Language of the heart

Sometimes, you don't have to cross countries to feel like a foreigner. All it takes is a new postcode. When I joined my MCh residency in Chennai, I felt like a stranger dropped into a different world. The language was unfamiliar, the culture was new, and everything felt distant. More than feeling lost, I felt inadequate especially in moments when I stood by my patients, wanting to do more for them but couldn’t speak their language. Being in surgical oncology, I was meeting people at one of the most vulnerable points in their lives. I could understand their pain, but I couldn’t express anything to them in return. I could sense their fear but couldn't comfort in return

Then, one month into the program, I met a 70-year-old fragile woman  who was recently operated on for cancer. I call her Amma now. Due to the lack of support at home, she stayed in the hospital for nearly two weeks post-surgery. Her daughter, who had young children, could only visit at night and leave early in the morning. So, during the day, Amma was often alone.

I was responsible for changing her dressings twice a day. It started as a clinical task, but slowly, in those quiet minutes, a bond began to form. We couldn't understand each other's languages. She spoke Tamil, and I was still fumbling with the basics. But we didn't need words. We smiled. She would speak to me in Tamil, and I would reply in Hindi. We had zero clue what the other said, yet somehow, we understood each other completely.

She was fighting cancer, and I was fighting loneliness. In our shared silences, we found something deeply human, something that doesn't bother about language: connection. Emotion was our common language. And in those small interactions, we started caring for each other in ways that transcended verbal communication.

The day before her discharge, she asked me for my phone number and my date of birth. I gave it, unsure if she’d ever use it.

Months passed. I gradually learned to speak manageable Tamil. I was still adapting. But my birthday came, and unlike previous years, I didn’t feel like celebrating. I hadn't told anyone it felt like just another day in a city that still wasn’t quite home.

At 6 AM, post duty, while doing dressings, my phone rang.

A soft, fragile voice started singing: Happy birthday to you… happy birthday to my dear Suyash… It was her. Amma remembered my birthday.

Tears rolled down my cheeks. We spoke and this time, I could understand her words better. Over the past three years, she has called me every single birthday at 6 AM sharp, never once forgetting. Last year, she even sent me a small Ganesh idol for my future clinic, with her blessings: “May Lord Ganesha bless you always.”

This February, as I was preparing to leave Chennai, she came for a follow-up. We met, we hugged, we went for lunch, and talked for hours. Saying goodbye was hard. But I knew this bond was not ending; it had simply found a new way to exist.

As we parted, she smiled and said:

“Nalla irukkanum… happy irukkanum.”

(Stay well… stay happy.)

And somehow, that’s all I needed to hear.

In medicine, we are often taught to focus on protocol, precision, and progress. But what I learned from Amma is this: Even when words fail, kindness doesn’t. Presence doesn’t. Care doesn’t. In a city where I felt like I had no one, Amma became my anchor. I cared for her wounds; she cared for my spirit.

In every patient, there is a story. And sometimes, if you're lucky, you become a part of it and it becomes a part of you.

-Dr. Suyash Singodiya

Patient consent was obtained prior to sharing this story and image.

Patient consent was obtained prior to sharing this story and image.