Are you curious ?

For many years I believed that learning followed a simple path: read a book, attend a class, or listen to a teacher.

Over time I realised that real learning is very different.

It follows a journey.

Curiosity → Reading → Observation → Visualisation → Experimentation → Action → Teaching

Everything begins with curiosity. Without the desire to know why or how, learning becomes memorisation.

Reading provides knowledge. Observation reveals how that knowledge is applied in the real world.

Then comes a step that is often overlooked—visualisation.

Before trying something, play it through in your mind. Understand every step. Anticipate what could go right, what could go wrong, and why.

Only then comes experimentation. Start small. Make mistakes safely. Refine your understanding.

Finally comes action.

Interestingly, I have found this same principle applicable whether learning a musical instrument, photography, driving, repairing a machine, mastering technology, or even performing surgery. The subject changes, but the process remains remarkably similar.

There is, however, one final stage that completes the circle.

Teaching.

When you can explain a concept so clearly that someone else understands it, your own understanding becomes deeper. Teaching doesn’t merely transfer knowledge—it consolidates it.

In today’s world, information is abundant. What distinguishes a lifelong learner is no longer access to knowledge, but the ability to transform information into understanding, understanding into skill, and skill into wisdom.

Stay curious.

Because every great journey of learning begins with a simple question:

“How does this work?”

The Dyslexic Boy Who Loved Books

 There are some paradoxes in life that are difficult to explain.

One of them is this:

I was born with dyslexia. Yet I have loved books for as long as I can remember.

People often assume that if a child struggles to read, he must dislike books. My life has been exactly the opposite.

Reading was difficult.

Books were irresistible.

“The Delhi Public Library… where my lifelong friendship with books began.”

When I was around ten years old, one of my favourite places in the world was the Delhi Public Library. Every week I would borrow books and bring them home with great excitement. Among my favourites were the abridged and simplified versions of the Ramayana and the Mahabharata. I may not have realised it then, but those stories quietly shaped my imagination. They taught me about courage, friendship, sacrifice, duty and the eternal conflict between right and wrong.

What people around me saw was a child who read slowly.

What they did not see was a child who was deeply curious.

For someone with dyslexia, reading is not simply slower. It can feel as though the letters have declared war on you. They move, change places, refuse to stay still, and often make you wonder whether they are your friends or your enemies.

Many years ago, I tried to capture that feeling in a Hindi song. One line still remains very close to my heart:

“मैं इन्हें पढ़ना ही तो चाहता हूँ,
तो इतना क्यों अकड़ते हैं?”

That, perhaps, is the essence of dyslexia.

It is not that we don’t want to read.

We desperately do.

The letters simply don’t cooperate.

School was not easy. Reading took longer than it did for others. Writing was laborious. Examinations were frustrating. Like many dyslexic children, I often wondered why something that seemed effortless for everyone else demanded so much effort from me.

Yet, somewhere deep inside, my love for learning never diminished.

Years later, life took an unexpected turn. After Class XII, during a difficult phase of my life, I joined B.A. English (Honours). One of the very first books I encountered was Homer’s Odyssey. Being dyslexic, it took me several months to finish it. But what a journey it was! That one book opened the doors to Greek mythology and eventually led me to read the Iliad. Even today, whenever a film or documentary based on these great epics is released, I find myself drawn back to that magical world.

Looking back, I realise something important.

Perhaps dyslexia did not make me read fewer books.

It made me read them differently.

I never rushed through a book. I lived with it. I paused. I imagined. I reflected. Every page demanded effort, and perhaps because of that, every page stayed with me a little longer.

Life eventually took me back to medicine. I became an ophthalmologist, a surgeon, a teacher and later a hospital administrator. But my relationship with books never ended. In fact, one of the initiatives closest to my heart has been creating small libraries in our hospital waiting areas, hoping that patients might discover the same joy of reading that once sustained a little boy borrowing books from a public library.

Ironically, today I write articles, poems, songs and blogs.

If someone had told that frightened child who struggled with letters that one day he would enjoy writing, he would probably have laughed.

