Suraj Kanvar

I still remember the way my father used to sit on the floor with his patients, knee to knee, completely focused, as if the rest of the world had melted away. He wasn’t just treating their illnesses—he was listening, really listening. I must have been eight or nine when I first realized that some people walked in barely able to move, and left weeks later laughing, walking straight, glowing. He never rushed anyone. I think that’s what impressed me the most. That, and the smell of herbs steeping on the stove in his little dispensary.

I’m 40 now, and some of his patients—older now, greyer—come to see me. They often pause at my clinic door, look at me for a long moment, and say, “You’ve got your father’s eyes.” I don’t know if it’s true, but I hope I’ve got his patience. His humility.

When I was 22, studying medicine at one of the best universities in Mumbai, India, I almost abandoned Ayurveda completely. Everything we were taught dismissed it as unscientific. During my semester in the U.S., I was fascinated by the precision of diagnostics, the tools, the technology. It was impressive. But I also saw how quick the system was to prescribe without pause. People were drowning in pills and still unwell. It started to feel wrong.

After returning, I quietly began to read my father’s old notebooks again. I sat at his desk for hours, tracing his handwritten notes. That’s when I knew I couldn’t ignore what I’d grown up with.

Now, my practice is full. People come with skin issues, insomnia, gut problems—things no test seems to fully explain. And most of them get better. Not overnight, but deeply. Truly. The biggest shift is usually in how they eat, how they sleep, how they breathe.

I’m not against Western medicine—it’s vital for emergencies. But for everything that creeps slowly into the body over years, Ayurveda has answers that still amaze me.

Sometimes, when the day ends and I sit alone in the clinic, I still feel my father’s presence. Not in a mystical way. Just in the calm. In the knowing.