection of the values we tried to instill in him.
So yes, my son’s best day collided with my worst, but perhaps that’s what family is about—sharing not just the good times but also weathering the storms together. In that contrast, I saw the beauty of our relationship: unwavering support, boundless love, and the knowledge that no matter where life takes us, we will always be there for one another. In the end, it wasn’t just irony; it was the perfect embodiment of what being a father—and a son—is truly about.
I sat up in bed, congratulated him on his acceptance to Emory University, and we began talking about the effort he had put in to achieve his dream. As I focused on his success, Saahir surprised me with a question about his future plans. He asked whether Harvard or Wharton would be better for his MBA. Hearing him outline his roadmap, filled with confidence and clarity, made me realize something profound. I placed my hand on his cheek and told him, “I trust you completely. Just follow your heart.”
In that moment, I felt a weight lift. The last 72 hours had shown me that my race was run, all my goals achieved. It was time to pass the baton to Saahir. My son was no longer a boy but a young man—smart, wise, grounded, and ready to take on the world.
When it was time to leave the hospital, they brought a wheelchair, but there was no way I was going to to be wheeled out. I had my strength by my side. I stood up with Saahir and walked out. Before leaving, I insisted on speaking to Dr. Shastry, my savior. Though he wasn’t in his chamber, his assistant connected us over the phone. Saahir and I thanked him from the depths of our hearts, knowing we owed him everything.
We arrived home around lunchtime, where my mother, ever the source of strength, had decorated the house to welcome Saahir and me. As I glanced into our studio on the ground floor, I quietly said, “See you soon.” I resolved then and there that my work would no longer be about numbers, plans, or goals. From now on, I would take on projects that truly brought me joy. I would continue creating memories for others, but I would also make time to create them for myself.
Exactly 72 hours after leaving home, I returned, sitting down for lunch with my entire family—Shipra’s parents, my parents, Saahir, Shipra, and me. The last three days had changed my life forever. As we ate, I received a call from Shipra’s brother, who simply said, “Big B, you’re a fighter.” It’s these small, heartfelt moments that make all the difference. The small things sailed me through.
My sister, despite being thousands of miles away in Australia, has been my steadfast source of strength throughout this ordeal. Her constant calls, filled with words of love, encouragement, and reassurance, became a lifeline that bridged the physical distance between us. Every conversation with her reminded me of the deep bond we’ve shared since childhood—a bond that no amount of time or distance could weaken. She has always been my biggest cheerleader, and in this moment of crisis, her unwavering faith in my recovery gave me a sense of calm and hope.
My niece and nephew, though young, brought their unique brand of joy and positivity into the mix. Their sweet messages, video calls, and even the occasional silly joke served as bright spots in an otherwise overwhelming time.
My extended family rallied around me with messages of support and encouragement. From heartfelt prayers to thoughtful gestures, each family member contributed in their own way to keep my spirits lifted.
Even my colleagues at work became part of this incredible support system. They stepped up without hesitation, ensuring that my professional responsibilities were taken care of, allowing me to focus solely on my recovery. Their thoughtful gestures, messages, and updates were a reminder of the strong community we’ve built together over the years. Their professionalism, paired with their personal care, reinforced the belief that a workplace is much more than just a space for work—it’s a second family.
Every single person—family, friends, colleagues, and even acquaintances—played a role in helping me survive. Their collective strength became my own. It’s often said that it takes a village, and I now understand that truth in its fullest sense. My recovery wasn’t just a medical miracle; it was the result of a network of love and support that refused to let me fall. For that, I will be forever grateful.
If it weren’t for the love and unwavering support of my family, Dr. Shastry, and countless others, my life would have ended on December 11, 2024. But it didn’t.
And now, I will prepare for my new chapter. “Here’s to Life 2.0.”
There’s no moral of the story, no advice I can give anyone. This is simply how my 72 hours unfolded. Life 2.0 will be about spending time with those who stood by me during my darkest hours and finding joy in the moments that truly matter.