“Mein dugna paisa doonga, aap wahan jao, mere paas time nahi hai, mein wahan nahi hoon.”The sentence was not loud, yet it echoed. Not because of the offer of “double money,” but because of what it quietly revealed—the absence of time, of presence, of care.

At Moul Mouj’s telemedicine service, such calls are no longer unusual. They come in different tones, different urgencies, different accents—but increasingly, they carry a similar undercurrent: outsourcing of responsibility. As a routine, our staff gently asks a simple question—who will be present at home when we visit? Not as a formality, but because care is not a transaction; it is a continuum. It requires understanding, instruction, follow-up, and above all, human involvement.

That day, the answer was blunt. He would pay more. He would not come.

As a matter of principle, at Moul Mouj Foundation, we never deny care to ageing parents, irrespective of their children’s financial status or their willingness to be involved. Even when adult children can afford care but choose not to provide it, our responsibility remains unchanged. So, we went to see the patient.

The address led us to a house that spoke before anyone inside could. The entrance was unkempt, neglected in a way that does not happen overnight. It had the silence of something long ignored. As we stepped in, the air felt heavy with abandonment.

Inside, on a bed that had long forgotten cleanliness, lay an elderly woman—frail, almost merging into the sheets beneath her. The bedding was soiled, the surroundings darkened by neglect. Beside her sat her husband—old, disoriented, wearing clothes that had seen too many days. He looked at us with a mixture of hope and helplessness, as though unsure whether to expect relief or simply another passing presence.

We did what we are trained to do. We examined, we treated, we prescribed. But medicine, in such moments, feels painfully inadequate. Because what prescription does one write for loneliness? What dosage is enough for neglect? What therapy addresses the slow erosion of dignity?

As we moved through the room, adjusting what we could, advising what we must, a truth lingered in the background: their children were not far away. They lived in the same city. Not continents apart, not unreachable—just absent. And this is not one story. It is many.

It is becoming a pattern we are witnessing with increasing frequency—homes where ageing parents exist rather than live, where survival is ensured, but care is missing. Where money is not the problem, but presence is. Let us be clear—this is not about condemnation. Nor is it about painting every adult child with the same brush. We see the other side too—sons and daughters who go beyond their capacity, who sacrifice time, comfort and careers to ensure their parents live with dignity. We see hands that hold, voices that reassure and homes that still echo with warmth.

But let us also be honest—doing good for one’s parents is not extraordinary. It is not an act of charity. It is not something that deserves applause. It is a duty. A fundamental, unquestionable duty.

Somewhere along the way, we have begun to confuse provision with care. Sending money is not care. Arranging a visit is not care. Delegating responsibility is not care. Care is presence. Care is involvement. Care is knowing whether your mother has eaten, whether your father slept, whether their medicines are being taken correctly, whether their eyes still search for you at the door.

Because ageing is not just a biological process, it is an emotional journey. It is a phase where strength declines, but sensitivity increases. Where independence fades, but the need for connection deepens. And when that connection is replaced by convenience, something breaks.

In that room, as we stood between clinical responsibility and human helplessness, there was a moment, brief, but piercing, when emotions threatened to surface. As professionals, we learn to maintain composure. But sometimes, the weight of what we witness pushes against that boundary.

Sometimes, you cannot hold it. Not because you are weak, but because you are human. Because behind every such visit is an unspoken question: How did we get here? How did we reach a point where time has become so scarce that it cannot be spared for those who once gave us all of theirs? Where proximity exists, but connection does not? Where parents, who once held our fingers to help us walk, are now left to navigate their final years alone?

This is not a crisis of resources. It is a crisis of priorities. And perhaps, also, of awareness. Many do not realize that neglect is not always intentional. It often begins subtly, with postponements, with assumptions, with the belief that “someone else will take care.” Over time, these small gaps widen into distances that are hard to bridge.

But it is never too late to return. To show up.To sit beside.To listen.To care. Because at the end of it all, what our ageing parents seek is not perfection. They do not demand grand gestures. They do not measure love in money. They seek presence. A voice.A touch.A reassurance that they are not alone.

As we continue our work, moving from one home to another, one story to the next, we carry these experiences with us, not as complaints, but as reminders. Reminders of a responsibility that cannot be outsourced. Of a bond that cannot be replaced. And of a truth that must be repeated, again and again: For the health of ageing parents, medicine helps, but love heals.

© Greater Kashmir