Don’t forget to eat that aaloo bonda,” he said again, his voice steady now.
“Yes, I will,” I replied, stepping away.
Just a week earlier, his son had wheeled him into the hospital OPD in a wheelchair. A driver in our hospital, his son had looked visibly worried as he entered my room.
“Doctor, my father isn’t talking. He doesn’t recognize us. And look—his right arm—it’s gone,” he said, fear trembling in his voice.
The patient lay on the bed, confused. He was 73. Words tumbled out, jumbled and unclear. His face was twisted; one side drooped, his mouth sagged, and his right arm hung limp and lifeless. My eyes quickly scanned him as I pieced together his history.
“He’s had a stroke,” I said.
The residents sprang into action. The blood pressure cuff tightened around his arm, the glucometer pricked his finger, and the monitor beeped softly as numbers blinked to life—blood pressure measured, glucose checked. He was promptly wheeled to the CT room, where the scan confirmed our suspicion—a shadowy lesion on the parietal lobe, stark and unmistakable. His brain, starved of blood, had gone silent.
The usual steps followed swiftly. One resident assessed the stroke’s severity: Was he conscious? Could he speak? Was there weakness in his face, arms, or legs? Another checked for clot-busting treatment eligibility. It had to be given within four-and-a-half hours, and time was running out. The clot-buster was injected to restore blood flow, followed by blood thinners, BP meds, and cholesterol.
Days in the ICU passed. Slowly, he got better. He was moved to a private room, where a physiotherapist started working on his weak arm. He began eating and sleeping. Words came back, though slowly. Numbers puzzled him, and he found it hard to name his fingers—clear signs of damage to the parietal parietal lobe.
But trouble came again. He got a fever, coughed, and his lungs crackled. Pneumonia. Antibiotics cleared the infection, and a feeding tube replaced his meals to prevent choking, while a catheter kept him dry.
“I don’t like this,” he grumbled one day. “You don’t know what’s wrong with me. Let me go. I’ll try Ayurvedic treatment.”
My residents exchanged incredulous looks. After all we had done—helping his brain recover, curing his pneumonia—he wanted to leave? Their frustration was palpable.
I tried to reason with him gently. “Stay just a few more days. Let us help you regain your strength.”
He shook his head, resolute. “I haven’t bathed or shaved. I want to go home. I need hot water and a barber to clean me up.”
We pleaded again. Reluctantly, he stayed.
And then, he improved. Whether it was the medicines, the physiotherapy, or simply time, his recovery gathered momentum.
The day came to send him home.
“Today, my father is feeling much better,” his son said, his face lighting up with a genuine smile. “He ate a big bowl of kachha chiwda this morning and even asked for more!”
His joy was infectious. After days of worry, his father had finally found an appetite for life again.
“Did you ever eat kachha chiwda from the one-legged vendor near Rambharose Hotel?” I asked, smiling.
His face lit up with recognition. “Kachha chiwda! Four annas for a cone, and the taste of jawas oil… nothing like it.”
We laughed together, bound by shared memories of Wardha. He had spent his life working there, and it was the city where I was born. His words took me back to my school days, to the joy of eating kachha chiwda from the same vendor. Its flavors lingered in my memory, a delicious reminder of childhood.
He chuckled, the memory pulling him back many years. Then his voice softened. “These days, it’s aaloo bonda for me,” he said. “There’s a stall owner near Gajanan Mandir who makes them perfectly—spicy, crisp, just right. I eat two plates every other day.”
I glanced at his belly, round and firm, peeking out from under his shirt. No wonder his cholesterol was high.
The nurse handed him his discharge card. “Make sure he takes these pills and comes back for a checkup in two weeks,” The resident told his son.
As I reached the door, his voice carried over, steady and warm. “Doctor,” he called out, a playful glint in his eye, “don’t forget the aaloo bonda.”
His words were were tinged with a joy that only fond memories can bring.
I couldn’t bring myself to admit that oily food was forbidden for me now. I knew I wouldn’t try it, but I still smiled and said, “I will.
Was it the medicines, the physiotherapy, or even our care that brought him joy? No, it was the thought of a simple aaloo bonda—something so ordinary, yet packed with the fiery spice of memory.
