๐๐ถ๐ต๐ฆ๐ฏ ๐๐ฐ๐ณ๐จ๐ฆ๐ฏ, Pendsey. ๐๐ช๐ฆ ๐จ๐ฆ๐ฉ๐ต ๐ฆ๐ด ๐๐ฉ๐ฏ๐ฆ๐ฏ? ๐๐ฏ๐ฅ Happy Birthday!
Itโs the 18th of May. Like always, I wake up thinking of you, ๐๐ฟ. ๐ฆ๐ต๐ฎ๐ฟ๐ฎ๐ฑ ๐ฃ๐ฒ๐ป๐ฑ๐๐ฒ๐.
For years, Iโd call and surprise you with my rusty German. Youโd laugh, loudly. โ๐๐ช๐ฆ๐ญ๐ฆ๐ฏ ๐๐ข๐ฏ๐ฌ,โ youโd say. Your accent was better. Your joy, louder.
That laugh still echoes. Odd, how sound lingers in memory.
You were two years senior during MD Medicine residency at GMC Nagpur. The class of 1971. But we never called you โSharad.โ You were always Pendsey. The name carried affection. Charm. Wit. Strength.
You looked like a Bollywood film star. Really, you did. Fair skin. Eyes that sparkled. Hair that curled just right. And that grinโhalf mischief, half more mischief.
But it was your eyes that did the talking.
They asked questions. Offered comfort. Threw shade. Told jokes. No wordsโjust eyes. So full of life, so full of play.
You were the first real diabetologist in Nagpur. You chose diabetes in the 1980s when everyone thought youโd made a mistake. What could you possibly do for diabetes, they said. There were just two pillsโglibenclamide and metforminโand two insulins.
Thatโs it. But you saw what others didnโt.
You built not just a practice, but a sanctuary. You didnโt treat patients. You cared for them. You gave children with diabetes more than insulin. You gave them books, bicycles, summer camps, holidays, and hope. And a friend.
They will never forget you.
I watched you often, quietly. You taught me medicine, but also grace, humour, and style. You reminded us how to be human in a hospital that sometimes forgot.
You left early. Too early. Who approved that decision? I never got to say a proper goodbye.
Today, I remember the joy you brought, the voice still ringing in my head, and those sharp, smiling eyes.
And I whisper again, with a lump in my throat and a smile on my lips:
๐๐ถ๐ต๐ฆ๐ฏ ๐๐ฐ๐ณ๐จ๐ฆ๐ฏ, Pendsey. Happy Birthday.
๐๐ถ๐ง ๐๐ช๐ฆ๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ณ๐ด๐ฆ๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ฏ.
