I didn’t plan to meet them. It just happened.

Ajay called me from Frankfurt airport. He’s a pilot. His father had just been discharged from the hospital in Delhi, and the discharge summary was this thick bundle of papers, all medical terms and numbers. “Prem, I have no clue what’s written here. Can you have someone explain it to him? And make sure he’s taking the medicines the right way?” Boarding was about to start, but I could hear the tension in his voice that “I’m here but I wish I was there” feeling.

Venkat sent me a voice note from somewhere in the Arabian Sea. I could hear the wind in the background. The connection kept dropping. “Maa had low sugar yesterday, a neighbor took her to the clinic and I’m stuck here.” It was only 15 seconds long, but it stayed with me all day. You can tell when someone is trying not to panic.

Megha, a consultant, called me while switching gates at Changi Airport. Her father had a doctor’s appointment in Pune the next day. “He just sits there quietly during the visit and then later he says ‘haan haan, sab theek hai’ but I know he doesn’t ask anything. Can you send someone with him?” I could hear the frustration the mix of love and helplessness.

And then Ishan in California. We spoke at 6:30 AM his time. He had actually built an Excel sheet for his mother’s medicines with dates, times, colour-coded. “I manage her like a project,” he said with a half-laugh. But then there was a pause, and he added, “Still, she skips doses. I only find out when something bad happens.”

Four people. Four lives that barely overlap. But all of them shared the same problem: they couldn’t be there for their parents when it mattered.

That’s why vKutumb exists.

For Ajay’s father, we sent a medical student companion. She sat with him, went through the discharge papers line by line in Hindi, set up his medication reminders, and booked the follow-up before he could forget. For Ravi’s mother, someone dropped by with her favourite ginger tea, checked her sugar, and texted him the results before his ship reconnected. For Megha’s father, our companion was in the doctor’s room with a notepad, asking the questions she would’ve asked herself. For Ishan’s mother, we just made sure the medicines were taken, every single time.

This is not a “service” to me. It’s filling a gap that video calls and money can’t fill. It’s having someone in the room when you can’t be there yourself. And yes, it makes me proud that the people doing this are medical students because they care, they listen, and they don’t rush.

If you’re in the air, at sea, in a meeting, or on the other side of the planet, we can be that presence for your parents. And if you can’t be there… we will.