Of patients and pickles

Some patients gradually become good friends. They come in to consult about a health problem but stay a little longer to chat. The birth of a grandchild, a wedding, tension over a family dispute — all become part of the conversation. And to cement the special bond, some of them bring in a token of affection — a few vegetables from the kitchen garden, a slice of freshly baked cake or in this case, a home-made mango pickle.

For years now, Krishnamurthy sir would come in every month, with his medical file tucked under his arm and a carefully wrapped plastic container of pickle. He would tell his stories. We would laugh together at the latest political controversy and he would twirl his impressive silver moustache as his warmth and camaraderie brightened up my day. Then ever so predictably, just as he got up to leave, he would stop and say: “Here doctor, I brought you some pickle." And I would accept his little parcel, knowing that this tradition meant a lot more than pickle to both of us.

I got my last bottle of pickle recently, from his daughter. She had come all the way to the clinic to tell me that her father had insisted I get my parcel as always. Just about a month ago, my feisty and impeccably dressed friend had succumbed to the virus that the world is talking about. But he had supervised a fresh batch of his traditional pickle before that and had kept away a portion to be brought to me the next time he visited. As Atul Gawande says: "In this work against sickness, we begin not with genetic or cellular interactions, but with human ones. They are what that make medicine so complex and fascinating." Farewell dear friend, I will miss our conversations and your pickle. They both added a special spice to my routine life.