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In the midst of my brother’s arduous seventy-three-day hospital stay for a
complex bone marrow transplant, my family stumbled upon a simple yet
profound practice: bringing homemade Indian tea, chai, for the nurses.
Initially, we brought it to sustain ourselves through our 24-7 caregiving
caravan, but one morning, we offered it to a nurse in gratitude for her work.
Soon, this small act of kindness became the talk of the ward. It was a
gesture of kinship, a bridge across the shared uncertainties of life. Our
humble chai became a beacon, flask after flask, offered to anyone who
entered our room. The nurses flocked to my brother’s side, drawn not only
by his serenity and gentle joy but also, I like to think, by the warmth of the
chai.
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