Books have an odd, forced habit. They pretend to end, but life refuses to cooperate.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When I began writing these pages, I thought I was simply putting my memories in order\u2014stacking them like old case papers in a neat steel cabinet. What actually happened was the reverse: the memories began rearranging me. They reminded me of things I had forgotten and of people I had taken for granted while I was busy being “useful.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I have lived most of my life inside institutions\u2014classrooms, wards, ICUs, committee rooms, and the occasional meeting that could have been an email. I have watched medicine change its clothes many times: from the era of clinical judgment to the era of investigations, then to the era of protocols, and now to the age of apps, coaching classes, AI, and five-second attention spans.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The tools have changed. The jargon has shifted. But I have realized that the anxiety in a patient’s eyes\u2014that silent plea for reassurance\u2014remains exactly the same.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I used to believe that if you worked hard and meant well, things would turn out fine. That was youthful optimism. Later, I replaced it with a more mature philosophy: work hard, mean well, and accept that the universe has its own timetable. It is not always polite enough to consult you.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sevagram, however, has been generous. It gave me purpose, friendships, and a home that slowly became more than bricks. It gave me colleagues who became family and students who, for reasons I still don\u2019t fully understand, continue to stay in touch long after they stopped needing me. It gave me enough stories to last several lifetimes, though I suspect I have shared only a fraction.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Age has been a mixed bag. It has made my memory occasionally misplace a name. But it has also done something unexpected: it has made me less anxious about being right all the time. There is a quiet freedom in admitting, with a straight face, that you don\u2019t know everything. In medicine, this is called wisdom. In ordinary life, it is called survival.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I have also learned that families are not built on perfect harmony; they are built on imperfect people who keep showing up. Bhavana has done that for decades, with a level of patience that should qualify as a national resource. My children have grown into adults who now teach me as much as I once tried to teach them. My grandchildren have brought a brand of joy that arrives without warning and leaves no room for self-pity. Even our dogs have played their part\u2014simply by making the house feel alive.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
As for me, I remain what I have always been: a slightly overworked man who reads too much and spends far more time at his desktop than his wife, children, and grandchildren would like. I treat breakfast and lunch as optional distractions, and I possess a unique talent for letting my tea turn cold\u2014at least until a sharp signal from Bhavana arrives from the kitchen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I still worry a little. To keep the worry at bay, I have developed new obsessions: documenting the history of this institute, writing stories about people who matter (and a few who don\u2019t), and maintaining a steady stream of thoughts on Facebook and Twitter. Between deciphering the mysteries of income tax returns, managing investments, and the occasional bicycle ride, I have realized one thing: I have never been good at sitting still. I suspect I will continue to be bad at it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
If you are looking for a moral at the end of this book, I am afraid I don\u2019t have one. Medicine has cured me of the need for grand philosophies. But I do have a small conclusion, borrowed from the ward and applied to life:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
You do what you can. You do it honestly. And you try not to make things worse.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That, in my experience, is already an achievement.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The sun rises. The patients wait. We begin again.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"