Chemotherapy, they say, targets the fastest-growing cells, like hair and gut lining. But it feels less like a targeted strike and more like a flood, washing away the good soil with the weeds. My own body, baava, said 'enough'—it was the bone marrow's silent surrender, the white cells vanishing, that halted my treatment. The theory is precise, but the reality is a blunt instrument; it took my appetite for my amma's *pulusu* long before it finished with the disease.
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