Radhika was never one for outbursts. But that day, as she lay in the hospital bed, her voice shattered the silence like a storm. Her eyes burned with fury.

“How dare you talk to me?” she shouted, her chest rising and falling with anger. “Get out! Don’t come near me! Don’t touch me!”

Her words were sharp, her agitation unshakable. This wasn’t an argument in a marketplace or a woman feeling unsafe on a dark road. This was Radhika—steady, faithful, and bound by routine—now lost in the chaos of illness. Her world had turned upside down

In her early forties, Radhika lived a quiet, simple life. She had separated from her husband two decades ago and now stayed with her brother and his wife in their modest home. She didn’t work. Her days were spent in prayers to Lord Krishna, her evenings filled with soft bhajans. Life was predictable, almost comforting in its routine. Until the illness came.

It started quietly. A deep, growing tiredness. The kind that makes you forget what it feels like to wake up refreshed. Then, her appetite faded. Food lost its joy.

But what troubled her most was a strange change in her body. Her bowel habits—once regular and routine—became erratic. Some days, she was constipated. Other days, diarrhea came in waves. At first, she ignored it. But then, one day, she saw blood in her stool. Fear gripped her. Something was wrong.

Her fear was clear when she arrived at the hospital. Doctors examined her—questions, scans, tests. Then came the news. Colon cancer. But not just that. It had spread—to her ovaries, uterus, and kidneys. A hard truth to hear. Even harder to accept.

The doctors explained the treatment. Chemotherapy. Medications. Blood tests. Frequent hospital visits. Maybe surgery—if the treatment worked. They spoke gently. “We’ll take care of you,” they assured her.

The first chemotherapy session took its toll. Nausea. Weakness. No appetite. It was a long, difficult road. Radhika seemed to endure it in silence.

Or so they thought.

The next morning, everything changed. Her calm was gone. In its place was a restless, frantic energy.

She wouldn’t speak to her brother. She barely looked at the nurses. When the doctors arrived, she met them with cold hostility.

“Leave me alone!” Her voice shook with anger. “You’re poisoning me with these toxic drugs! That’s why I feel like this. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I can’t even use the bathroom properly!”

Her words stung. Doctors are used to gratitude—to thank yous, to relief, to trust. But this? This was different. The woman they had just helped now saw them as enemies.

What had changed?

Radhika’s anger wasn’t just from her illness. Her mind had been troubled for years. She believed people could read her thoughts. She felt they controlled her, forcing her to act against her will. She lived in fear.

But she found comfort in a Dargah—a sacred shrine where people seek blessings, peace, and healing. A spiritual healer there listened to her. He offered prayers, hope, and healing words. She trusted him completely—more than doctors, more than family. She believed only the Dargah could cure her.

So when she learned she had cancer, she refused treatment. Medicine wouldn’t help, she thought. Only faith could.

The psychiatrist finished writing her prescription and looked up. “It will take time,” he said softly. “Her mind needs healing too. And trust won’t come easily. She fears everyone around her.”

Radhika’s brother, always the dutiful sibling, apologized again and again. But the doctors only nodded. “It’s not her fault,” they reassured him. “It’s the disease talking, not her.”

And so, in the face of Radhika’s rage, the doctors stayed calm. They knew it wasn’t anger speaking—it was fear, confusion, and pain. She taught them a quiet but powerful lesson: Not all patients show gratitude, and that’s okay. Sometimes, those who resist the most are the ones who need the most care.

In the weeks that followed, Radhika’s mood swung like a pendulum. One day, anger. The next, silence. But slowly, she adjusted to her new reality. The fury never left, but it softened. She didn’t embrace the treatment, but she began to accept it. It was, after all, her only chance.

For the doctors, the experience was humbling. They had grown used to praise. But now, they saw medicine differently. Healing wasn’t about thanks or recognition. It was about walking with the patient—through rage, through doubt, through suffering. They learned to accept both the bouquets and the brickbats.

As the Gita teaches, they learned equanimity—to stay steady, no matter what came their way.

And so, when Radhika finally left the hospital, she didn’t thank them. But in her eyes, there was a quiet, reluctant acceptance. And that, perhaps, was enough.