Or perhaps he wouldn’t have believed them.

Technology has also changed my life. Artificial intelligence has become an extraordinary companion. It hasn’t cured my dyslexia, but it has removed many of the barriers that writing once created. The ideas were always there; expressing them has simply become easier. For me, AI has not replaced creativity—it has liberated it.

If there is one message I would like parents and teachers to take away, it is this:

Please don’t measure a child’s intelligence by the speed at which he reads.

Don’t assume that struggling with words means a lack of curiosity.

Some children fight every sentence they read, yet dream entire worlds in their minds.

Encourage them.

Give them books.

Read with them.

Believe in them.

One day, they may surprise you.

As I look back, I often smile at the little boy who believed that the letters were fighting him.

Perhaps they were.

But life has a wonderful sense of humour.

The very letters that once refused to obey have now become my closest companions.

And maybe that little boy was right when he wrote:

A Song I Wrote Many Years Ago

A few years ago, I wrote this song for a documentary on dyslexia that, unfortunately, was never made. Looking back, I realise that I wasn’t really writing about dyslexia. I was writing about my own childhood.

If this song helps even one child feel understood, or one parent or teacher see dyslexia through a child’s eyes, it will have served its purpose.

"Dyslexiगीत

अक्षर क्यूँ बिगड़ते हैं
क्यूँ मुझसे ये लड़ते हैं
इन्हें पढ़ना ही तो चाहता हूँ
तो इतना क्यूँ अकड़ते हैं 

मोटी मोटी किताबों में
इनकी सेनाएँ बसती हैं
छंद निबंध व्याकरण लिए
मुझ पर आक्रमण करती हैं
युद्ध में इनसे हारूँ तो
अध्यापक क्यूँ बिगड़ते हैं
क्यूँ मुझसे ये लड़ते हैं

छोटी इ हो बड़ी ई हो
आधे पूरे अक्षर हों
भेदभाव मैं करता नहीं
बिन्दू चाँद हलंत मात्रा
क्यूँ इनका स्वर बदलते हैं
क्यूँ कनफ्यूशण करते हैं
क्यूँ मुझसे ये लड़ते हैं

विज्ञान का ज्ञान मुझे है
गणित का गुणबोध मुझे है
गीत संगीत नट नृत्य सभी
मुझसे दोस्ती करते हैं
लेकिन ये दुष्ट अक्षर सब
मेरा जीना दूभर करते हैं
क्यूँ मुझसे ये लड़ते हैं

बड़ा होकर फिर आऊँगा
और अपनी क़लम घुमाऊँगा
कहानी कविता गीत वाक्य
में सरपट तुम्हें नचाऊँगा
अभी तो बच्चा समझ ये
सब मेरे सर पे चड़ते हैं
क्यूँ मुझसे ये लड़ते हैं

अक्षर क्यूँ बिगड़ते हैं
क्यूँ मुँझसे ये लड़ते हैं
इन्हें पड़ना ही तो चाहता हूँ
तो इतना क्यूँ अकड़ते हैं 

क्यूँ मुँझसे ये लड़ते हैं
क्यूँ मुँझसे ये लड़ते हैं"

“बड़ा होकर फिर आऊँगा,
और अपनी कलम घुमाऊँगा…”

He did.

And he never stopped loving books.

Physician Burnout: A little madness to keep you sane !

 

Physician, Heal Thyself

Last Sunday, I attended a clinical meeting where there was an interesting debate:

“Is physician burnout an individual problem or a systemic problem?”

Both sides presented compelling arguments. The healthcare system has undoubtedly become more demanding. Long working hours, administrative burden, increasing corporatization, pressure of numbers, financial targets, patient expectations, medico-legal concerns… all of these contribute.

Yet, as I drove back home, I couldn’t stop thinking about another aspect of burnout—one that perhaps receives far less attention.

Maybe the seeds of physician burnout are sown much earlier.

From our childhood, most doctors are conditioned to excel. We are taught to chase marks, ranks, distinctions and medals. We learn to compete, outperform and constantly strive to be better than everyone else.

