Going the distance for Aaradhana

The story of Aaradhana, the tiny girl in my arms, began on one of our weekly visits to Jawadhi Malai (Jawadhu hills) during my postgraduate training at CMC Vellore. Javadhu Hills— are an extension of the Eastern Ghats reaching through the Vellore and Tiruvannamalai districts of Tamil Nadu—this remote area is a world of its own. Traveling here in the winter months was a hidden blessing; the meadows were painted with blooming wildflowers, bringing the hills to life. After an off-road journey of nearly three hours, our team faced a further six-kilometer trek on foot to reach the village of Jaarthankolai, perched atop the hills with only open fields for company.

Apart from the routine patients, we were warmly welcomed by a timid mother, who was eager for her daughter’s routine vaccination at six weeks. Her happiness was so sincere that she asked me to name her daughter, a request that took me by surprise. At that moment, I happened to be listening to songs from Vettayaadu Vilayaadu (a yesteryear movie from Tamil) and “Aaradhana” (meaning admiration) the name of the heroine, sprang to my mind. It seemed to suit this bright-eyed child.

A month later, we returned to the hills. But the Public Health Nurse informed us that Aaradhana’s mother hadn’t come to the health camp. “Let’s go to her,” I suggested, though I knew this meant another long walk up the winding paths, a journey few health workers are excited to make. When we reached the village, her house was locked, and a neighbor told us they had gone to the fields. Determined, we continued our walk, though I could sense my nurse’s weariness as we trudged along in search of the family.

After nearly an hour, we finally found Aaradhana’s mother in the fields, but here we faced a new challenge: Aaradhana’s grandmother, who was firmly against the vaccine. She recounted how the last dose had given Aaradhana a fever, leaving her inconsolable through the night. While such reactions are common with the pentavalent vaccine, her concerns were understandable. But I noticed that Aaradhana’s mother seemed willing, though hesitant. On a whim, I looked at Aaradhana herself and asked, “Do you want the vaccine?” To our surprise, she responded with the kind of smile that melts your heart. Laughing, I turned to the grandmother and said, “Look, even the baby is saying she’s ready.” At this, the grandmother could only nod in agreement.

After administering the vaccine, I carried Aaradhana back, her mother walking beside me. With a shy smile, she confided, “I named her Aaradhana because you came so far just for her. Not even my husband would do that for us.” My heart swelled with warmth, and tears welled within me—I couldn’t have asked for a more meaningful reward.

Some may question the effort—miles and hours for a single vaccine. But each step holds meaning. Walking these roads, we deliver more than medicine; we bring hope, building faith in health workers and our work. While traditions and elders may set the rules and many mothers may have no say, sometimes going the distance makes all the difference. It brings strength, shifts perspectives, and redefines the essence of public health.