Our family doctor
A colleague of mine used
to brag about a nondescript physician who was very much friendly and patient
with his impatient patients. He would defiantly refuse to administer quick
remedies or expensive medicines that hit the market every fortnight. Quite
often, the sales staff in the medical shops would frown upon his prescriptions
and question the veracity of the doctor. Moreover the prescriptions were in so neat
handwriting that the educated patients would proudly name the drugs they were
taking. Neither patients nor the accompanying kin could coax him into using a syringe
which according to them would relieve their illness very fast. Unless he is quite convinced by his good old
medical books, he would not subject his patients to that painful abuse. Many a
time he would flaunt his academic achievements to impress his patients who, in
spite of their impatience would helplessly smile at him and sit through this
ordeal. He would then point his index finger at an old frame hung on the wall
that proclaimed his award of degree from a reputed college. He was quite proud
of his status of its alumnus. Whenever there were newspaper reports about fake
doctors, he would draw the attention of his patients to that framed Some
patients referred by friends like mine would come to him and show all their
medical records. He would calmly browse through them, consult his books kept
near him, and pass critical remarks on the unethical practice of his junior practitioners
who were making quick money. At times he would drift into a philosophical mood
and pronounce homilies on human greed and absurdity of life. Patients who came
for treatment would stare at him, nod compulsively and leave at last, wondering
whether they came to the right place. But most of them would be satisfied when
they were called upon to pay the bill, complimenting their good sense and
discretion of choosing the clinic. Another peculiar feature in his clinic is
the way he keeps on shifting furniture, location of counters and even his chair
and patients would be perplexed on their repeated visits. He would justify the
change to those who voice their concern and the next thirty minutes would be a
monologue of wit and wisdom. At times he would crack a joke and indulge in a
loud laughter to which patients would react with a giggle and a grimace. I
became a regular customer for about twenty five years and all my three
daughters were delivered in his labour room which had been an extension of a
car shed but kept clean and hygienic by his small team of nurses. Many visitors on those occasions reprimanded me for taking my wife to that featureless hospital. I especially
liked his old fashioned approach to an ailment and my family was tuned to his
eccentricities. The moment he sets eye on me or any of the members of the
family, he would sport a cordial smile and exchange some pleasantries
regardless of the seriousness of the occasion. Some of my friends, who had
approached him on my recommendation, would invariably come back disappointed
because their concept of a doctor somehow did not match with this seventy year
old academician. As he grew by age and wisdom, he became increasingly quiet and
his taciturnity sometimes confounded me. When patients narrated their tales of
pain and suffering, he would blankly look at a clock or a calendar and mumble
something incomprehensible. Gradually the number of patients in his clinic
dwindled but even now I can see him huddled in his favourite chair and lost in some
passing thought as his eyes were set on the street. May God bless him.
