Yesterday afternoon, something very small happened, but it opened a very old door inside me.
I came to know that a reader, Dr. Vishnu Yadav from Vijayawada, had bought every book I have published. He had bought Boger’s Legacy in February 2024 and, as my later books appeared, he continued buying them. Until yesterday, I did not even know that somewhere far from me, one reader had been quietly walking with my writing from one book to another.
Yesterday was a quiet Sunday evening. I was free and sitting comfortably in front of the television. I was moving from one news channel to another and listening casually to different discussions. Independence Day had just passed, and many channels were still discussing different parts of the Prime Minister’s speech from the Red Fort. One unusual phrase kept coming again and again on the television screen – “dimaagi Naxal.” Different people were giving different meanings to it, but my mind did not stay with the debate. Somehow, those two words took me far back in time.
This Sunday evening, rain had been falling gently for some time. The sky outside my window was grey, the air was cooler than usual, and everything around seemed a little slower. I was sitting quietly with a cup of tea in my hand. There was no particular work waiting for me, and perhaps that was why my mind was free to wander.
It was another quiet Sunday evening. I was sitting with myself, allowing my thoughts to flow freely without pushing them in any particular direction. Nothing unusual had happened that day, yet a simple question came to my mind: what is speed in life?
For the last couple of days, I have been watching disturbing scenes on television and social media. Young students are standing on the roads of New Delhi, raising their voices, asking questions, and demanding fairness after reports of examination paper leaks and irregularities.
During the last few months, I have travelled many times by Ola and Uber. Most of these journeys were within Delhi and the surrounding areas. I would book a taxi from home, go to a particular place, finish my work, and then book another taxi to return.
Slowly, I began to enjoy these rides.
On 10 April 2026, I went to Vigyan Bhawan, New Delhi, to attend the conference held on the occasion of World Homeopathy Day in celebration of the birth anniversary of Dr. Samuel Hahnemann. Such gatherings always carry a special feeling for me. They are not merely professional events. They are occasions where memory, vocation, history, and fellowship come together. One meets old colleagues, sees younger generations of homeopathic doctors, hears familiar names, and feels once again that one belongs to a long and living tradition.
Nearly two decades of my life were lived in the corridors of homeopathic associations, not as a visitor, but as an active participant. Meetings were not always held in formal auditoriums. Often they happened in clinics after working hours, or in drawing rooms where chairs were pulled closer and tea arrived quietly.
Last week, India did what it often does best and worst at the same time – it turned a few printed lines into a national thunderstorm. A book that most citizens have never held in their hands walked into Parliament through a magazine excerpt, and for days the House echoed with objections, rules, counter-rules, slogans, suspensions, and walkouts.
This morning, the late-January chill in the air, that damp cold that follows a spell of rain, stirred something quietly inside me. It carried me back through time, to the way my clinical life has unfolded, step by step, in a rhythm I did not notice while I was living it.
When I look back at my childhood, I do not first remember toys or birthdays. I remember paper. I remember the smell of old pages warmed by summer, the roughness of cheap print, and the quiet excitement of carrying stories home as if I had carried a small world in my hands.
Between two years there is a thin, quiet space where time seems to slow down for a moment. Nothing dramatic changes on the calendar, yet something inside us shifts.
We begin to look back, not to count achievements, but to understand what truly happened to us.
In one of my earlier reflections, “Life Begins with the End,” I shared what life itself had taught me through years of experience – that when everything else fades, two things alone stand firm: our health and the people around us.
Health is the strength that keeps us upright, and relationships are the warmth that holds us steady. Together, they form the foundation of a meaningful life.
It is Sunday evening today. Tomorrow is Diwali – the festival of lights, joy, and togetherness. As I sit quietly in my room, I am drawn into the stream of my own memories, flowing backwards through the years.
It is a quiet Sunday evening.
No clinic, no calls, no meetings, no social obligations. Just me in my room, surrounded by the soft silence that arrives only when the world has momentarily stepped away. It is in these rare pauses that I often meet myself again.
Today, without any reason or agenda, I found myself reflecting on one strange question – Is life a series of traps?
That afternoon, when the clinic finally fell quiet and the sun slipped a little toward evening, I sat with a cup of tea and felt time gather around me like an old shawl.
