The Sweetest Gift

Seven days had passed since Punni’s discharge. Life at the hospital had moved on, my days consumed by the endless cycle of patients, surgeries, and responsibilities. But then, one morning, as I stepped into my OPD, I saw a familiar face standing outside my room.

Punni.

She looked different now—healthier, brighter, standing tall with a quiet confidence that hadn’t been there before. She had come for a follow-up. I examined her carefully, scanning for any signs of post-surgical complications. But everything was perfect. A clean recovery. A success story.

I handed her a prescription for a few vitamins and said, “You’re doing great, Punni. You can go now.”

She nodded but didn’t move. There was something in her eyes—hesitation, perhaps an unspoken thought weighing on her mind. For a moment, she looked like she wanted to say something but held back. Before I could ask, my duty called. I rushed to the operation theatre for my scheduled surgeries, the brief encounter slipping to the back of my mind.

Four hours later, I returned, exhausted but satisfied after another set of successful procedures. As I stepped into my OPD again, there she was.

Still waiting.

This time, I noticed something different—her hands tightly clutching a small paper packet. She wasn’t holding a medical file or a prescription but something else, something she had brought with purpose.

I walked up to her. “Punni, do you have any concerns? Any pain? Anything more you need?”

She quickly shook her head. “No, Sir.”

She hesitated again. Her fingers nervously clutched the little packet, as if gathering courage for something she wasn’t sure she should do.

Sensing her unease, I gently motioned her inside. She followed, her movements slow, deliberate. As soon as I took my seat, she took a deep breath, stepped forward, and extended the small packet toward me with both hands.

“Sir… I have something for you… Will you eat something I have brought?”

Her voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of immense emotion.

I took the packet with curiosity. It was a simple, crumpled brown paper wrap—the kind you’d find at a small village sweet shop. Inside, resting carefully as if they were the most precious treasures in the world, were four small yellow laddus.

For a moment, I just stared at them. My chest tightened.

This wasn’t just food.

This was gratitude. This was love. This was the most heartfelt offering I had ever received.

A lump formed in my throat as I picked up one of the laddus and took a bite right in front of her. It tasted simple, and sweet, probably made with jaggery and gram flour—nothing extraordinary to the world, but to me, it felt divine.

As I chewed, I looked at Punni. Her face was a blend of hesitation and happiness, as if she feared whether I would accept her gift but was now relieved to see me eat it.

She didn’t say much—just a simple, soft “Thank you”—and then before I could respond, she turned and walked away.

I sat there, staring at the half-eaten laddu in my hand, overwhelmed by a surge of emotions I couldn't quite define. This woman, who had endured so much suffering, had waited for hours just to give me this—a small token that held more weight than any award, any recognition, any professional achievement.

It was pure, unfiltered gratitude.

I closed my eyes for a moment and whispered a silent prayer. Thank you, Lord Jagannath. Not just for guiding my hands in the operation, but for showing me the depth of human connection, and for reminding me why I chose this path.

That day, I received something far greater than a mere sweet treat.

I received the sweetest reward of my life.

To be continued………..

Read tomorrow

The Conclusion

Dr Biswajit Mohapatra

NPP HYPERTENSION SELF CARE EDUCATION

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