I am a product of fast-moving Silicon Valley. The talk here goes from semiconductors to software to the internet, and now to AI. At 76, I am still wrapped up in this high-octane culture, and I quite like it. My thinking now comes from the sidelines, as so much is available online — especially the long podcasts, behind which Valley executives can’t hide, and where they deliver their true selves.
But somewhere in the middle of a bridge tournament in Poland, an email arrived — an invitation to visit their mother, a retired Indian physician I’d long secretly admired, now living in a Silicon Valley senior community. The invitation, I didn’t say no to. And in the weeks that followed, I never even rethought it.
She is now over 90. She and her late husband, also a physician and a professor at Stanford’s medical school, had moved into the retirement community around ten years ago. We had visited them many times before, at their old home on the Stanford campus.
This time I went with their son, Rajan, a physician at Palo Alto Medical Foundation, where I sit on the board, and his wife, Monisha, an entrepreneur whose startup I was involved in some twenty years back. She now teaches entrepreneurship at Stanford’s business school and runs her own small seed fund. Their two children are grown and out of the house — one in college, the other working.
I went in skeptical of what I might find. I’d braced myself for loneliness, for the kind of quiet sadness these places can sometimes hold. Instead, Monisha drove in with another woman, whom she introduced by name. She helped me park, and the three of us walked in together. There was my old friend Arun-ji, in a wheelchair, nicely dressed, her son standing beside her. Both greeted me with a smile. We were steps from the dining hall — bright, cheerful, at least fifteen tables of residents already seated. Arun-ji’s caregiver wheeled her in, and the five of us followed.
The story only gets better from here.
We were seated like at a restaurant, handed menus, and asked for our order. I wasn’t sure what to expect of the food, but ordered a bagel with salmon and cream cheese — Arun-ji did the same. The others chose omelets. Coffee, tea, water, orange juice, and croissants came with the meal.
Once we’d ordered, Rajan, Monisha, and I caught up. Arun-ji spoke little, but every word landed. She told me she’d read my book, and that she hadn’t known I was from Lucknow too — the same city where she was born and trained as a physician. Rajan added that on a recent visit, they’d run into an old friend of his parents, who told them the story of how his mother and father had fallen in love.
The other woman at the table had gone to the restroom by then. I only knew her by name, so I asked Monisha who she was. “My sister,” she said. Something in her manner suggested she needed extra care. Monisha explained that after their parents died, her older sister had taken care of her — and now it was Monisha’s turn. She lived nearby, in a Home. “Must be a bit burdensome,” I said, “but rewarding.” Monisha smiled. “Yes. Very.”
I asked how often they visited. Every Sunday, she said — and added, unprompted, “I love coming here.”
I sat with that for a moment. Monisha is a Yale and Princeton graduate, highly driven, running a fund, teaching at Stanford. And here she was, every Sunday, not just accepting but visibly happy to care for “his mom” and her sister. It touched me in a way I hadn’t expected. I hope exceptions like this prove the rule.
I turned to Arun-ji. “You look happy and content,” I said. She smiled. “You described my mind completely.”
Then she asked me to sign her copy of my book — the one Monisha had bought when she and Rajan came to my talk at Kepler’s, just before I left for Poland.
The bagel and cream cheese were fresh, tasty, as good as any restaurant’s — I finished every bite. Everything about the place was appetizing. My friends, especially.
I left elated, and nearly speechless.
Silicon Valley likes to talk about disruption — faster chips, smarter models, the next thing before the last thing has even settled. This wasn’t any of that. This was a Sunday, a wheelchair, a bagel, a son and his wife who never miss a week. Maybe that’s the real gem this place quietly makes, once the noise dies down.
Seven days later, the experience does not want to leave me.