At my clinic last year, a man confessed something with the seriousness usually reserved for hidden bank loans or family scandals. He could not remember...
Every night, across many Bengaluru homes, a small ceremony takes place. Coffee powder is measured with priestly precision, hot water is poured over it, and...
In my clinic, sour faces arrive before sour fruits. They come carrying sleepless nights in designer handbags, hope folded like a prescription slip. One afternoon, a young...