Seat of the Problem – An Aisle Seat Adventure

    It was a bright Sunday morning, and I was armed with my sacred document—the boarding pass. Seat 18C. Aisle. The seat that offers freedom, dignity, and the ability to visit the loo without pleading with strangers or climbing over knees.

I reached my row. Lo and behold! I find it already occupied. A family of three had taken up the entire stretch—uncle at the window, aunty in the middle, and a young man (clearly their son) lounging comfortably in my aisle seat. I stood at the seat and checked the seat number with my boarding pass. There was no mistake. But when I looked down, none of the three passengers occupying the row seemed to notice me. You know the feeling you get when you walk in the interview room and the examiners are talking to each other without looking in your direction (like you were not there). I felt the same.

The son, bless his cochlea, had earphones in—with music blaring so loud, I briefly wondered if it was meant for him or for public broadcast. I couldn’t decide whether to tap his shoulder or shake him out of his musical dreams.

“Excuse me, I think that seat belongs to me,” I said politely.

No response. Not even a twitch. The music didn't let my voice through into his ears. Nor did it reach the mom and dad.

“Excuse me', I was louder, "I think that's my seat,”. This time adding a light tap on his shoulder—gentle enough not to alarm, firm enough to imply I wasn’t offering snacks.

He looked up with the casual indifference of someone who’d just been asked to pass the ketchup at a family dinner—mildly inconvenienced, vaguely surprised, and entirely unbothered by the concept of seat numbers.

Him (removing earphones): “Oh, sir! Yes… but would you mind taking a seat three rows ahead? It’s a middle seat, but same class, same legroom… even closer to the front! These are my parents and I would prefer sitting with them”

He said it like he was offering me an upgrade to business class. I stared at him, blinked once, and tried to process the proposal.

Me: “So… you want me to give up my aisle seat and voluntarily choose a middle seat? Out of the kindness of my heart? For the cause of family togetherness?”

He nodded, smiling, as though this was a moment of great emotional sacrifice on my part, and I should feel proud. I smiled back, politely. That smile we reserve for people who cut lines at buffets and then ask if you’ve tried the gulab jamun.

Me: “I’m sorry, but I really need the aisle seat. I paid extra. Also, I’m not emotionally invested in keeping your family together at 30,000 feet.”

There was an awkward pause. The smile disappeared from the son's face. Aunty looked at me like I’d just personally cancelled her Netflix subscription. Uncle, meanwhile, remained at the window, pretending to admire the closed terminal gate with intense dedication.

"I just wanted to say....." (he persisted)

"No!" said I. Sounding like Amitabh Bacchan from 'Pink'.  

The son sighed dramatically, like he was auditioning for a daily soap and looked at me long enough to make me uncomfortable..

Him (muttering): “Fine, I’ll go.”

He stood up, slowly, as if each vertebra was filled with emotional burden, and marched off—three rows ahead—to his actual seat, taking along with him the shattered dream of airborne family unity.

I took my rightful place on the aisle, claiming it like a war hero reclaiming ancestral land. The air was heavy with unspoken judgment. Aunty was clearly displeased. She did that silent thing where she “accidentally” elbows you while adjusting her seatbelt. Twice.

Just as I was settling in, along came another passenger—a gentleman of determined posture and undeniable confidence. He pointed at the middle seat.

Him: “That’s my seat.”

I felt a déjà vu shiver. The tension returned like a sequel nobody wanted.

The couple tried the same charm tactic.

Aunty: “Bhaiyya, woh piche ek accha seat khaali hai. Woh bhi middle seat hi hai!”

Him (blinking): “I booked this seat, madam. I like the middle.”

Even I raised an eyebrow at that. Who likes the middle seat? That’s like saying you prefer decaf.

The man held his ground. There was a standoff. Aunty looked at uncle. Uncle looked at the emergency exit like it might offer answers. Eventually, aunty stood up with the grace of a martyr who’d been wronged by the system.

She left for the back, mumbling under her breath—something about sanskaar and “kya zamana aa gaya hai.”

Now it was me on the aisle, Mr. Middle Seat in the middle, and Uncle at the window. Balance had returned.

Or so we thought. 

Enter: Third Passenger. Cool, confident, boarding pass in hand.

Third Passenger: “Excuse me, sir, I believe that seat is mine.”

Uncle froze. His smile collapsed. There was a long silence. And then, almost simultaneously we all understood the game.

