Hemashri explores life’s deepest lessons—love, compassion, and humility—revealed not in books, but through lived experience, exclusively for Different Truths.
I believe the place that most deeply teaches us about the impermanence of life, about love, compassion, and tenderness, is the hospital.
I feel I’ve received most of life’s vital lessons there and that it was God’s will. After all, is education confined only to the pages of books? Since childhood, like a curious, innocent little girl, I’ve silently observed certain people whom I considered “educated”, even though they may not hold any college or university degrees. There are so many people who, despite earning degrees from prestigious institutions, come across as harsh, crude in their words and behaviour, self-centred, and lacking in grace.
It seems to me that true education is reflected not in certificates but in the lives of those who rise above trials, hardships, and adversities — and still choose compassion and humanity. Can we truly call someone “educated” if they are merely cloaked in titles, fame, and social status, yet suffer from a poverty of taste, empathy, and values?
Perhaps these thoughts are simply part of a “midlife crisis”! Or maybe they are the musings of a soul immersed in reflection.
And yet, I cannot help but say—for me, the hospital was an extraordinary kind of school.
I remember—my first visit to Guwahati Medical College was in 1983. I had gone there as a little girl delivering lunch for my father during a medical emergency. I must have been in class five or six at the time.
Today, we would probably hold the hands of a child that age and put them safely onto a school bus, refusing even to let them carry their schoolbag or water bottle, fearing they might get tired. Has the world changed, or have we grown into irresponsibly pampered parents raising helpless children? I can’t say for sure. But I’d be lying if I said I haven’t done the same myself.
At that time, my father was posted in Nalbari, and a well-wisher had rushed him to a paying cabin in Guwahati Medical College. He was then serving as the Honourable Minister of Health. Doctors from Nalbari Civil Hospital had misdiagnosed him—he was suffering from jaundice, but they treated him for gastritis. My Deuta was not a high-ranking officer at all, but those were different times. Because of his generosity and humility, our family has always remained deeply grateful.
The hospital, i.e., GMC, stank unbearably. I remember holding my breath to avoid the stench. Since then, I’ve visited hospitals countless times—not by choice, but under the pressure of circumstances.
Another time, a very special individual extended vital help in the effort to take my husband abroad for treatment. Many friends and family members stood by us during those difficult times. That, I feel, is the real blessing of life. I shall strive to remain deserving of such love and support, and I try to move forward with care and effort.
Over the past 22 years, I’ve had numerous hospital-related experiences with my beloved, graceful, educated mother—someone I always thought of as strong and elegant. Later came another chapter with my husband.
Through all this, I’ve gained a deep and personal understanding of the standards of healthcare in the land we hold so dear.
When you witness people’s desperate attempts to save their loved ones and see the heartbreak of irreversible loss, you are forced to reflect: what a divine blessing it is to live a healthy life.
And so, I say again—this hospital is indeed an unusual school.
But I wonder—do the people who pass through this school sometimes grow old before their time?
If some get intoxicated by status and power, do they still feel disturbed when they see someone abusing or belittling others?
Do they ever think, “Even if I yell or insult that frail little boy or girl, I won’t get anything done? Maybe I can only scare them into silence. But to truly do effective, meaningful work, I’ll need healthy, strong colleagues and a positive environment.”
I’ve read similar ideas in research-based books.
Do they become quiet, introspective souls who vow never to hurt others, while in truth they need to scream that they’ve reached the limit of their burden—that they need mercy just to go on living? They need a little bit of the same kindness that they always try to radiate to all unconditionally.
Do they become silent observers of human behaviour—tracking others’ actions without judgement but with insight to narrate through their creative expression?
I believe those initiated into this unusual school slowly become inward-looking beings—unnoticed by the world, unrecognised by many. Many do—and at times, they mask their silent struggle behind a façade of extroverted cheerfulness.
Some may see them as “useless” or label them “stupidly sentimental”—and that’s okay. After all, not all fingers are of equal length.
Once, a daughter of one of my aunts, who was a highly accomplished lady, looked at the wrinkled, worn skin on my dear grandmother’s hand and asked, “Why does your hand look like that?”
To which my grandmother replied calmly, “You will become what I am, and you are what I was once.” She narrated this story to me, and we both laughed at her deeply philosophical expression.
Born and raised in Laban, Shillong, my beloved grandmother’s life was full of struggle and stories—her life a living document of resilience.
This cousin girl now lives abroad.
Perhaps those initiated into this unusual school also think like my grandmother.
May everyone stay healthy and content. Laugh, make others laugh, eat and feed others—if your health permits.
Picture design by Anumita Roy
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