The other day I had clicked a sea of purple agapanthus with my cell-phone camera and I was very happy with the result. As I exited my bathroom, admiring the bright purple shimmering in the brown haze of the afternoon heat, I thought excitedly, “I could convert this into poetry……..”
“You’ve been rather silent,” I heard her say. She was sitting on my bed, red sari encased legs dangling and the startlingly red lipstick shining like a beacon on her lips.
“Hi, Ms PnP.” I said, without much enthusiasm. “Long-time-no-see???”
She crossed her legs, the stilettos clacking against the tiled floor.
“So, are you not going to write about this doctors’ stir that’s taken the country by storm?”
I didn’t reply immediately for I was studying her red lipstick. These days Ms PnP was into watching YouTube videos on French fashion and the red lipstick (M.A.C’s Ruby Woo, no less) was the direct result. That and the kohl-less eyes and red stilettos.
Then I said, “You look smashing!” attempting some flattery in order to veer her mind away from her question. But she was immune to my efforts.
“So, are you not going to write anything at all?” Her eyes were steely.
“Mere likhne na likhne se kya fark padta hai?” I said dismissively.
“Well, you wrote about Asifa, you wrote about Pulwama, you wrote about Kashmir….You write about soldiers…..Aren’t these people your brethren too?”
“Yes. They are. But….”
“Don’t you feel their fight is a righteous fight, a fight for justice?” I had to nod my head in agreement. “Yes.”
“Then? What’s stopping you?” She asked, frowning. “Even the smallest, softest word of support will add to the amplitude of their campaign. Your writing will definitely help.”
There are very few people in the world who are immune to the force of Ms PnP’s personality and I am definitely not one of them. To me, her words were convincing, her faith infectious. So, in the evening after work, I sat down to pen my two-bit opinion in support of my brethren’s fight for justice.
An intern was on duty at a medical college hospital in Kolkata. An ailing old man with complaints of breathlessness was brought in by relatives. The doctors on duty administered an injection to the patient. The patient died. The relatives assaulted the doctors and staff. The intern was hit on the head with a brick. He suffered a depressed fracture of the skull. Gravely injured, he had to be hospitalised in the ICU and required neurosurgical consult. The junior doctors of the hospital and subsequently all doctors including the teachers of the college and others all over the country went on strike with two demands:
• Arrest and punishment of the perpetrators.
• Provision of armed security for all govt hospitals.
Neither of the above has been carried out till date.
Dear reader (outside the medical fraternity),
I will not ask you to ponder on whether the patient was already in a moribund state and whether he was brought to the hospital too late and only after his condition had deteriorated to the point no human intervention could save him.
I will not ask you to question what logic led the relatives to conclude that it was that single injection that caused the patient to die.
I will not ask you to consider that Dr Paribaha Mukherjee was only an intern, still a student, an understudy who worked under the supervision of a legally qualified doctor and any action taken by him would be only with the express direction and consent of his senior.
I will not urge you to ask that one question: why in God’s name, would a doctor want to kill a patient that has come under his care?
I will not ask you to talk about how healthcare in India is both cheap and of reasonably good quality, giving you what is called value-for-money.
I will not ask you to harp upon the years and years of ceaseless toil that a doctor goes through before he can be granted the epithet of “Doctor”.
I will not appeal to you to consider the primitive infrastructure, the daily wagonload of patients, the long, long duty hours, the pay that is not, by any stretch of imagination, commensurate with the labour poured in and all the other numerous shortcomings that plague our government health services.
I will not tell you that hospital cleanliness, equipment, staffing, availability of beds, medicines and other services are outside the ambit of responsibility of the treating doctor and that running the hospital is not his job.
I will also not broach the subject of the Google educated sassy patient who approaches his doctor like a lawyer cross-questioning a witness.
And I will definitely not talk about the mushrooming clan of naturopaths, homeopaths, Ayurveda-Charyas, YouTube influencers and the neighbourhood auntie who are all self-styled healers doling out medical advice and miracle cures without an iota of scientific backing and legitimacy.
If you are going to talk about the tenets of the Hippocratic oath that you say is being broken by these striking doctors, or say that it’s all nothing but a political game for power, or bring into the talk the issue of who prays to which Gods, or pit my profession against another, I’ll say: Stop. Please Stop.
I’ll ask you to look at the issue dispassionately, from beyond the clutches of emotion, prejudice and pre-conceived notions. I’ll ask you to focus your attention on one and only one point: the matter of justice:- A healer tried to heal a grievously ill man. The man died. The healer was assaulted leaving injuries that were life threatening. His colleagues have gone on strike because the country’s law did not follow its natural course and arrest the guilty. They have only two demands: punishment of the guilty and provisions for workplace safety. They have not asked for pay hikes, for perks, for chutti or for anything else. All they ask is for justice and a place that’s safe for them to work in. That’s all.
Don’t you think that their demands are completely justified?
(Ms PnP sitting on the armchair behind me, filing her last week’s French manicure is smiling her approval.)
So, dear Readers, if not for the sake of the grumpy old gynaecologist who brought the bawling you into this world, or for the sweet paediatrician who bribed you with orange candy before every vaccine shot, or the busy doctor nephew you call up at odd hours of the day asking what antibiotic ointment to apply on your three day old bruise, or your daughter aspiring to be a doctor someday, or the co-passenger on your last flight to whom you opened your stressed out soul when you came to know that she is a psychiatrist or the doctor schoolmate you bombard with two hundred and ten questions about your thyroid meds in complete confidence that he will never mind (and of course he doesn’t), or the gentle smiling cardiologist who performed your Dad’s bypass surgery, or the aging ENT specialist who performed that miracle surgery on your ears and gave you a hefty discount too, or the hassled young doctor at the Accident and Emergency who soothed you as he gently placed your sprained wrist in a sling, or the critical care specialist of the ICU who let you hold her hand and cry when your Mum passed away; and no, not even for the pretty lady doc with those severe looking spectacles on the tip of her nose on whom you have been crushing for ever...
no not for the sake of any of them…..but for the sake of justice and only justice alone,
STAND BY US.
Stand by us and spread the word on Social Media (for that is the easiest, most accessible tool): Post your support on Facebook, Tweet that you are with us, share words of encouragement on WhatsApp……
As Ms PnP said, every word, even the littlest, the softest has the power to make a difference.
Thank you.
SARVE SANTU NIRAAMAYAH (Let all be healthy)
PS: Ms PnP is Ms Prim n Propah. In case you want to know her better, do read my post on this blog called "A Walk to Work"
