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12
Epilogue
Still on Call
Memoirs have a bad habit. They pretend to end, but life refuses to cooperate.
When I began writing these pages, I thought I was simply putting my memories in order—like old case papers stacked neatly, one file after another. What actually happened was the reverse. The memories began rearranging me. They reminded me of things I had forgotten, and of people I had taken for granted while I was busy being “useful.”
I have lived most of my life inside institutions—classrooms, wards, ICUs, committee rooms, and the odd meeting that could have been an email. I have watched medicine change its clothes many times: from the era of clinical judgement to the era of investigations, then to the era of protocols, and now to the era of apps, coaching classes, and five-second attention spans. Some changes were necessary. Some were inevitable. Some were, frankly, exhausting.
I used to believe that if you worked hard and meant well, things would turn out fine. That was youthful optimism. Later, I replaced it with a more mature philosophy: work hard, mean well, and accept that the universe has its own timetable. It is not always polite enough to consult you.
Sevagram, however, has been generous. It gave me purpose, friendships, and a home that slowly became more than bricks. It gave me colleagues who became family and students who, for reasons I still don’t fully understand, continued to stay in touch long after they stopped needing me. It also gave me enough stories to last several lifetimes, though I suspect I have used only a fraction.
Age has been a mixed bag. It has made my knees complain and my memory occasionally misplace a name. It has also done something unexpected—it has made me less anxious about being right all the time. There is a quiet freedom in admitting, with a straight face, that you don’t know everything. In medicine, this is called wisdom. In ordinary life, it is called survival.
I have also learned that families are not built on perfect harmony. They are built on imperfect people who keep showing up. Bhavana has done that for decades—with patience that should qualify as a national resource. My children have grown into adults who now teach me as much as I once tried to teach them. My grandchildren have brought noise, mischief, questions, and a kind of joy that arrives without warning and leaves no room for self-pity. Even the dog has played his part, as dogs do—by making the house feel alive.
As for me, I remain what I have always been: a slightly overworked man who reads too much, worries a little, and tries to compensate with lists, databases, and the occasional bicycle ride. I have never been good at sitting still. I suspect I will continue to be bad at it.
If you are looking for a moral at the end of this book, I am afraid I don’t have one. I am a doctor, not a philosopher. But I do have a small conclusion, borrowed from the ward and applied to life: you do what you can, you do it honestly, and you try not to make things worse.
That, in my experience, is already an achievement.