<p>Someone called him a gentle giant. He had a hundred tiles. To me, he was the saviour and guardian of my vision, damaged badly after an accident. I scoured hospitals, searching for an ophthalmologist who could restore them. </p><p>Then suddenly, I heard about this conference in my own city, where he was giving a talk. I requested a friend to take me there—without an invitation. During the tea break, I fumbled my way to where the speakers had assembled. </p><p>Gathering all my courage, I went up to him and blurted out, “Not one surgeon in that room is willing to even talk to me. Your own hospital in Madras did not respond to my letter. What am I to do? Give up my career to live in a dark world?”</p><p>He did not reply but walked up to a calendar hanging on the wall. “Can you meet me on Friday? Here is my address. I will send my car to the airport.”</p><p>Thus began a long friendship with Sengamedu Srinivasa Badrinath, an eye doctor with a small “I” who made every visit a lovely holiday for me. “It’s nothing. Just a tiny scar to seal these troublesome holes in your retina,” and in the same breath, “Shall we try Mainland China tonight? I will invite an interesting person to meet you.” So, I would find a new friend every time, like Manohar Davadoss, who called the good doctor “the man with a vision.”</p><p>He would host my visits to Madras in his own guest house, where he and his wife, Vasanthi, would join me at dinner time. </p><p>We would talk late into the night when he would relate his experiences, first as a student in the US, to his mentor’s advice to return to his own country to restore vision to the poor, the homeless, and the ignorant. </p><p>Sitting cross-legged on the floor, he would relate interesting episodes of his career, including that of the Periayava, the sage of Kanchi, who did not want to be anaesthetized before cataract surgery.</p><p> Or his favourite musician and patient, MS Subbulakshmi, who insisted on making a donation to the hospital instead of paying a doctor’s fee. I would hear her music played softly beneath every operating table I occupied.</p><p>He respected anyone who respected her music. On one occasion, he had invited MS to a programme by another artist. I had been operated on that morning and felt miserable to miss that treat. The entire hospital was out there. Imagine my surprise when Dr Badri calmly walked into my ward holding a wheelchair.</p><p>“I am taking you down to meet MS Amma and have coffee with her in a private room with me and Vasanthi. Afterwards, back to your bed!” he commanded. It was not my doctor speaking, but a caring friend.</p><p>“Farewell, dear friend, surgeon, and saviour of vision. Your death today leaves no void because men like you never die.” </p>
<p>Someone called him a gentle giant. He had a hundred tiles. To me, he was the saviour and guardian of my vision, damaged badly after an accident. I scoured hospitals, searching for an ophthalmologist who could restore them. </p><p>Then suddenly, I heard about this conference in my own city, where he was giving a talk. I requested a friend to take me there—without an invitation. During the tea break, I fumbled my way to where the speakers had assembled. </p><p>Gathering all my courage, I went up to him and blurted out, “Not one surgeon in that room is willing to even talk to me. Your own hospital in Madras did not respond to my letter. What am I to do? Give up my career to live in a dark world?”</p><p>He did not reply but walked up to a calendar hanging on the wall. “Can you meet me on Friday? Here is my address. I will send my car to the airport.”</p><p>Thus began a long friendship with Sengamedu Srinivasa Badrinath, an eye doctor with a small “I” who made every visit a lovely holiday for me. “It’s nothing. Just a tiny scar to seal these troublesome holes in your retina,” and in the same breath, “Shall we try Mainland China tonight? I will invite an interesting person to meet you.” So, I would find a new friend every time, like Manohar Davadoss, who called the good doctor “the man with a vision.”</p><p>He would host my visits to Madras in his own guest house, where he and his wife, Vasanthi, would join me at dinner time. </p><p>We would talk late into the night when he would relate his experiences, first as a student in the US, to his mentor’s advice to return to his own country to restore vision to the poor, the homeless, and the ignorant. </p><p>Sitting cross-legged on the floor, he would relate interesting episodes of his career, including that of the Periayava, the sage of Kanchi, who did not want to be anaesthetized before cataract surgery.</p><p> Or his favourite musician and patient, MS Subbulakshmi, who insisted on making a donation to the hospital instead of paying a doctor’s fee. I would hear her music played softly beneath every operating table I occupied.</p><p>He respected anyone who respected her music. On one occasion, he had invited MS to a programme by another artist. I had been operated on that morning and felt miserable to miss that treat. The entire hospital was out there. Imagine my surprise when Dr Badri calmly walked into my ward holding a wheelchair.</p><p>“I am taking you down to meet MS Amma and have coffee with her in a private room with me and Vasanthi. Afterwards, back to your bed!” he commanded. It was not my doctor speaking, but a caring friend.</p><p>“Farewell, dear friend, surgeon, and saviour of vision. Your death today leaves no void because men like you never die.” </p>