Cancer Stories: The Art of Oncology Whispers After the Cure: Reflections on Marriage and Malignancy in India
Listen to JCO Global Oncology's Art of Global Oncology article, "Whispers After the Cure: Reflections on Marriage and Malignancy in India" by Dr. Vangipuram Harshil Sai, who is a fourth semester medical student at All India Institute of Medical Sciences. The article is followed by an interview with Harshil Sai and host Dr. Mikkael Sekeres. Sai shares his personal reflection of a visit which transformed into an education in silence, stigma, and the unseen aftermath of survivorship for young women in India.
TRANSCRIPT
Narrator: Whispers After the Cure: Reflections on Marriage and Malignancy in India, Vangipuram, Harshil Sai
A Summer Afternoon and A Story That Stayed
The summer break of my fourth semester of medical school offered a fleeting reprieve from the relentless immersion in textbooks and caffeine-fueled study sessions. I had envisioned a few weeks of rest—a pause from the algorithms of diagnosis and the grind of multiple-choice questions that had become my daily rhythm.
But one humid afternoon altered that plan. I accompanied my mother—a senior medical oncologist—to her clinic in a Tier 2 city in Southern India. Over the years, I had seen her not just as a clinician but as a quiet force of empathy. She was one of those remarkable physicians who listened not just to symptoms but also to stories. Her practice was rooted in presence, and her calm resilience often made my academic anxieties seem trivial.
I settled into a corner chair in the waiting area, where the air was tinged with antiseptic and that uncomfortable waiting room stillness—an alert hush between uncertainty and news. Patients waited in quiet constellations: a man turning the same page of a newspaper, a teenage girl watching her intravenous drip as if it held answers, and a couple clasping hands without meeting eyes.
It was in this atmosphere of suspended quiet that Aarthi entered. She was a young woman whose presence was composed yet tentative. Her story would become a quiet inflection point in my understanding of medicine.
She was 24 years old, embodying the aspirations tied to a recent engagement. A postgraduate in English literature and a practicing psychologist; she carried herself with a rare blend of intellect, poise, and cultural grace that, in the eyes of many families, made her a deeply desirable bride. Her sari was immaculately draped, her posture measured and calm, yet in the way her fingers intertwined and her eyes briefly lowered, there was a trace of vulnerability—a shadow of the turmoil she carried within. She came alone that day, stepping into the waiting room with a composed demeanor that only hinted at the weight she bore in silence.
What began as a day to observe became the beginning of something far more enduring: a glimpse into how healing extends beyond treatment—and how survival, though silent, often speaks the loudest.
The Diagnosis That Changed the Wedding
The consultation was precipitated by a clinical presentation of persistent neck fullness, low-grade fevers, and drenching night sweats, which had prompted a fine-needle aspiration before her visit. The atmosphere in the room held an implicit gravity, suggesting a moment of significant change. My mother, with her characteristic composure, initiated a diagnostic process with a positron emission tomography-computed tomography and biopsy. As usual, her steady presence provided reassurance amid the uncertainty.
A week later, the diagnosis of classic Hodgkin lymphoma, stage IIB, was confirmed. Rapid initiation of ABVD chemotherapy would provide an almost certain pathway to remission and an excellent prognosis. Yet, this clinical assurance did not extend to personal tranquility.
Aarthi made a deliberate choice to share the diagnosis with her fiancé—a considerate and empathetic individual from a well-regarded family. Their wedding preparations were already underway with gold reserves secured and a vibrant WhatsApp group of 83 members chronicling the countdown to their big day. Shortly thereafter, a prolonged silence settled, eventually broken by a call from a family member—not the fiancé—indicating that the family had decided to terminate the engagement because of apprehensions about future stability. The union dissolved without public discord, leaving Aarthi to navigate the subsequent journey independently.
As expected, 6 months of chemotherapy culminated in a clean scan. Her physical health was restored, but an emotional chasm remained, unrecorded by clinical metrics. Yet beneath that silence was a quiet resilience—a strength that carried her through each cycle of treatment with a resolve as steady as any celebrated elsewhere.
The regrowth of her hair prompted a conscious decision to trim it shorter, seemingly an assertion of autonomy. Her discourse on the illness shifted to the third person, suggesting a psychological distancing. Her reactions to inquiries about the terminated engagement were guarded. She would yield only a restrained smile, which intimated a multifaceted emotional response.
Her remission was certain, yet the world she stepped back into was layered with quiet hurdles—social, cultural, and unseen—barriers far more intricate than the disease itself.
