A Girl Who Wanted to Be a Doctor

Pushpa was born on 17 May 1946 in a modest house in Marwari Mohalla, Wardha—fifteen months before India gained its independence. She was the third of six siblings, all born within those same familiar walls. All, that is, except me.

She was eleven years older than me, and from the beginning she occupied a place in my life that no one else could fill. Our eldest sister carried the authority of a second mother. Jiji was different. She was steady, always there—both companion and guide.

She studied in Marathi-medium schools in Wardha: Sarkari Madhyamik Shala, Kesrimal Kanya Shala, and Craddock High. In Class 10, she and our brother Ashok sat in the same class. I still remember the story of their Physics exam. Jiji came out in tears, certain she had failed. Ashok was calm and confident. When the results were announced, she had passed. He had not.

She wanted to study science and become a doctor. The dream was not broken with drama—it was set aside quietly. A local professor advised my father that a medical career would delay her marriage and narrow her prospects. My father chose what seemed practical. Jiji did not argue. Science gave way to Arts, and her chance at medicine slipped away almost without a sound.

The Life She Built

She married Shri Tarachandji Chandak in May 1965. She tried to continue her studies at Yashwant College, but a new household has its own pull. Travel, responsibility, and the daily work of setting up home took over. Soon after her final exams, and the birth of her daughter Mamta, her formal education came to a quiet end.

Her married life took her across the country—Madras, Nagpur, Kagaznagar, Baroda, Gwalior, Indore. Each move meant beginning again: new neighbourhood, new faces, new household assembled from very little. She built a home each time without complaint, making sure her children never felt the strain.

She was never someone who sat still. As a girl she had loved Kho Kho, Langdi, and relay races. That energy stayed with her. I remember once she was playing Gulli Danda with us when her father-in-law arrived without warning. Our mother, worried about appearances, called her inside. Jiji slipped out through the back door and, within minutes, was seen busy with housework, as if she had never stepped out. She had a gift for finding the balance between what she was and what was expected of her.

In Kagaznagar she was at her happiest—parties, films, clubs, friendships. Later, when Jijaji was offered a position at Shri Dinesh Mills, they moved to Baroda. I visited and spent fifteen days there, cycling around the city, watching films, making memories. We went together to Ahmedabad to buy her a mixer. She was delighted with it.

In the late eighties, when times were hard, she began selling salwar suits from her flat in Indore—travelling to Delhi and Gandhinagar to bring back material. She carried this without drama. Where her husband could act on impulse, she held things together.

Postcards

During my medical years in Nagpur, her home in Shankarnagar became my refuge. I went almost every weekend. The house was always full—relatives, children, noise—but Jiji moved through it calmly, cooking, serving, making space for everyone. We played cards late into the evenings. On Monday mornings, her children would hide my cycle keys, trying to delay my leaving by a few more hours.

We wrote to each other every week. Her postcards were simple, filled with the small details of her day. Once, when I failed to reply, she wrote: I may not have wealth in my hands, but my heart is rich with love and kindness. I read that line in my hostel room and felt its full weight. I wrote back at once.

That was Jiji. She never asked for much, but she held on to her people in a way that left no room for doubt.

The Illness

In late 2018, she began to experience abdominal pain, bloating, and vomiting. She felt unusually tired during her walks and could no longer sustain her hour-long yoga. When she called me, I was caught up with MD examinations in Chandigarh and could not answer immediately. That evening, I sensed the worry in her voice and told her to get an ultrasound without delay. The scan revealed ovarian cancer. Just months earlier, the ultrasound had been normal.

She had surgery in February 2019, followed by six cycles of chemotherapy—three before the operation and three after. Throughout it all, she continued doing yoga when she was able, listening to music, chatting on WhatsApp, spending time with family. By February 2022 the cancer appeared to be in remission. Then it came back.

For the next three years, chemotherapy became the rhythm of her life—a session every two weeks. When I visited her recently in Indore, she looked down at her thin, tired veins and said, quietly, that she must have had at least thirty-six sessions by now.