They hadn’t actually booked seats. No paid selection. Just a good old-fashioned web check-in and blind faith. Their plan was simple: identify the first fully empty row, sit down with confidence, and hope that charm, guilt, and inertia would keep them together.

A bold strategy. Unfortunately, one that relied heavily on the kindness of strangers and a complete absence of passengers with boarding passes.

Uncle sighed, gathered his things with theatrical reluctance, and went off in search of his assigned seat. Somewhere far away from his wife and child.

As the aircraft taxied down the runway, I couldn’t help but smile. In that short time, I had been part of a real-life soap opera, complete with betrayal, in-flight politics, and the ever-enduring question: Why are families like this?

Convenience vs. Rights...

We love convenience, don’t we? We often talk about convenience as if it's a virtue. In a fast-paced world, convenience has become the default setting—food delivered with a swipe, cabs summoned with a tap, even conversation sometimes conducted through voice notes and emojis (because who has time for full sentences?). But beneath this smooth surface lies a delicate balance between what is easy and what is ethical. And that balance was hilariously disturbed.

Take my aisle seat saga, for example. What seemed like a minor seating disagreement on a domestic flight unfolded into a small but significant parable on everyday entitlement.

The family in question wasn't rude. They weren’t angry. In fact, they were charmingly pushy. Their entire strategy was built on the soft power of smiles, suggestions, and the hope that others would quietly surrender what others had booked, paid for, and rightfully owned—for the sake of convenience. The guilt, that way, is on others. This is the precise tension: 

When our personal convenience begins to depend on someone else’s compromise, it crosses a line.

The Unspoken Social Contract

    Air travel is one of the few remaining rituals in modern society where rules are non-negotiable. There's order. There's protocol. There’s the fine art of boarding zones. And there’s the cardinal truth: your seat is your seat. That pretty much applies everywhere. Still, people try to hack the system—families hoping to sit together without pre-booking, aisle lovers stealthily taking window seats, or passengers "forgetting" that middle seats also exist. This isn’t about one family. It’s about a mindset: The mindset which says that it’s okay to bend rules if we’re polite about it, or if no one makes a fuss. 

Its convenience camouflaged as harmlessness.

But here's the problem: when politeness becomes a tool to override others' rights, it stops being polite—it becomes manipulative.

The Silent Weight of Saying ‘No’

    What made this situation profound — but also quietly amusing (in hindsight) —was the discomfort I felt in asserting my right. I had the legal, logical, and literal boarding pass to claim the seat, and yet, the moment I said no to their request, there was a brief social tension. A pause. A mild guilt.

    Why? Because in our culture, especially in India, “adjusting” is considered noble. We are conditioned to give up space—for elders, for women, for families, for anyone with a louder plea or a sadder story. Saying "No, this is mine" is often confused with being selfish, especially if done calmly and without apology. Defending your rights doesn’t make you difficult—it just means you’re not disposable.

Convenience We Can Afford vs Cost We Shift

    In their desire to sit together, the family was asking others to fragment. They weren’t paying the price of their choice of seats, but expecting others to absorb the cost. This is a pattern you’ll see everywhere:

• On roads, when someone jumps a signal and causes gridlock.
• In coffee shops, when someone gets ahead of line because all he wants to buy is a bottle of water whereas everyone else wants coffee and things.
• Socially important patients who feel they can bypass the OPD line and consult first
• In daily life, when people ask for “small” favors that come at “big” inconvenience to others.

    Every time someone chooses personal ease over shared fairness, someone else bears the invisible burden. And most people do—silently because it feels easier to adjust than to argue. We may ask that if everyone adjusts then isn't it nice? No! When everyone adjusts, the system stops being fair—it becomes random, chaotic, and biased toward the pushy or the persuasive.

What’s the Way Forward?

    We don’t need to be rigid or robotic. Life demands a little give-and-take. Of course, we can swap seats, help strangers, or occasionally sacrifice comfort.

    But here’s the principle: Let it be voluntary, not expected. Generosity should be a gift, not a social debt. And perhaps, before asking someone to adjust for our convenience, we should ask ourselves:

Am I asking for kindness—or am I asking for someone to give up what is rightfully theirs?

---

In the End…

    As the plane took off, each passenger finally in their allotted seat (after a series of musical chairs), I looked around and smiled. Not because I had “won” the seat, but because I had learned something about human nature, about entitlement dressed in charm, and about the quiet courage it takes to politely say: “No, this is mine.”

