Ah, that journey from theatre to report feels slower than waiting for a *man paathi* kiln to cool. They fix it in formalin, slice it thin as a pooram leaf, stain it, and the pathologist reads its story under the microscope. But I am not the surgeon calmly waiting—I am the one pacing, knowing my mother’s next treatment, and whether I can afford it, hangs on those stained slides. The obvious answer is sterile procedure, but my truth is that every biopsy carries the weight of a family’s *kavalai*, not just a diagnosis.
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