Survivorship Without A Map
In the weeks that followed Aarthi's diagnosis, I began to notice a quiet but consistent pattern in the oncology clinic—one that extended beyond medical recovery into the unspoken social aftermath. Among young, unmarried women in India, survivorship often came with a parallel challenge of navigating shifts in how they were perceived, particularly as marriage prospects.
In Indian families where marital status is closely tied to stability and future security, a woman with a cancer history, even after complete remission, somehow came to be quietly perceived as less suitable. Proposals that had once moved forward with confidence were paused or reconsidered after disclosure. In some cases, financial discussions came with requests for additional support framed as reassurance rather than rejection.
These changes were seldom explicit. Yet, across time, they pointed to a deeper uncertainty—about how survivorship fits into the expectations of traditional life scripts. For women like Aarthi, the narrative shifted toward caution. There were subtle inquiries about reproductive potential or disease recurrence and private deliberations over disclosure during matrimonial discussions, even within educated circles.
Meanwhile, my observation of the disparity in how survivorship was interpreted across genders in our country left a profound mark on me. A 31-year-old male investment banker who had recovered from testicular cancer was hailed in local media as a testament to fortitude. Male patients seemed to gain social capital from their cancer journeys.
This suggested a cultural framework where female value was quietly reassessed, influencing their post-treatment identity through unstated societal perceptions.
Digital Ghosting and the New Untouchability
Within the digital landscape of curated profiles and algorithmic matchmaking, the reassessment of female survivorship acquired a new dimension. In one instance, a sustained exchange of text messages ended abruptly following the mention of cancer remission. The final message remained unanswered. This form of silent disengagement—subtle, unspoken, and devoid of confrontation—highlighted how virtual spaces can compound post-treatment vulnerability. Designed to foster connection, these platforms sometimes amplified social distance, introducing a modern form of invisibility. Similar to employment status or religion, a cancer history has become another addition to a checklist used to evaluate compatibility.
When Medicine Ends, but Society Does Not Begin
As a medical student, I felt a growing discomfort. Our curriculum equips us to manage treatment protocols and survival metrics but rarely prepares us for the intangible burdens that persist after cure. What captures the weight of a canceled engagement? What framework supports the quiet reconstruction of identity after remission?
Aarthi's path, echoed by many others, revealed a dissonance that medicine alone could not resolve. The challenge was not solely the illness but the reality that she was now unqualified to return to her normal life.
Medicine delivers clean scans and structured follow-up, but social reintegration is less defined. In that space between biological recovery and social acceptance, cancer survivors often stand at the edge of wholeness—clinically well but navigating a quieter uncertainty.
A Different Ending
Two years later, Aarthi's journey took a quiet turn. At a spiritual retreat in Bengaluru, she met an ear, nose, and throat resident who had lost his father to lung cancer. Their connection, shaped by shared experiences, evolved into a partnership grounded in empathy and mutual respect. They married the following year. Their invitation carried a brief but powerful line: "Cancer Survivor. Love Thriver. Come celebrate both."
Today, they comanage a private hospital in Hyderabad. Aarthi leads psycho-oncology services, whereas her partner performs surgeries. He often notes that her presence brings a calm to the clinic that no medication can replicate.
Aarthi's journey continues to guide me as I progress through my medical training, reminding me that cure and closure often follow separate paths. Healing, I have come to understand, extends beyond the clinic. It often unfolds in quieter spaces where scans no longer guide us. The real curriculum in oncology lies not only in staging and response rates but in recognizing the many transitions—social, emotional, and cultural—that survivors must navigate long after treatment has concluded.
Social stigma is often a second metastasis—undetectable by imaging but present in tone, hesitation, and traditions that quietly redefine survivorship.
For many women of marriageable age, treatment marks not the end of struggle but the start of another kind of uncertainty. These survivors carry wounds that do not bleed. Yet, they persist, navigate, and redefine strength on their own terms. Aarthi's quiet resilience became a point of reckoning for me, not as a medical case, but as a guide. Her story is not one of illness alone, but of dignity quietly reclaimed.
"Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars."—Khalil Gibran.
Mikkael Sekeres: Welcome back to JCO's Cancer Stories: The Art of Oncology. This ASCO podcast features intimate narratives and perspectives from authors exploring their experiences in oncology. I'm your host, Mikkael Sekeres. I'm professor of medicine and chief of the Division of Hematology at the Sylvester Comprehensive Cancer Center, University of Miami.
In oncology, we often focus on treatment and a way to find a cure. But what about the expectations and challenges a patient may face from their diagnosis, and even discrimination, especially in different cultures? Today, we're going to examine that space with Harshil Vangipuram, a medical student from India whose JCO Global Oncology article, "Whispers After the Cure: Reflections on Marriage and Malignancy in India," touches on this complexity after treatment.
