Karna Has Acid Reflux

Karna came to my clinic last winter.

No, not the Mahabharata warrior with golden armour. This was a 42-year-old bank manager named Manjunath, with neatly ironed pants, a face full of stress, and a stomach that had declared war.

“Acidity, gas, burping, and a tightness here,” he said, pointing to his chest. “Doctor, I have done all the tests. They say I am fine.”

That’s always my cue. When every report is “normal” but the patient feels like a pressure cooker, it’s rarely just about digestion.

“Tell me,” I said, “what’s burning inside you that’s not showing up on the scan or endoscopy?”

He blinked. “I—what do you mean?”

“I mean,” I smiled, “what emotion are you swallowing with your lunch daily?”

Just like that, the story came out. A father who never appreciated him. A career he didn’t want. He used to write poetry but hasn’t touched it in 15 years. A life that looks perfect—on paper.

“My chest feels heavy every morning,” he said. “Like something’s stuck inside.”

I wanted to say, Welcome to the club, Karna.

That’s what he was. A modern-day Karna. Doing everything right. Still never feeling enough and carrying a lifetime of unspoken emotions like a hidden curse.

Ayurveda is an ancient term for this invisible mess between your gut and mood—Sādhaka Pitta. But don’t worry, you don’t need to remember Sanskrit. Just think of it as the internal “digestive fire” that processes not just food, but feelings. Yes, it digests your heartbreaks, boss’s emails, in-laws’ comments, and existential angst.

When this emotional fire burns too hot, it leaves you charred—acidity, anxiety, and overthinking at 2 a.m. When it’s blocked, everything backs up—bloating, mood swings, skin breakouts, and that inexplicable urge to eat two samosas and cry.

Modern medicine calls this the gut-brain axis. We’ve just been talking about it for 5,000 years longer. It’s no big deal.

Your gut makes most of your serotonin, your brain talks to your bowels, and your microbiome throws tantrums when you suppress your feelings. If your stomach is sulking and your skin is staging a revolt, maybe it’s not just the spicy sambhar or biryani—it could be your unprocessed emotions.

As I tell my patients, “Constipation of feelings leads to inflammation of everything.”

Even the Mahabharata knew this. When Arjuna froze in the middle of the battlefield, he wasn’t just confused—he was emotionally constipated. Krishna didn’t give him an antacid. He gave him clarity, purpose, and a philosophical cleanse. Only then did Arjuna’s internal fire return.

 “Do not yield to this weakness, O Partha!”

In other words, feel your feelings, digest your doubts, and please—chew your food.

I have seen hundreds of Karnas.

The software engineer with angry skin and a freshly broken heart, acting like everything’s “totally fine.”

The schoolteacher who hasn’t cried since her mother died—she came in for migraines.

The college kid who wanted to be a musician but was stuck in engineering. Severe IBS.

They all had one thing in common: emotional constipation.

No laxative for that, unfortunately.

Then, what did I prescribe, Manjunath?

A spoonful of Avipattikara Churna to cool the acid and the anger.
Ashwagandha to calm the racing thoughts.
And a cup of Jatamansi tea at sunset—to remind his nervous system that peace is possible.

“Write a two-line poem every night,” I said. “One metaphor is compulsory.”

He looked at me like I’d lost my Ayurvedic marbles.

“And drink Brahmi tea before that,” I added. “It calms the emotional fire.”

“Doctor,” he said, “is this poetry therapy or parody therapy?”

I laughed. “Same thing. Just write. Let the fire out gently.”

Two weeks later, he came back smiling. “I wrote seven poems. One of them made my wife cry. In a good way.”

His reflux? 80% better.

Ayurveda doesn’t just treat the stomach. We treat the stuff you’ve buried under your to-do list. Unspoken grief. Unacknowledged dreams. That lump in your throat you’ve labelled as “acidity.”

The body remembers everything.

There was a woman once who came in with severe urticaria—itching so bad, she scratched till she bled. No soap, cream, or tablet worked.

One day, in a whisper, she said, “I’m stuck in a marriage where I haven’t felt loved in ten years.”

That night, she cried for an hour.

The next day, less itching.

Not a coincidence.

When you don’t express pain, the body finds other ways. Itches. Aches. Palpitations.

One good news: The reverse is also true. Expressing your truth is medicine. Free, powerful, ancient medicine.

We have this beautiful line in India: “Yad bhavam tad bhavati.” What you feel, you become.

That’s why I sometimes give the weirdest prescriptions—things you won’t find on pharmacy shelves, but your soul and cells will celebrate.

 *  Dance barefoot in the rain — let the earth recalibrate your nervous system.

* Write love letters you’ll never send — emotional detox, without side effects.

* Scream into a pillow named “societal expectations” — highly recommended for chronic people-pleasers.

* Eat warm khichdi with ghee and gratitude — comfort food for your gut and grief.

* Take a nap even if you haven’t done anything all day — resting is not a crime, it’s how you heal.

* Make friends with a tree — it listens better than most relatives.

* Give your anxiety a name and a silly job — like a weather reporter who’s always overreacting and usually wrong. It helps you laugh at it instead of fear it.

* Sit quietly and do nothing for a while — your mind needs that break, like your body needs water or sleep.

* Laugh loudly, even when inappropriate — it confuses the doshas well.

* Let your anger write a poem — don’t publish it.

* Roast your inner critic like a stand-up comic — sarcasm is sometimes medicinal.

* Watch the moon instead of your phone — moonlight is cheaper than melatonin.

Because no amount of Triphala can treat a life lived out of sync with your soul.

I am not saying you quit your job and move to the Himalayas. I’m saying: stop abandoning yourself.

If your heart says write, write.

If your body says rest, rest.

If your gut says, “This isn’t right,” listen.

Manjunath now comes once a month and reads me terrible poems. But his eyes sparkle, and his reflux is gone. His latest poem is “The Burp of Truth.”

You laugh, but that’s what healing looks like.

It probably is if you feel something’s “stuck” inside you. A dream. A memory. A version of you that’s been waiting to be heard.

Sit with yourself tonight. Brew some Brahmi tea. Light a candle. Write one line of truth.

And if you can’t? That’s okay too.

But I would like to tell you one thing.

Don’t turn your pain into acidity.

Turn it into art.

Because what’s hurting you may not be the food you ate, but the truth you didn’t say.