    In a world that often rewards the loudest voice, there's still value in the firm but gentle stand for what is fair. And sometimes, the battle for the aisle seat becomes a surprisingly beautiful metaphor for life.

The Price of an Uncredited Thought

    It started quietly—an idea that formed not in a lab, but in the mind of a gastroenterologist. Anand had been noticing something strange: patients with gastrointestinal cancers were already wasting away before starting treatment. CT scans showed muscle loss even when body weight seemed stable. He dug deeper—sarcopenia. A name for the silent decline. Sarcopenia was evolving as a determinant of prognosis in frail patients. So, one afternoon in the hospital café, he ran into Dr. Nathan Sinha, a medical oncologist. Slightly junior to him, they had been together during MD. An energetic physician, he had gone to complete his DM from a prestigious institute. He had started to be known for translating clinical insights into research papers with impressive speed.

    “I’ve been thinking,” he said, stirring the tea. “Sarcopenia might be a silent predictor in GI malignancies. We don’t screen for it, but it could affect chemo tolerance and survival.” Nathan’s interest was immediate. “That’s actually very relevant. Especially in our patients. You’re onto something.”

    Anand explained his plan: “I want to do this in two phases. First, observe the incidence of sarcopenia in patients with Gall bladder cancers. Then, follow those patients to see how it affects survival outcomes and treatment responses.”

Nathan nodded thoughtfully. “Interesting. But I’d want to include all GI malignancies to get broader data.”

    Anand smiled slightly. “Let’s stick to carcinoma gall bladder. We have a huge patient load, and it’s a particularly aggressive cancer. It makes the study more focused and manageable.” Nathan agreed. “Makes sense. Novel and focused. Let me know how I can help.”

    Anand was encouraged. Nathan asked a few questions about imaging protocols, nutritional assessments, and follow-up schedules. Truly speaking, Anand was very excited to have Nathan's interest. If Nathan was interested, he thought, it sure is a hell of an idea.     

    He wrote up a detailed concept note, outlining both phases—the baseline study and the survival follow-up. He had already started training a resident for evaluating the CT to detect sarcopenia as he did not want to over-burden his radiology colleagues. Over the next months, Anand approached Nathan two more times to discuss logistics and initiation. Each time, Nathan was polite but distracted. “We’re swamped with clinical work. Maybe later.”

Then, silence..... for a long time. 

    Anand thought about bringing it up but somehow did not get the opportunity. He did send a couple of recent articles to Nathan to revive his interest. Nathan showed interest but nothing beyond. Without Nathan, Anand could not have started the project, as the patients were in the Oncology OPD.

    A year later, at the annual departmental thesis presentations, Anand's heart sank. The resident, Dr. Omar, was presenting the proposal for a thesis which hit him like a bolt. A thesis titled “Sarcopenia as a Prognostic Marker in Carcinoma Gall Bladder". And the guide was Nathan. Slide after slide echoed Anand's original proposal—both phases clearly outlined, the focus on carcinoma gall bladder, the same imaging and survival endpoints. His name was nowhere.

    He confronted Nathan. But Nathan dismissed his concerns. Nathan claimed Omar needed a project and that the idea hadn’t been formally pursued by Anand. He added, "I get a dozen such ideas daily. So what's the big deal in getting an idea. Execution is more important than merely getting an idea". Anand just did not have the energy for an argument. He did not want to beg. 

    Anand had understood then that the idea he had nurtured, shared, and worked on had been quietly taken away without credit. That night, Anand opened the folder on his laptop. The original file with a number of connected literature was still there. He was heartbroken, when he deleted the file. The story of his idea in four words was Dated, Detailed, Discussed and Deleted. An idea stolen in slow motion. No formal violation. No institutional breach. Just erasure.

    He didn’t report it. He didn’t confront Nathan. He chose not to spend energy proving something that everyone in that room might already suspect but never say aloud.

    Instead, he turned to something new. He reworked the sarcopenia question, this time framing it around some other disease where he would not have to involve another OPD. He registered the study independently, recruited through his contacts, guided his own resident, and laid down the work on his own terms. A year later, he presented it at a national forum. 

His slides, His voice, His data. The applause, this time, belonged to him alone.

But the theft still lived somewhere quietly in his memory. 