Harshil, thank you for contributing to JCO Global Oncology and for joining us to discuss your article.
Harshil Vangipuram: Thank you for having me, Dr. Sekeres. I was raised by a family of oncologists, my mother being a senior medical oncologist and father a senior radiation oncologist. I had exposure to contrasting worlds, which were resource constrained and a cutting edge technology world. And I have unfulfilled curiosity, and I'm still learning, forming ideals. I also see patients as my teachers, so I think that might be helpful.
Mikkael Sekeres: Thank you so much for a little bit of that background. So, tell us a little bit about your journey through life so far. Where were you born and where did you do your education?
Harshil Vangipuram: I was born in a state called Gujarat in the western part of India. My father got transferred to the southern part of India, so I did my education there. That's it, yeah.
Mikkael Sekeres: Okay. That's enough. You're not that old. You haven't had the sort of training and final job that a lot of us have gone through.
So, what about your story as a writer? How did you first get interested in writing, and how long have you been writing reflective or narrative pieces?
Harshil Vangipuram: I read some books from Indian authors and from foreign, too. And they actually inspired me how patient care was being seen around globally. I always used to carry a hand note. I used to write what I used to see in the clinical postings here at AIIMS. And actually, journaling started as a stress relief for me, and slowly, after hearing patients' stories, it almost became an obligation to write about them.
Mikkael Sekeres: Obligation, you use that word, which is such an interesting one. How did writing become an obligation? What did you feel obliged to do when writing about some of the patients you were seeing for the first time?
Harshil Vangipuram: Many of them were having struggles which were not seen by everybody. And I got astonished by their confidence and resilience in those situations. So, I thought that I should write about them so that everybody knows about it. And these social stigmas were never talked by anyone around them. So, I felt that if I could voice them, others might eventually know about them. So, that's pretty much the reason I wrote.
Mikkael Sekeres: It's so interesting. The people we meet every single day, particularly in hematology oncology, bring such fascinating backgrounds to us, and they're backgrounds that may be unfamiliar to us. And I think that as doctors and writers, we do often feel obliged to tell their stories from the mountaintops, to let other people in on some of the aspects of life and medical care that they're going through and just how inspiring some of these patients can be.
Harshil Vangipuram: Yeah, yeah, very true. Very true.
Mikkael Sekeres: You mentioned that your mom is a medical oncologist. What kind of influence did she have on your decision to enter medicine and perhaps your own specialty one day?
Harshil Vangipuram: Observing my mother practice influenced a lot, and she taught me that medicine is not only about treating a patient, but also listening to their problems. It may be more present in the room. The textbooks I read didn't capture live experiences. I always thought that stories will stay with people longer than actual survival curves. Writing filled that gap between what I studied and what I felt in the OPD.
Mikkael Sekeres: It's a great phrase you just whipped out. Patients' stories will stay with us longer than survival curves.
Can you tell us a little bit about where her clinic is located? You said in southern India. Can you describe the types of patients she sees?
Harshil Vangipuram: It's a small town called Nellore in Andhra Pradesh state. The patients are, most of the time, from a rural population where decisions are mostly family-driven and there's a tight community surveillance and the stigmas are more overt, too. A few of them can be from urban population also, but they have subtler discriminations towards stigmas.
Mikkael Sekeres: Can you explain a little further what you mean by decisions are often family-driven?
Harshil Vangipuram: If we take marriage, it is often seen as an alliance between two families that are trying to increase their social value, their economic status, and respect in the society. In arranged marriages, for suppose, it's basically driven between these concepts.
Mikkael Sekeres: I don't know if it's too personal to ask, but are your parents in an arranged marriage?
Harshil Vangipuram: No, not at all.
Mikkael Sekeres: So not all the marriages in the clinic are arranged marriages.
Harshil Vangipuram: Yeah.
Mikkael Sekeres: You know, when you said that decisions are family-driven, you mentioned that people are in arranged marriages. And I wanted to talk a little bit about the stigma you highlight in your essay. I'll talk about that in a second. I thought you were going to go down a route about medical decisions being family-driven, meaning people have to support their families, and getting medical care is costly and takes time away from work, and that sometimes influences decisions about treating cancer. What examples have you seen of that in shadowing your mom?
Harshil Vangipuram: I have seen patients who have Hodgkin's lymphoma, breast cancer, and ovarian cancer, who were in the age of 25 to 35, who were getting married. Many of them actually got their engagements broken. And many of them got rejected at matrimonial apps. Many of them also had been told to increase the dowry that is given actually in the form of financial security.
