Published on: February 28, 2026

It was January 2019. Himachal was buried under snow, life moving slowly between white roads and cold mornings. That winter, I was among a few selected for training at Pallium India.

Usually, trainings feel like small pauses from hectic duty schedules—some lectures, a change of place, a little breathing space. I went with the same expectation. But this training carried something far deeper than relaxation. It carried experiences that even today I find difficult to put into words.

This was not a casual program. There was a proper assessment, and certification required scoring at least 75%. Every session mattered. Learning here demanded presence, reflection, and sincerity.

A Room That Never Left Me

During the training, I, along with the Pallium team, visited a day-care hospice functioning inside a home. As we approached one room, we saw a man lying on the bed, both his legs amputated. At the door, a voice in the local language invited us to come inside.

When we entered, the man slowly pulled himself up using ropes tied to the ceiling. Then, with complete simplicity, he offered us water from a bottle kept beside his bed. In that moment, I felt something tighten inside my chest. I still do not know how to name it—goosebumps, respect, or a silent emotional tremor. It was one of those moments when medicine steps back and humanity takes over.

He showed us his medicines. The entire team examined him. But the care did not stop at the bedside. The team had also arranged work for his wife. That was the moment I truly understood—palliative care is not a prescription; it is a promise.

Learning What Healing Really Means

That day taught me something I had never learned in wards or textbooks. Palliative care is not only about treating pain. It is about healing—financially, socially, spiritually, and physically. It is about dignity, even when the body has lost so much.

During the training, I learned how Dr M. R. Rajagopal received the Padma Shri for advocating the rational use of morphine. A drug we often know only as an anesthetic became, in this space, a symbol of compassion and ethical courage.

At the same time, a nursing instructor from New Zealand demonstrated the use of scalp vein cannulas for painless subcutaneous drug delivery in elderly patients and children. When I asked if I could learn, she looked at me and said, “Do it on me.” I was afraid. My hands hesitated. But she trusted me—and that trust became part of my learning.

What Time Could Not Erase

I returned with hope—to build something, to start a palliative care setup, to give back what I had received. I wrote letters. There were no replies. I applied for a fellowship in palliative care. It was not granted.

With time, everything slowly faded—the urgency, the plans, the momentum.

But not the idea.

Palliative care stayed with me, quietly, patiently. Like a thought that refuses to die. Like a seed waiting for its season. I still believe that one day, in some form, it will return to my work. Because once you have truly seen what palliative care means, it never really leaves you. It simply stays—soft, persistent, and alive.

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