Pandurang (name changed) is not a guru. He doesn’t stand on a stage, preaching to thousands. He isn’t a YouTuber making millions from daily wisdom. He hasn’t written books, nor made money from his teachings.

He is a daily wage laborer from a village near Hinganghat, a 73-year-old man who never went beyond primary school. Today, he is a caregiver.

His wife, weighing just 24 kg, lies in bed. Her frail body sinks into the sheets. Esophageal cancer has taken away all her physical strength. But not her mind. Nor her emotions. Nor her spirit.

She moves little. He stays by her side—feeding, turning, soothing her pain. His hands gently massage her feet, offering juice, waiting patiently as she sips. Night after night, he sits awake, alert, always ready to help.

This morning, during rounds in the palliative care ward, Pandurang surprised us. His wife lay still, her emaciated frame a stark reminder of the toll cancer has taken on her.

As we started explaining her condition, choosing our words carefully, he politely interrupted. His tone was calm and kind.

“This isn’t in your hands,” he said, his voice steady. “Nor mine. He decides when we come and when we go.”

The room fell silent. His words lingered, calm yet weighty.

My resident’s eyes fell on the chain around his neck. It was a simple thing, a 𝑇𝑢𝑙𝑠𝑖 𝑚𝑎𝑙𝑎, its small, dark-brown beads resting gently against his chest, a Rudraksha bead hanging at the end like a quiet symbol.

He noticed our curiosity. “This?” he asked, his voice steady. “This is a Tulsi mala, made from the sacred Tulsi plant. We 𝑊𝑎𝑟𝑘𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑠 wear it every day, not just on pilgrimages. It is our faith, our devotion, a reminder to stay close to Vitthal.

𝑊𝑎𝑟𝑘𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑠 are pilgrims. Every 𝐴𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑑ℎ𝑖 𝐸𝑘𝑎𝑑𝑎𝑠ℎ𝑖. Every 𝐾𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑖𝑘𝑖 𝐸𝑘𝑎𝑑𝑎𝑠ℎ𝑖. They walk for hundreds of miles, often over a fortnight and even a month, traveling to Pandharpur for 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑛 of 𝑉𝑖𝑡𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑙 and 𝑅𝑢𝑘𝑚𝑎𝑖.

“I’ve walked the 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑖 13 times,” Pandurang said, a faint smile crossing his face. “And each time, she was with me. Always ahead. Always stronger.”

Then, in a voice steady with devotion, he began quoting saints—Tukaram, Dnyaneshwar, Tukdoji, Ramdas. Not mere words, but the essence of their teachings, woven into the fabric of his life.

He paused, his voice softening. “Even Tukdoji Maharaj was not spared from cancer. He suffered in the end.” A deep sigh escaped him. “We are ordinary mortals.”

And then, his wife spoke. Her voice faint, but clear. Her face calm, as though untouched by the turmoil surrounding her.

“I’m not afraid of dying.”

Her food pipe blocked by cancer, she could no longer swallow. A feeding tube sustained her body, but her spirit seemed untouched.
Where did they find such courage? What made them so fearless?

Perhaps it was faith. Perhaps it was devotion.

Pandurang may have never read the Gita, but he lives its wisdom every day, in silence and action.

Poverty never broke their spirit. Disease never conquered their resolve. Death could not shake their unshakable peace.

As I stood there, humbled by their courage, I realized something profound. True strength isn’t about grand gestures or big words. It lives in the heart that knows its truth.

Today, I bowed before them—not just as a physician, but as someone deeply moved by their strength and devotion.