Manan – my memoir

The news came to me through television—bright with urgency, sharp with pain. It was not a whisper of silence that arrived first, but a wave of sound. Breaking visuals, looping footage, stunned voices reporting from the edge of wreckage. For two days, I found myself absorbing more than I wished to see—images of fire, twisted metal, crumpled buildings, people searching rubble for anything left.

Somewhere in the unseen fabric of existence, bonds are woven long before we are born—not with names, not with faces, but with energy, emotion, and unfinished intention. And they do not dissolve when a body dies. They linger quietly, waiting for resolution.

There comes a moment — not always loud, not always announced — when life quietly holds up a mirror. Not to show your face, but your choices.

You pause.

It was a usual July 2001 evening in Delhi, the kind that smells of wet earth even before the rain touches the ground. The clouds hung heavy over the skyline, and a teasing breeze danced through the city, announcing the coming monsoon.

There are habits we inherit in medicine that go far deeper than routine. They become part of our posture, our penmanship, our presence with the patient. They settle into us before we even realize, shaped by corridors we walked as students, by prescriptions we watched being written, by the silent culture of clinical life.

There are moments in life when you pause—not because the world has stopped, but because something inside you has come quietly to rest. In that pause, you do not measure your success. You trace your survival. You do not look at milestones—you search for moments that held you, even when you didn’t realise it then.

I don’t know exactly when the thought began to form—maybe it didn’t begin at all, maybe it was always there, sleeping quietly inside me. But recently, it rose to the surface like a ripple in a still pond, asking a question I never thought I would ask myself: “Did I ever dream?”

“When the last feather falls, and no thread remains to bind,
The soul, unburdened, forgets to return.”

There are moments in life when the world slows down—not because time itself changes its rhythm, but because something within us begins to listen more deeply. In such moments, our concerns about achievement, routine, or the next big thing dissolve into the background, and what stands in front of us is something strangely silent, yet unmistakably profound. Life, in those moments, appears not as a series of goals or events, but as a series of encounters. Each encounter—every soul, every silence, every sorrow—becomes a teacher.

This evening, the air held a stillness I hadn’t noticed earlier. It was one of those quiet Sunday evenings when time itself seems to slow down, and the world outside grows soft and still, as if hesitant to disturb the quiet. The sky, gently dimming into twilight, carried the weight of the day, and yet something about it invited me inward. Today was Mother’s Day.

This is the one life you are living.
This one chance, wrapped in breath and body.
Moment by moment, day by day, life moves forward.
You are here now, walking through these streets, sharing these conversations, living these relationships.
But have you ever truly stopped to ask — when you are no longer here, who will remember you?

Walking the Path of Hahnemann with Dignity : A Tribute to the Master and a Message to the Next Generation

Tomorrow, the world will mark 270 years since the birth of Dr. Samuel Hahnemann. For most, he is the founder of homeopathy. For me, he is much more. He is the reason I have survived as a doctor, lived with dignity, and walked a path that tested me again and again—and yet, never broke me.

Today, as I sit to write on the occasion of World Health Day, a wave of memories rises within me—like echoes from distant shores, reminding me of how far this journey has come. The world is pausing today, as it does each year on this date, to reflect on health—not just as a scientific ideal or a professional obligation, but as a human experience, a shared hope, and a precious truth.

There is a festival outside, but there is also a festival within. The colors people throw at each other are not just pigments—they are echoes of emotions, of stories, of unspoken words we rarely express.

Holi, in its most profound sense, is not an event to celebrate once a year, but a state of being—something that can be experienced in every breath, in every interaction, in every moment of surrender.

As I reflect on life, one realization has emerged with undeniable clarity: it is at the end of life that the truths about what truly matters reveal themselves. With time, the distractions of ambition, wealth, and status fade away, leaving only the essentials—your health and the people who stand by you. These two pillars, the foundation of a meaningful existence, are often neglected or taken for granted until it is too late.

Life is a journey of endless learning, and every step shapes us in ways we often don’t realize until we pause to reflect. As I look back on my transformation—from a student with big dreams to an author sharing those dreams with the world—I see a tapestry woven with moments of hard work, resilience, and introspection. Each thread of my journey holds a story, a lesson, and a reflection—what I now call Manan.

The soft morning sun filtered through the glass window of my room, casting golden patterns on the floor. I sat quietly with a cup of tea in hand, lost in thought.

It was early 2004 when an unexpected opportunity knocked on my door.

One of my patients from Gurgaon referred his relative from Moradabad for homeopathic treatment at my clinic. As time passed, this patient’s family shifted to the DLF area in Gurgaon, and we developed a good rapport over the months.

Once, in a small village by the river, there lived a humble weaver known for his simple lifestyle and wise words. He spent his days at the loom, weaving cloth for the townsfolk. People noticed that his work was more than just skillful—it had a beauty that seemed to reflect something deeper, something beyond the threads.