The Kitchen Surgeon

1990 began with a small disaster. In January, only a few months after Amrita was born, I injured my foot. A large, angry wound appeared on the top of it. Walking hurt. Shoes were out of the question.

It got bad enough for me to do something I almost never did—apply for ten days of earned leave.

I stayed home in Vivekanand Colony, sulking a little and limping a lot. The wound needed daily dressing, and I needed antibiotics. My friend, Dr Suhas Jajoo—the surgeon we all trusted—had shifted his practice to Wardha town. It was only a few kilometres away, but with a throbbing foot it might as well have been another district.

Suhas gave me a simple plan over the phone.
“Gentamicin. Ten injections. Twice a day for five days.”

Simple plan. Difficult execution.

The Unlikely Nurse

The question was: who would give the injections?

I couldn’t go to the hospital twice a day. Calling a nurse home morning and evening felt excessive—and frankly, embarrassing. I was a doctor. I should have managed my own foot better.

That’s when Bhavana said, quite calmly, “I’ll do it.”

I looked at her as if she had offered to perform a bypass surgery after making tea.

She had no medical training. She had never held a syringe. At home she already had her hands full—Ashwini was three, and Amrita was barely three months old. But she didn’t hesitate. Not once.

In those days we still used glass syringes. She boiled the syringe and needle like she was sterilising kitchen vessels. She snapped open the Gentamicin ampoule, drew the medicine carefully, and walked towards me with a seriousness that made me sit up straight.

I was the patient now, and suddenly very obedient.

Kitchen Confidence

I stretched my arm out on the bed, trying to look brave. Inside, I was praying silently: Please don’t miss the vein.

Bhavana tied the tourniquet. She tapped gently. She looked once, then slid the needle in—quick and clean.

I watched her pull back the plunger. A flash of blood appeared in the barrel.

She was in.

She pushed the medicine slowly, withdrew the needle, and pressed cotton over the spot like she had been doing this all her life. I exhaled. Only then did I realise I had been holding my breath.

“How did you do that?” I asked. “You’ve never done it before.”

Bhavana shrugged, as if I was being dramatic.
“Oh, please,” she said. “We women do harder things in the kitchen every day. Finding a vein is easier than making a perfectly round chapati.”

For five days she gave me all ten injections. She didn’t miss once. No swelling. No bruising. No drama.

My foot healed. But what stayed with me was her steady hand—and the quiet confidence behind it. I had married a woman who could run a home, raise two small children, and still teach a doctor a thing or two about courage.

And she did it without asking for a certificate.

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