The sun had risen higher now, scattering molten rays across the Healing Deck. Birds darted like tiny strokes of color in the blue canvas of sky. Yet Subramanyam didn’t see any of it. His gaze was fixed on the folder lying on the low table before him, a folder he had avoided for weeks.
Dr. Biswajit gently tapped the cover. “Open it,” he said.
Subramanyam hesitated. He had fought wars in boardrooms, stared down competitors, and negotiated billion-dollar mergers without breaking a sweat. But this? These sheets of paper held truths his ego wasn’t ready to face.
He pulled the folder open. Numbers glared back at him like silent accusations. Fasting glucose: 165 mg/dL. Triglycerides: through the roof. Cortisol. elevated even at midnight. Liver enzymes, abnormal.
Subramanyam clenched his jaw. “I’ve been on medications for months,” he said bitterly. “And still this.”
The doctor’s voice was calm, but the weight of his words fell heavy. “Because the medicine is fighting a battle, your lifestyle keeps fueling it. You can’t out-prescribe biology, Subramanyam. Not when your internal clock is broken.”
Subramanyam slammed the folder shut. “Clock, clock, clock! You keep saying that. But I don’t work night shifts. I’m not some factory worker pulling graveyard duty.”
Dr. Biswajit’s eyes softened, but his tone stayed firm. “Tell me something. When was the last time you had dinner before 9 p.m.?”
Subramanyam looked away. “Nine? Try midnight.”
“And bedtime?”
Subramanyam laughed bitterly. “Bedtime? Emails, Zoom calls with New York, financial reports… I usually crashed around two. Sometimes three.”
The doctor nodded slowly. “And you woke up at six for your workout?”
“Of course,” Subramanyam said, almost proudly. “Discipline.”
“No,” the doctor said, his voice cutting through like a scalpel. “Self-destruction.”
“Listen carefully, Subramanyam,” the doctor continued, leaning in. “Your body expects light in the morning and darkness at night. It expects food during daylight hours, fasting after sunset. This is written in your DNA. But you,” he gestured at Subramanyam’s exhausted frame, “you gave your body light at midnight, food at odd hours, and stress hormones round the clock. Your master clock in the brain got confused. Your peripheral clocks, in the liver, pancreas, and gut, fell out of sync. That’s called internal desynchrony. And when that happens, systems fail.”
Subramanyam frowned. “Systems fail… like what?”
The doctor opened another sheet from the folder and tapped on it. “This high fasting glucose? That’s your pancreas misfiring. Your insulin should peak when you eat during the day. But you were eating late, sometimes right before sleep. Your body stored it as fat instead of burning it. Over time, insulin resistance and metabolic syndrome.”
He pushed the folder away as if the numbers could infect him through touch. For the first time, tears blurred his vision, not the hot tears of anger, but the cold sting of realization. He had fought to control everything—markets, competitors, fate. But he had lost control of the most fundamental thing: time inside his own body.
The doctor placed a hand on his shoulder. “Subramanyam, listen to me. It’s not too late. You can reset the clock. And when you do, the healing will begin—not from a pill bottle, but from within.”
Subramanyam took a shaky breath. “Reset the clock,” he repeated, as if tasting the possibility. “Tell me how.”
The doctor smiled, eyes reflecting the rising sun. “We start now.”
To be continued…
Part IV: Time as Medicine: The Healing Science
He flipped to another page. “These liver enzymes? Your liver’s detox cycle runs at night during deep sleep. But when you’re awake, working under artificial light, sipping whiskey at 1 a.m., that cycle never kicks in. Your liver is working overtime, exhausted. That’s why it’s leaking enzymes into your blood.”
Subramanyam felt his stomach twist. The doctor’s words weren’t medical jargon—they were bullets hitting the bullseye of his life.
“Circadian disruption doesn’t stop there,” the doctor said. “Do you know what happens to your immune system when your clock is broken?”
Subramanyam shook his head.
“It collapses. Night is when your body repairs DNA damage, hunts cancer cells, and resets immunity. When you rob yourself of that, mutations slip through. Chronic inflammation sets in. And guess what thrives in chronic inflammation?”
Subramanyam’s voice was barely a whisper. “Cancer.”
The doctor nodded gravely. “In 2007, the World Health Organization classified night-shift work as a probable carcinogen. Studies in Nature Reviews Cancer have shown that circadian disruption accelerates tumor growth. Even mild misalignment—like sleeping late regularly—can double your risk of breast or prostate cancer.”
Subramanyam’s throat tightened. He wanted to argue, to fight, but the truth was merciless: he had built his empire on stolen nights, sacrificed sunrises for profit margins. And now… his body was sending the bill.
“Here’s the cruel irony,” the doctor continued. “You were proud of burning the midnight oil. Our culture glorifies it, late nights, 24/7 connectivity, and global hustle. But biology doesn’t care about capitalism. It cares about light, dark, food, and rest. Ignore that, and you invite chaos.”
Subramanyam looked down at his trembling hands. “So this… this wasn’t bad luck, was it?”
The doctor’s voice softened, like a father speaking to a wounded child. “No, Subramanyam. It was bad timing.” he handed a small information sheet, which stated the following facts.
