Last week, a 13-year-old patient handed me a beautiful painting she had made herself. It was thoughtful, colorful, and unmistakably sincere.

In my practice, I have realized that gifts like these are never about the object itself. They are small windows into gratitude – the patient’s way of saying something that words sometimes struggle to capture.

Over the years, I have received many such tokens from patients. Boxes of sweets during festivals. Homemade cakes. Carefully packed home-cooked snacks sent through relatives. Greeting cards written in earnest handwriting. Fruits and flowers, and very often something that reflects the patient’s own world — something simple, personal, and meaningful.

Doctors, of course, have to be mindful about gifts. Professional ethics require that gifts should be modest in value, given voluntarily by patients, and should never influence clinical decisions or the doctor-patient relationship. The intent matters far more than the item. A heartfelt thank-you card from a child often carries far greater meaning than anything expensive ever could.

And sometimes, the gifts come with stories of their own.

One of the most memorable gifts from early in my practice was a jackfruit.

Not just any jackfruit — a 18-kilogram jackfruit, proudly grown by a patient in his village garden and transported all the way to the hospital for me.

Now, anyone familiar with jackfruits knows one thing:
a jackfruit does not travel quietly.

The moment it entered the outpatient department, its unmistakable aroma announced its presence. Before long, the entire OPD knew that there was a jackfruit somewhere nearby. Patients waiting in the corridor were probably aware of it too.

In those days, I lived within the hospital campus and would usually walk home in the evening. Carrying an 18-kg jackfruit through the campus, however, was a logistical challenge I had not anticipated during medical training.

After some strategic thinking, I finally convinced a colleague to drop me home on his two-wheeler. Perched on the back seat, carefully balancing this enormous jackfruit on my lap like a precious (and very fragrant) cargo.

Once home, the adventure was far from over.

Anyone who has prepared a jackfruit knows that peeling and cutting it is practically a minor surgical procedure. Between the sticky latex, the stubborn rind, and the sheer volume of fruit inside, it took nearly two hours of determined effort.

Even after distributing generous portions to all our neighbors, there was still plenty left.

So the next morning, the OPD staff — who had all spent the previous day wondering about the mysterious jackfruit smell — were each given a share. It seemed only fair. After all, they had already participated in the experience through their sense of smell.

It’s easy to smile at these moments. But looking back over the years, I truly appreciate the sentiments behind each of these small but precious gifts.

And for many of us doctors, long after the clinical details fade from memory, these stories often remain.

The painting from my young patient now joins a quiet collection of such memories — reminders that medicine is not just about diagnoses and operations, but about the deeply human relationships that form along the way.

And occasionally, about figuring out how to transport an 18-kilogram jackfruit home.