Years later, the numbers simply change.

Marks become degrees.

Degrees become surgeries.

Surgeries become patient volumes.

Patient volumes become revenue.

But the race never really ends.

Somewhere during this journey, medicine slowly stops being what we do and starts becoming who we are.

And that, I believe, is where the real danger begins.

When we expect medicine to provide us with our identity, our purpose, our recognition, our happiness, our emotional fulfilment and our self-worth, we unknowingly place an impossible burden on one profession.

No profession can carry that weight forever.

Burnout rarely arrives dramatically.

It begins with a whisper.

A quiet feeling that says:

“I’m doing everything I always wanted to do… I have achieved what I had dreamt of… then why am I still not happy?”

That whisper is probably the earliest warning sign.

If we wait until exhaustion becomes breakdown, prevention has already become treatment.

So what can we do?

For me, the answer lies in prevention—not after burnout, but long before it.

1. Redefine your identity.

Be a doctor.

But don’t be only a doctor.

Be a spouse.

A parent.

A friend.

A traveller.

A reader.

A musician.

A biker.

A photographer.

A writer.

Whatever keeps another part of you alive.

The more dimensions your identity has, the less likely one setback can consume your entire existence.

2. Learn the meaning of “enough.”

This may be the hardest lesson.

There comes a point where increasing wealth, status and achievements add very little to our happiness.

Beyond that point, the pursuit itself often starts taking away the very happiness we are trying to create.

Perhaps we need the courage to consciously let go of 10–20% of the endless chase.

Ironically, that small sacrifice may make the remaining 80–90% far more meaningful, productive and enjoyable.

3. Remember that medicine is only the fuel.

I often think of life as an engine.

Medicine is the fuel.

It gives us direction and purpose.

But no engine can run on fuel alone.

It also needs lubrication and cooling.

Without them, friction increases.

Heat builds up.

Eventually the engine fails.

Our hobbies, passions, relationships, rest, laughter and moments of joy are the lubricant and coolant of life.

They are not luxuries.

They are maintenance.

4. Steal time for your passions.

People often say,

“I don’t have time.”

Perhaps we never will.

Maybe we have to steal it.

There may even be a sense of guilt while doing so.

But that time isn’t stolen from medicine.

It is invested in becoming a happier, healthier human being—and therefore, a better doctor.

Profession keeps us sane.

Passion allows us to become delightfully insane.

And I think we need both.

Without a little childlike madness, adulthood becomes unbearably heavy.

5. Respect your body.

Our body is the instrument through which we serve humanity.

We maintain our medical equipment meticulously.

We upgrade technology regularly.

Yet we often neglect the one instrument that matters the most.

Exercise.

Sleep.

Nutrition.

Relaxation.

Meditation.

Recovery.

These are not signs of laziness.

They are professional responsibilities.

If we don’t invest time in our health today, we may be forced to spend far more time as patients tomorrow.

6. Invest in people and places.

Family.

Friends.

Meaningful conversations.

Shared laughter.

Travel.

Mountains.

Forests.

The sea.

Sunrise.

Sunset.

A walk under the trees.

Nature has a remarkable ability to reset the human mind.

Perhaps because that is where we were always meant to belong.

Even within our homes, I believe each one of us should have a small corner that belongs only to us—a quiet space where, even for five minutes, we can simply breathe, reflect and reconnect with ourselves.

7. Live by a philosophy, not merely by targets.

Targets have finish lines.

Philosophy does not.

Targets tell us where we are going.

Philosophy reminds us why we began.

Without a philosophy, life quietly becomes a rat race.

And one day we may discover that although we reached the podium, we somehow lost life itself.

For me, medicine has been one of life’s greatest blessings.

But so have writing, travelling, trekking, motorcycling, music, photography and lifelong learning.

None of these have made me a lesser doctor.

If anything, they have made me a more complete human being.

And I have increasingly come to believe that better human beings almost always become better doctors.

Perhaps the ancient words have never been more relevant than they are today:

“Physician, heal thyself.”

Not because doctors are special.

But because doctors are human.