There are moments in life when the world outside invites us to pause and look within. Tomorrow is Vijayadashmi, a day in India that has always been described as a symbol of victory – victory of good over evil, light over darkness. But as I sit with my thoughts, I feel no need to speak of rituals or religions. What touches me deeply is the timeless essence of this idea: the greatest battles are not fought outside in fields or streets, but inside the human mind and heart.
One day, in the middle of my routine, a senior homeopathic doctor sent me a short message: “I want to write a book, can u please guide me process if possible.” The words were simple, but they carried the weight of a desire that I had once carried myself, silently, for many years.
Last week, a group of young homeopathy students visited me. They were bright-eyed, eager, and carrying notebooks filled with questions. Yet beneath their enthusiasm I sensed something else—an undercurrent of anxiety. They were worried about their careers, their futures, and even about the results of the prescriptions they were writing during their early practice.
Today, I find myself reflecting on the eclipse. Since childhood, the very word ग्रहण has carried unease. Whenever news of an eclipse spread, elders warned us it was inauspicious. We were told to stay indoors, to avoid food, to pray. ग्रहण लगना meant something unwanted, something that fell upon a person like a shadow. For them it was not a cosmic wonder but a period of danger — a pause of light that could unsettle life.
The sun had not yet risen over the narrow lanes of Paharganj, a well-established part of Delhi near the New Delhi Railway Station and Connaught Place, right in the heart of the city. It was 5th September 1964. For most families, the day was beginning like any other. But for one household, it was about to become a day they would remember forever.
There are times, after a long day in my clinic, when I lean back in my chair, the hum of the city faint beyond the window, and I find myself sifting through the years. Thirty-six years of private practice — that number alone feels heavy in the palm of my mind. It is not just a stretch of time; it is an ocean of moments, faces, and voices. Each patient has left behind an imprint — some a faint fingerprint, others an engraving deep into the wood of my memory.
It began with a question I wasn’t prepared for. A reader wrote to me and asked, “Why are you writing your memoir?” The question was simple, but it lingered in my mind far longer than I expected.
The truth is, I had never thought of myself as someone whose life story needed to be told. I am not a public figure. I haven’t won grand awards or stood on historic stages. My journey has been an ordinary one, full of work, responsibility, and the slow passing of years. In fact, when I first started writing, I wasn’t even sure why I was doing it.
In the news, it seems that almost every month is claimed by a ribbon — a day, a week, or a campaign dedicated to some form of cancer. Breast cancer awareness, lung cancer prevention, childhood cancer advocacy, world cancer day… one after another, as if the calendar itself is trying to keep pace with the disease.
There are things we carry for years — quietly, almost without realizing it. A thought, a wish, a letter never written, a dream half-buried under daily life. We tell ourselves there’s still time. That we’ll return to it someday, when the schedule clears, when the children grow up, when the noise settles, when we finally feel ready.
Every July, social media fills with a surge of advertisements for homeopathic college admissions. Colleges highlight their grand buildings, modern labs, digital classrooms, and career promises. Some focus on affordability or government recognition, but all share a common goal—to fill seats.
There are moments in life that arrive like quiet gifts—unexpected, unannounced, yet stirring something deep within. Today, as I sit with my thoughts, I find myself holding such a moment.
Nearly two years have passed since Boger’s Legacy was published. Life carried on—filled with consultations, responsibilities, and the steady rhythm of days. The book, too, went on its silent journey, finding its way into unknown homes, clinics, and hands.
There are lessons in books, and then there are lessons in the silence between words—in gestures, in choices, in the final utterances of a life well lived. Most of what we learn from great thinkers comes long before they die, codified in doctrines, teachings, and works that are carefully preserved and passed down. But every now and then, life gifts us something rarer: a closing whisper from a soul about to depart, spoken not for applause or posterity, but out of sheer inner truth. These are not just final words—they are final teachings.
Today is Doctor’s Day, and while the world remembers physicians with social media posts, garlands, and ceremonies, I find myself remembering something deeper, something older. The word “doctor” has become so familiar that we forget it wasn’t always there. There was a time when no one was called by that title, when no one studied anatomy, carried a stethoscope, or wrote prescriptions. And yet, there was healing.
While sifting through a neglected pile of old files and folders in a quiet hour of the afternoon, I stumbled upon a photograph that time had quietly tucked away. It slipped out from between a fading seminar handout and an old appointment diary, landing softly on my lap — a square, curled print with the slightly dulled tones of an era long gone. As I turned it over, something shifted in me.
