Books have an odd, forced 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—stacking them like old case papers in a neat steel cabinet. 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 occasional meeting that could have been an email. I have watched medicine change its clothes many times: from the era of clinical judgment to the era of investigations, then to the era of protocols, and now to the age of apps, coaching classes, AI, and five-second attention spans.

The tools have changed. The jargon has shifted. But I have realized that the anxiety in a patient’s eyes—that silent plea for reassurance—remains exactly the same.

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, continue to stay in touch long after they stopped needing me. It gave me enough stories to last several lifetimes, though I suspect I have shared only a fraction.

Age has been a mixed bag. It has made my memory occasionally misplace a name. But 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 a level of 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 a brand of joy that arrives without warning and leaves no room for self-pity. Even our dogs have played their part—simply by making the house feel alive.

As for me, I remain what I have always been: a slightly overworked man who reads too much and spends far more time at his desktop than his wife, children, and grandchildren would like. I treat breakfast and lunch as optional distractions, and I possess a unique talent for letting my tea turn cold—at least until a sharp signal from Bhavana arrives from the kitchen.

I still worry a little. To keep the worry at bay, I have developed new obsessions: documenting the history of this institute, writing stories about people who matter (and a few who don’t), and maintaining a steady stream of thoughts on Facebook and Twitter. Between deciphering the mysteries of income tax returns, managing investments, and the occasional bicycle ride, I have realized one thing: 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. Medicine has cured me of the need for grand philosophies. 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.

The sun rises. The patients wait. We begin again.