The couple walked in like a breeze, familiar faces with a new story. She held her four-month-old daughter, Kalyani, a cherubic little girl, named after the Indian raga. The mother, a French woman with a warm, curious smile, had been visiting me for a while now. Her husband, a local Kannadiga, had been under my care for nearly two decades. Eighteen years, to be precise. I remember when he first came to me as a scrawny ten-year-old with a persistent cough. Now, he was a father. Life has a way of evolving before your eyes in the clinic.
Every time she visited, she came armed with questions. Not just about her health or the baby’s – though those were always there too – but about everything else. India. Ayurveda. Foods. Rituals. One day, she asked if the turmeric-laden milk I recommended had anything to do with the ‘golden milk’ she saw trending in Paris. Another time, she wanted to know if the Vacha Suvarna I prescribed for her daughter was connected to a mantra she heard in a nearby temple. Conversations with her felt like navigating a river, winding through India’s history, culture, and Ayurveda – as the baby played with the strings of her mother’s shawl, babbling like a little bird.
But today, her question took me by surprise.
‘Doctor, can I ask a question?’ she said, as I handed over her prescription.
‘Go ahead.’
‘I’ve seen people refer to Ayurvedic doctors as Vaidya. Is it a literal translation of doctor in Sanskrit? I’m curious,’ she said, adjusting her baby’s blanket. ‘I write poems and essays in French, so words always fascinate me.’
My mind raced back to those early years in Ayurveda college, to Dr. Shivanand Hiremath, our brilliant professor with a voice as deep as a temple bell. He explained the evolution of an Ayurvedic physician with such clarity that it still echoes in my ears.
Ayurveda has its metrics for growth. Modern medicine uses ‘doctor’ as a catch-all title. But Ayurveda? Ayurveda is like a multilayered masala dosa – each stage richer, deeper, and more nuanced.
First comes the Chikitsaka. The Chikitsaka is a fresh graduate, green as the neem leaves, armed with knowledge but not yet with wisdom. Like a new driver with a learner’s license, capable of managing common ailments, prescribing basic treatments, and relying heavily on textbooks and supervision. I remember my Chikitsaka days, fumbling with a patient’s pulse like a kid trying to unlock a smartphone without a passcode.
Then, with time and practice, the Chikitsaka evolves into a Bhishak. The Bhishak is more experienced, like a driver who can now navigate Bangalore’s traffic without honking every five seconds. A Bhishak can diagnose diseases not just by symptoms but by observing the patient’s demeanour – the pallor of their skin, the tremor in their voice. This stage is when you first feel the weight of your stethoscope. The patient is no longer a case study but a person, and their trust in you becomes palpable. It’s the first time a patient says, ‘Doc, I feel better just talking to you,’ you realise that healing begins long before the medicine touches their tongue.
Next comes the Vaidya. The Vaidya has been around long enough to understand an ailment’s physical symptoms and emotional and spiritual undertones. A Vaidya feels the patient’s Vedana – their pain and pleasure – as if it were his own. There’s a saying in Ayurveda: ‘Vaidyo Narayano Harih’ – the Vaidya embodies the divine healer, Vishnu himself. This is when you realise that healing is not just about prescriptions and powders but about connection – that silent moment when a patient, eyes brimming with tears, says, ‘I haven’t felt this seen in years.’
It doesn’t end there. Beyond the Vaidya is the Pranabhisara. The Pranabhisara is attuned to the Prana, the life force. The pulse is no longer just a throb beneath the skin; it’s a river of life carrying the patient’s joys, fears, and secrets. Once, a patient came in with a headache that had lingered for weeks. As I felt his pulse, it was like touching a taut wire – the kind that hums just before it snaps. I asked, ‘How are things at home?’ He hesitated, then burst into tears. My father passed away last month. I haven’t been able to grieve. It’s all been bottled up.’ That day, the treatment wasn’t for the headache but the heartache.
And then, there is the Pranacharya – the pinnacle. The Pranacharya is the one whose presence is healing—the patient’s Prana surrenders, trusting the healer completely. You cannot study this stage in books or even attain it through years of practice. It is a state of being. They say the great sages could change the rhythm of a heartbeat with a mere glance or calm the mind with a single word. I haven’t met a Pranacharya yet, but I’ve met some who come close – like the 75-year-old Vaidya who cured a chronic migraine with a single look, as if he were rearranging the very atoms of the air.
‘Wow,’ she said, eyes wide and shining. ‘So, it’s not just a literal translation. It’s a journey.’
A young man I treated for chronic migraines once said, ‘I’ve been to many doctors, but with you, I feel like you’re listening to more than just my symptoms. You’re listening to me.’ That’s the difference between a Bhishak and a Vaidya, I thought. The Bhishak hears the symptoms; the Vaidya hears the soul.
Then there was Rashmidevi, a woman in her late 40s with post-menopausal nihilism. She once said, ‘You don’t just prescribe medicines. You make me feel seen.’ That, right there, is the Pranabhisara in action—sensing the pain beneath the words, the emotion beneath the pain.
‘Exactly,’ I said, smiling. ‘A journey from treating diseases to healing lives.’
‘No wonder you Indians know so much about so many things,’ she laughed.
‘Ask your husband,’ I said, gesturing towards him. ‘He’s been coming here for nearly twenty years. He’s seen me go from Cikitsaka to… well, somewhere between Bhishak and Vaidya.’
We all laughed. The baby gurgled, a raga in herself.
In Ayurveda, we say, ‘Swasthasya Swasthya Rakshanam, Aturasya Vikara Prashamanam’ – to protect the health of the healthy and to alleviate the suffering of the sick. It’s not just a dictum; it’s a daily practice, a reminder that every patient is a mirror reflecting our evolution as healers. It’s a vow, a reminder that a complete physician never stops evolving. Every patient teaches you something. Every pulse is a new chapter. And in that tiny room, with a baby named after a raga and a French poetess discovering the layers of Ayurveda, I felt the unmistakable hum of Prana – the life force – coursing through us all.