At first she struggled to accept that ovarian cancer almost always returns—that there is no cure, only time. She wanted to live fully and hoped for a miracle. Slowly, she came to terms with her reality. Her energy faded. Confined to her room, cut off from the social life that had sustained her, she lost her appetite, her weight, and something of her spirit.

The Circle of Care

Her final years were held together by a small, steady circle. At its centre were Aalok—her sister’s son—and Archana, her daughter-in-law.

Aalok never let distance come in the way. A phone call was enough; he would arrive soon after. In hospital corridors he spoke to doctors, handled the paperwork, sat through long chemotherapy sessions, lightened the mood with small jokes. Jiji waited for his visits. Yet he would never take even a glass of water from her home.

At their second-floor flat in Kanchanhar Enclave, only three remained—Jiji, her son Manoj, and Archana. Archana managed everything without fuss: appointments, medicines, the endless trips to the pharmacy. She would sit with Jiji during meals, urging her to eat a little more; on long afternoons, she stayed by her bedside, her hand resting gently on Jiji’s. It did not feel like duty. It felt like affection. Jiji often told me she was fortunate to have an angel at home.

Manoj was different. He was not someone who showed his feelings easily; the hospital, the slow drip of suffering, was more than he could bear to watch. So he held everything else. He had bought this flat and put it in her name—years before any of this—without once speaking of it. He made sure treatment never paused, that every expense was met, that nothing she needed was ever out of reach. People often misunderstand such choices: they see absence and do not see what lies behind it.

The Doctor and the Brother

I lived those years in two roles: the younger brother she loved, and the doctor she trusted. We spoke many times each day. When the pain grew, she would call, and I would listen. She had a simple faith in me that sometimes felt heavier than any clinical responsibility.

I am a physician, not a gynaecologist. But her illness pushed me to read—to understand the chemotherapy regimens, the supportive medications that could ease her symptoms. Once, I suggested something to be taken an hour before each session. It seemed to abolish her nausea. She would tell people, with quiet satisfaction, that it had worked when other things had not.

Yet the reading brought with it a deeper unease. As I began to understand the course of the disease, it became clear that no intervention—however well meant—could change the final truth.

The hardest task was telling her so. During her visits to Sevagram, we spoke often about the end. She was clear in her own mind: she did not want a long life at any cost; she wanted a life without pain. When the time came, I had to tell her there would be no more scans, no more chemotherapy—only comfort. She accepted it without resistance. Through her, I understood what palliative care truly means, not in a hospital ward, but at home. I had to remain her brother while speaking as her doctor, and I was not always sure I managed it well.

Her Final Order

A year before she died, I spoke to her about a living will. I told her that when she could no longer speak, this document would speak for her—no ICU, no machines, a death at home. It was not an easy conversation. But I felt it was better to be honest than to offer hope I did not have.

As the end drew near, the illness slipped out of our conversations. We talked of the past instead—of places we had lived, people we had known, small shared memories. She slept more, ate very little, grew very tired. Her walks to the neighbourhood garden became short strolls inside the house, and then she could no longer turn in bed.

Our last video call was the day before she died. She opened her eyes, recognised me, and then closed them gently.

On the morning of 22 March 2026, Aalok called. I could sense it in his voice before he spoke. She had passed away at home, just as she had wished—quietly, without struggle, without machines.

Only later did I learn how carefully she had thought about those final moments. Six years earlier, she had chosen a photograph she liked and asked her grandson Sarang to keep it safely. Six weeks before her death, she told him: this is the one. She had her instructions ready. No marigolds—she had never liked them. No white jasmine either. She wanted roses. And she did not want silence; she asked for a band to accompany her on her final journey.

Even at the end, she arranged things in her own way.

When I think of her now, I do not see the illness. I see the homes she built in city after city, the postcards she wrote every week, and the quiet way she held all of us together. All my life, I called her Jiji. That is how she stays with me.