    Because ideas don’t bleed. They don’t leave bruises. When they’re taken, there’s no code to cite, no ethics committee to approach. And yet the damage is real.

    The story of what happened between Anand and Nathan reflects a truth that many in academic medicine know intimately: while data and execution are prized, the fragile birth of a clinical idea often occurs in conversations, notes, quiet insights. In such spaces, ownership is defined not by paperwork but by trust. That trust, once broken, leaves behind something more corrosive than bitterness—it leaves behind a sense of invisibility.

    What Anand experienced is far from rare. The academic world is filled with unspoken understandings about credit and collaboration, but it is also riddled with gray zones where power imbalances and informal exchanges make ethical boundaries difficult to enforce. Nathan, though junior, held the key to the patient population needed for the study. This positional advantage gave him leverage that, unfortunately, he chose to exploit. Without access to Nathan’s oncology OPD, Anand's idea could not practically move forward. This asymmetry turned his intellectual property into something fragile, vulnerable to appropriation.

    The ethics of credit in research is not just a matter of professional courtesy but of fundamental fairness. Giving proper credit acknowledges the labor of thought, the courage to propose new ideas, and the risk inherent in pioneering untested questions. Even if Nathan felt the project was not formally underway, the idea remained Anand's intellectual creation until he explicitly relinquished it. To present that idea as a new thesis without acknowledgment betrays not just his trust but the very principles that underpin collaborative science.

    Institutions often lack clear policies to protect early-stage ideas or to mediate disputes arising from such intellectual misappropriations. Unlike data fabrication or plagiarism of published work, stealing an idea during the incubation phase is more insidious and harder to prove. This creates an environment where silence and inaction become the default response, especially for those with fewer institutional resources or lower hierarchical power. For Anand, speaking up risked professional discomfort or backlash; staying silent meant quietly losing credit for something that was rightfully his.

    His choice to start anew, while courageous, highlights a painful truth: resilience does not erase wrongdoing. The academic community must recognize that protecting ideas and ensuring ethical conduct at all stages is crucial—not only to encourage innovation but also to sustain trust among collaborators. Celebrating those who rebuild should not overshadow the need to hold accountable those who appropriate ideas without consent.

    In the end, Anand's story is a reminder that research is not just about data collection and publication. It is about respect for intellectual contribution, trust in colleagues, and safeguarding the invisible labor that underlies every breakthrough. Without such respect, progress risks becoming a hollow race where ethics are optional and ideas become commodities to be claimed by the loudest voice or the most strategic player.

    The mind that conceives a study deserves protection as much as the hand that executes it. And only when this principle is honored can science truly advance with integrity.

For in science, credit is not a courtesy — it is a currency of truth.

Lessons from a Fracture That Healed More Than a Bone

    A six-year-old boy moves through his day with the gentle rhythm of childhood—waking up to familiar voices, dressing in the comfort of routine, eating breakfast with sleepy-eyed calm, and setting off for school where the hours unfold with predictable cadence: lessons, chatter, a lunch break under the sun. But on this particular day, amidst the ordinary, something unexpected disrupts the flow—he falls. Children fall often, skinning knees and brushing off dust, but this fall is different; the pain is sharp, deep, and immediate, striking a note in him that he’s never heard before. He knows instinctively that something is wrong—terribly wrong—long before the adults around him catch on, and the tears come more from fear than from pain.

His teacher, startled and sincerely concerned, rushes to his side with comforting words and anxious eyes. She cradles his small shoulder and calls his mother, offering calm but cautious reassurance: “He’s had a fall, but I don’t think it’s anything serious.” The mother, trying to suppress the rising worry, calls her husband—a doctor—relaying that their son is being brought home by his teacher, adding, “He’s quiet… no visible injury, but something’s not right.”

When the parents finally see their son, it is the absence of his usual spark that speaks louder than any words. The father’s medical instincts quietly override his emotions, and with a few precise questions and a gentle examination, he suspects what the X-ray will soon confirm—a fracture of the humerus, most likely a supracondylar one. There’s relief that nerves and vessels are spared, but the urgency remains: surgery will be needed, and soon.

The hospital visit follows in a blur—imaging confirms the diagnosis, the fracture is displaced, and the plan is clear: he will be taken to surgery at the earliest available slot. As the logistics begin to fall in place, the little boy—sensing the shift in atmosphere—turns to his father with wide, searching eyes and whispers, “Papa, let’s go home. I don’t want to stay here.” The father’s heart breaks quietly, but he nods with a gentle smile, saying, “Soon, son… just a few formalities.” It’s the first of many lies he tells that day—lies born not of deception but of love’s desperate attempt to shield innocence.

