For decades after completing my MD residency and becoming a physician, I held firm to a belief: diagnose accurately, treat effectively, monitor diligently, and ensure that patients followed my advice. This was the creed I practiced in OPDs, wards, ICUs, and even during cross-department consultations in the hospital.

And it worked. Most of the time.

There is no greater reward for a physician than seeing their patients recover, adhere to treatment, and return for follow-ups with gratitude in their eyes. It’s a validation of our efforts, a source of quiet pride, and a moment of shared joy with patients and their families.

But not always.

This young man was an exception. At twenty-three, he ran a teashop in the city, full of energy and brimming with ideas—new flavours, clever promotions, and plans to grow his business. He was a man with dreams. Until one morning, a headache—unlike any he’d ever experienced—changed everything.

A visit to the doctor. A scan. And then, the bombshell.

The MRI showed a massive brain tumour, occupying almost half his brain. The swelling was severe, the pressure life threatening. It bore down on the vital centers controlling his heart and breathing. The tumour was inoperable. Three neurosurgeons—each a veteran—reviewed the case and unanimously declined to operate. Neither surgery, radiation, nor chemotherapy offered any hope. Nothing could stop the tumour’s growth, or so said all the doctors.

And so, he came to us—to the palliative care center. A shadow of the vibrant young man he once was. He struggled to speak, his words broken and unclear. He couldn’t swallow, couldn’t move his left arm or leg. He depended entirely on his family for every basic need—feeding, bathing, turning in bed. A tube nourished him; a catheter managed his bladder.

Days blurred into weeks. The family cycled through the stages of grief—denial, anger, depression, and finally, acceptance. He, too, began to grasp the reality from whispered conversations and tearful silences. We could offer little beyond attentive ears, kind words, and measures to ease his suffering. We focused on sparing him unnecessary interventions and futile medications.

Eventually, he went home.

Yesterday, he returned. Propped in a wheelchair, flanked by his parents and a devoted sister, he greeted me with a faint smile. We exchanged pleasantries. I lightened the mood with a few jokes, asked about his teashop, and teased him about Pushpa 2—the latest movie he might have watched. Our resident held his hand, and that simple human touch lifted his spirits visibly. Minor tweaks to his medication followed, and then came the question.

“Doctor,” his father hesitated, “can I take him to a baba in a remote Rajasthan village? He’s known to cure cancer with miraculous powers. People say he’s healed so many. But there’s one condition: we must stop all modern medicines. The baba insists on sacred rituals—a thread on the wrist, ash mixed with honey. That’s all.”

The room fell silent.

Years ago, my younger self would have scoffed. Dismissed the idea. Maybe even chastised him for suggesting it. But years of practice have taught me otherwise. Desperate times drive people to desperate measures. It’s not just about faith in the extraordinary; it’s love, guilt, peer pressure—all tangled together.

And it isn’t just “babas.” They go by many names: gurus, mystics, healers. Each weaving with their own mix of rituals and promises. Some offer sacred threads and ash. Others recommend exotic herbs or chants to align the cosmos. To the modern mind, it can seem bizarre, even absurd. Yet, to families grasping at straws, these remedies become beacons of hope.

I chose a different response.

 “You may go,” I said, carefully measuring my words. “But try not to stop his seizure medications or supportive drugs. You can follow the baba’s advice alongside.”

The father’s eyes welled with relief. Gratitude poured out in his words. This was what he needed—validation of his decision, assurance that he was doing everything for his son.

Sometimes, nobody is entirely right or wrong. What remains is the middle path.

As they left, I watched the family disappear down the corridor, the father wheeling his son out with cautious hope. And I wondered: perhaps the greatest medicine isn’t one we prescribe but the understanding we extend. A touch. A word. A bridge between worlds.