Mikkael Sekeres: In your essay, you describe a woman who is engaged and who has a new diagnosis of Hodgkin lymphoma. Can you talk a little bit about the process of getting engaged and marrying in southern India?
Harshil Vangipuram: We have the arranged marriage, love marriage, and hybrid, which is kind of arranged and kind of in love. Mostly, these problems really occur in arranged marriages. In love marriages, we don't see that that often because both are understanding about themselves and their families. And both families actually accept them both.
Mikkael Sekeres: What's the process of going through an arranged marriage? What happens?
Harshil Vangipuram: It can be through parents, relatives, or any known ones or through peers. We just find a man or woman who has a similar caste, who has a good financial income, and people who are respected by the society. And obviously, both the families should have aligned interests for them to accept the marriage.
Mikkael Sekeres: About how often are marriages arranged and how often are they love marriages in southern India where you live?
Harshil Vangipuram: Almost 90% of the marriages are arranged here.
Mikkael Sekeres: Wow. So, your parents were unusual then for having a love marriage.
Harshil Vangipuram: Yeah.
Mikkael Sekeres: In your essay, you write, and I'm going to quote you now, "Among young, unmarried women in India, survivorship often came with a parallel challenge of navigating shifts in how they were perceived, particularly as marriage prospects. In Indian families where marital status is closely tied to stability and future security, a woman with a cancer history, even after complete remission, somehow came to be quietly perceived as less suitable." Wow, that's a really moving statement. I'm curious, what stories have you seen where, in your words, women became less suitable as a marriage prospect?
Harshil Vangipuram: For women, the most important thing in a marriage is, what do you call, a family honor, fertility, and economic status in the community. So, after a long dose of chemo, many people think that people become infertile. In India, basically, we have many misconceptions and stigmas. So, people obviously think that people who have got cancer can spread it to their children or are infertile and are often excluded out of the society as a marriage prospect.
Mikkael Sekeres: Gosh, that must be devastating.
Harshil Vangipuram: Yeah.
Mikkael Sekeres: Does the same occur for men? So, is it also true that if a man has cancer, that he is perceived as less fertile, or it may be perceived that he can pass the cancer on to children?
Harshil Vangipuram: Here, after a man beats cancer, they start to celebrate it, like they have achieved something, and it's not like that for a woman.
Mikkael Sekeres: In your essay, you do write about a happy ending for one woman. Can you tell us about that?
Harshil Vangipuram: Yeah, a cancer survivor obviously met her true love of life in Bengaluru, who was an ENT resident then. And his father died from lung cancer. So obviously, he knew what it felt to beat cancer.
Mikkael Sekeres: Yeah, he'd been through it himself. And the irony, of course, is that most cancer treatments that we give do not lead to infertility, so it's a complete misperception.
Harshil Vangipuram: Yeah.
Mikkael Sekeres: Tell us about your future. What are the next steps for you in your training and what do you hope to specialize in and practice?
Harshil Vangipuram: Actually, I'm working on another paper which involves financial toxicity after treatment and post treatment depression. I think it would be completed in another year. And after that, after my med school is completed, I think I'm going to pursue oncology or hematology as my branch of interest.
Mikkael Sekeres: Wonderful. It's thrilling to hear that somebody who is as sensitive to his patients and both their medical needs and their needs outside of medicine will be entering our field. It'll be great to know that you'll be taking care of our future patients.
Harshil Vangipuram: The pleasure is all mine, sir.
Mikkael Sekeres: Harshil Vangipuram, I want to thank you for choosing JCO Cancer Stories: The Art of Oncology and for submitting your great piece, "Whispers After the Cure: Reflections on Marriage and Malignancy in India" to JCO Global Oncology.
To our listeners, if you've enjoyed this episode, consider sharing it with a friend or colleague or leave us a review. Your feedback and support helps us continue to have these important conversations. If you're looking for more episodes, follow our show on Apple, Spotify, or wherever you listen, and explore more from ASCO at asco.org/podcasts.
Until next time, this has been Mikkael Sekeres from the Sylvester Cancer Center, University of Miami. Have a good day.
The purpose of this podcast is to educate and to inform. This is not a substitute for professional medical care and is not intended for use in the diagnosis or treatment of individual conditions.
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Show notes:Like, share and subscribe so you never miss an episode and leave a rating or review. Guest Bio:Dr Vangipuram Harshil Sai is a fourth semester medical student at All India Institute of Medical Sciences.
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