Some jobs end with a punch card. Medicine doesn’t. The stethoscope may rest, but the questions never do.
This morning, I went to a restaurant for breakfast. The owner, one of my long-time patients, was inside the air-conditioned room, eating a large poori that looked the size of his worries. He waved, mouth full, oil dripping down his fingers. I waved back, hoping to escape unnoticed. Too late. He rushed out, oily phone in hand. “Doctor, is ghee good or oil? See my cholesterol report!” Before I could finish wiping the screen, his manager appeared, pointing at a bald patch on his beard. “Doctor, I’m at the cash counter — everyone stares. What to do?” Two consultations, one poori. I hadn’t even ordered my filter coffee yet.
From restaurants to ICUs, medicine follows me like Wi-Fi.
Three years ago, my father was admitted to a super-speciality hospital after surgery. I was sitting by his bed when a nurse asked softly, “Are you his son?” I said yes. “What do you do?” “Ayurvedic doctor.” She hesitated, then smiled shyly. “Can you prescribe me something for hair fall? It started after I moved to Bangalore.” I scribbled a few medicines on a tissue. Within an hour, her friends came one by one—acne, melasma, obesity, PCOD, dandruff—fifteen nurses in three hours. My father, conscious but weak, watched it all. Later, he looked at me and wrote on a paper, You’re on duty everywhere. I smiled, half-proud, half-tired. Some lessons come with a lump in the throat.
Even weddings aren’t safe. Once, at a reception, I was standing with a plate of pulao when a man tapped my shoulder. “Doctor, this rash—can I show you?” Before I could say no, he handed me his phone, asked me to type the prescription, and offered to hold my plate while I typed. Guests stared. The bride’s father later thanked me for attending “despite your busy schedule.” He didn’t know the schedule had been included, either.
A doctor’s life is a public hotline. One day, at the temple, an old man touched my feet. “Doctor, my digestion is divine now.” Before I could reply, another devotee whispered, “My son’s acne—please tell me something.” I folded my palms, muttered “Om Shanti,” and smiled. Some prayers come as questions, too.
The world of medicine has moved online, but the questions remain the same. Midnight WhatsApp messages flash like emergency lights: “Doctor, can’t sleep.” “Doctor, Triphala now or tomorrow?” One patient sent a photo of her tongue at 2 a.m. for diagnosis. I replied the next morning: “Your tongue looks fine. It just needs rest.” Another sent a selfie after starting treatment: “Doctor, face glowing or just camera angle?” I told her both — Ayurveda works best with confidence.
At my clinic, patients often begin with, “Doctor, just one doubt.” That “one doubt” blooms into fifteen. A teacher once asked, “Doctor, you treat hair fall, joint pain, sinus, cholesterol — but what do you take for patience?” I said, “A deep breath and a long walk.”
One morning, while walking in the park, a man slowed beside me. “Doctor, you cured my sinus.” Before I could thank him, he said, “Now constipation. Should I run faster?” I laughed, “No, just chew slower.” Humour heals faster than medicine.
Once, in a traffic jam, a biker tapped my window. “Sir, my wife took your medicines — now can she conceive?” He shouted over horns and fumes. I said, “Let’s discuss this in the clinic.” He smiled, “Clinic traffic-free aa?” I wished Ayurveda had a cure for impatience, too.
Doctors live between two alarms: one for waking up, another for someone else’s pain. In Ayurveda, it’s called chitta prasāda — a calm, clear state of mind where thought and perception flow without turbulence. Science calls it professional vigilance. Both mean the same thing: never switching off. But it comes with a cost. Studies show that doctors face higher burnout, anxiety, and loneliness, not because of long hours, but because we never stop caring. Compassion doesn’t have an “off” button.
Still, these moments remind me why I chose this life. The trust people place in you is heavy, but holy. In a world that scrolls past pain, they still look you in the eye and ask for help, even if it’s between idlis, on a flight, or during your prayers.
Once, a retired policeman told me, “Doctor, you too wear a uniform — yours is invisible.” That sentence has stayed with me. It means we serve, unseen, unscheduled, uninterrupted. We may look ordinary, but inside us hums a radar tuned to suffering.
Ayurveda teaches that a healer’s energy — ojas— must be protected. I now prescribe: a quiet walk, slow breathing, a moment to watch rain without thinking of mucus. Because if the healer burns out, who heals the healer?
That morning at the restaurant, my patient returned to his table, his poori still warm. I watched him eat peacefully and smiled. Perhaps that’s what real readiness means — to serve without forgetting to live.
The truth is, doctors never retire. We only change waiting rooms. For us, sleep is just a pause between two awakenings.
I have written a book.
If this blog spoke to you, the book will stay with you longer.
4 comments
Thank you so much for wearing that invisible uniform and treating all of us.
thank you
Blog was really interesting and the punch lines were simply too good . Your compassion and professionalism are deeply appreciated dr. The use of “invisible uniform ” is so true and I am really thankful for all that you do for humanity A classic quote A good dr treat ‘s the disease . The great physician treats the patient who has the disease . You come under the category of great physician.
thank you