A sling is placed, painkillers administered, and when another injection looms, the boy pleads, “No more, Papa. Please.” His father, holding back the weight of helplessness, replies again with soft falsehood: “This is the last one.” The child eventually succumbs to exhaustion, falling asleep with tear-streaked cheeks and a fragile trust that never wavers.

Night begins to settle, tense and restless, but then a quiet knock disturbs the silence. The orthopedic surgeon enters—calm, composed, a figure of quiet authority and grace. He takes a seat with the parents, speaks gently and without haste, explaining the procedure again, not just for clarity but to comfort, answering even the questions the father, as a doctor, already knows. He listens, never brushing aside their fears, and as he rises to leave, he offers a simple assurance: “All will be well.” The words, said without flourish, sink deep into the father’s heart, a steadying anchor amid a storm of sleepless thoughts.

The mother stays with the child; the father returns home, but sleep escapes him. His medical mind, usually precise and detached, now swirls with every possible complication he’s ever read, witnessed, or feared. Morning arrives not as a new beginning, but as the seamless continuation of a night never truly lived.

Back at the hospital, the boy—now dressed in a surgical gown—looks up, confused and scared, “Why, Papa?” he asks. The father lies again, more tenderly this time, “Just a small check-up, son.” They move toward the operation theatre. Thanks to professional familiarity, the child is listed as the first case of the day. The surgeon meets them again, greets the mother, and offers the same soothing confidence: “It’s a straightforward procedure. We’ll be quick.” She walks her son to the pre-op area, holding his hand until the very last step, before masked strangers—gentle, but strangers nonetheless—take him in. As the doors close, the parents are left behind, their imaginations tormented by thoughts of what their son might be feeling: fear, confusion, abandonment.

Forty minutes later—the longest stretch of time the father has known—the surgeon returns with news: the surgery has gone well. The fracture is reduced, the dislocated segment neatly wired into place. Relief floods in, sudden and immense. The anesthesiologist, with a smile, quips, “Quite a handful you’ve got here.” The father manages a nod, words caught somewhere between gratitude and fatigue.

    As a doctor, he has treated many illnesses. Cured diseases. Performed procedures with clinical confidence. But in this moment, he realizes he has often failed to treat the dis-ease—the anxiety, the uncertainty, the quiet panic of being human. The orthopedic surgeon taught him that night the art of healing beyond medicine. His presence, both the night before and right after surgery, was a balm to the soul. That day taught him humility. As doctors, we often become mechanical. We interpret questions as doubts, doubts as disrespect. We forget that illness is not just a physiological event—it’s a deeply emotional one. That day reminded him to listen. To soften. To care. 

    Another lesson shone through: our children are far stronger than we are. Despite the pain, the fear, and the many small lies, his son never once withdrew his trust. After the operation, he reached out—still wanting his father’s arms, his comfort, his presence. That pure, unquestioning faith was a revelation. 

    Since that day, the father tries to mirror that trust. In his children, his patients, his friends, his family. And even toward those who may never return the same. He chooses to trust them still. To love preemptively.

Disclosure: But the experiences taught me some more. I have tried to summarise them in six lessons:

Even doctors feel the fear

No amount of training prepares you for seeing someone you love in pain. When it hits close to home, we’re not doctors—we’re just people, trying to hold it together. 

Healing’s not just about fixing the body

Treating a patient isn’t only about the diagnosis. It’s about the worried family member, the unspoken fear, the little things that make someone feel seen and cared for. 

Kind words are powerful medicine

Sometimes, the right words at the right moment do more than any pill or procedure. A calm voice and a little reassurance can change everything. 

Kids forgive with their whole hearts

Children love freely and forgive quickly. And sometimes, when we soften the truth to protect them, it’s not about hiding—it’s about loving them the best way we know how. 

Experience teaches what textbooks can’t

If you’ve waited outside an ICU or signed a scary form, you get it. That kind of experience builds a quiet kind of empathy—and makes you a better listener and a kinder doctor. 

Loving unconditionally takes guts

Trust and love aren’t just reactions—they’re choices. Choosing to love without expecting anything back? That’s real strength. And honestly, it heals both ways.

    

    Amen.