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.
Before medicine became a system, it was a gesture. Before it became a career, it was a responsibility. I think of those ancient times when human beings wandered as nomads, their lives shaped by nature, danger, and survival. There were no hospitals, no diseases as we define them today — only the immediate consequences of life in the wild.
A man could get injured while hunting, or fall from a tree while gathering food. A child could weaken from days without nourishment if the forest gave no fruit. Heat could scorch, cold could paralyze, rain could bring shivers that had no name. There were no doctors. But there were others.
A mother wrapping her arms around a feverish child, an elder chewing a bitter leaf and placing it on a wound, a companion staying awake by the fire to ensure someone kept breathing. Healing, in its earliest form, was untrained but not uncaring.
As humans settled and built communities, something changed. With safety came structure, and with structure came sickness — not always of the body, but of the mind, the emotion, the spirit. People began to look for someone who could guide them not just through pain, but through the fear of pain.
The earliest healers were not surgeons or chemists. They were preachers, philosophers, wise ones who understood patterns in nature and in people. Over time, as knowledge deepened and tools emerged, healing became more organized.
Ayurveda flourished in the East, with its understanding of elements. In Greece, the first structured schools of medicine appeared. In China, pulse reading and herbal diagnostics became tradition. Healing had begun to take shape as an art, as a science, as something worthy of lifelong study.
And centuries later, during the Renaissance, something else shifted — medicine took its place in the formal halls of science. Observation replaced myth, experimentation replaced faith, and anatomy became a map to understand disease. The healer was no longer just a spiritual guide. He was now a scholar, a surgeon, a scientist. The doctor was born.
When I used to teach postgraduate students at NHMC, I would often share this story — how medicine, across thousands of years, evolved from the intuitive to the institutional. From the forest to the hospital. From silence to statistics. But one thing never changed — the presence of a human being who listened, who stood by, who tried. That essence is what I hold close today.
In modern times, the image of a doctor has become a blur of credentials, specializations, and systems. But deep inside, it is still the same ancient calling — to walk into someone’s suffering, and not run away.
Today, our cities are crowded, our foods are tampered with, our air is toxic, our sleep disturbed.
We don’t fall from trees anymore — we fall from expectations. Our injuries aren’t from beasts — they are from our own lifestyles, from stress, addiction, processed food, loneliness, and digital overstimulation.
Forty or fifty years ago, I remember people used to say, may you never need a doctor. It was a blessing. A life lived without medical intervention was seen as a life of wellness. But now, that seems impossible. Even doctors fall ill, even healers need healing, and even the most disciplined among us cannot escape the polluted air we breathe, the chemicals we unknowingly ingest, and the mental fatigue of modern living.
Being a doctor today is both a necessity and a test. We are needed more than ever, but we are also more exhausted than ever. The weight of expectations, the pressure of outcomes, the responsibility of lives — it doesn’t get lighter with experience. And yet, every morning, we step into our clinics and hospitals, open our files, see the first patient, and begin again. There is no rehearsal, no pause button. It is a lifelong performance where the audience comes in pain and leaves with hope.
In my own journey as a homeopathic physician, I have sat across thousands of patients, each carrying more than just a disease. They bring stories, histories, silences, emotions they cannot name. My role is not to provide instant relief, but to walk alongside them, to read between the lines, to honour the totality of their being. That is what I learned not only through textbooks, but through time — through observation, reflection, and humility. And that is also what I tried to pass on to my students. Not just materia medica or repertory, but the spirit behind it — the reason we chose this path.
Today, as I reflect on Doctor’s Day, I do not merely think of myself. I think of all those who carry this title — those who wake up in rural clinics with no electricity, those who work night shifts in emergency wards, those who balance research, teaching, and practice without complaint.
I think of the general physicians, the surgeons, the pediatricians, the gynecologists, the psychologists, the homeopaths, the ayurveds, the nurses, the healers in every form.
I think of those who held patients’ hands during the pandemic, often at the cost of their own health. I think of those who work behind the scenes, quietly, sincerely, day after day, without needing recognition. They are the reason this word — doctor — still holds dignity. In a world that moves fast and forgets easily, doctors are the ones who pause, who notice, who try to make things better.
If this day is about honouring doctors, then let it not be through applause alone. Let it be through understanding. Understand their fatigue, their resilience, their invisible battles. Understand that medicine is not just science — it is also emotion, faith, ethics, and sacrifice. We have limits, we get tired also. But we carry on, because someone must. Someone must bear witness to suffering, someone must hold the lamp in the dark, someone must say — I am here.
That is what I celebrate today. Not my profession, but the spirit behind it. The spirit that began around a fire in the wilderness, travelled through ancient civilizations, entered libraries and hospitals, and now continues — in every consultation, every diagnosis, every attempt to heal.
This spirit is not bound by systems or titles. It is a current that flows through those who choose to care. And today, on this Doctor’s Day, I bow to that current — in myself, in my colleagues, and in those who walked this path long before us, and those who will come after.
Happy Doctor’s Day, enjoy.