When we were young we rarely went to hospital. Going to the hospital meant something was very seriously wrong. Generally, most families relied on a doctor who lived in their locality, and he became the family doctor. It was the same for us.
Our doctor was an Indian who had served in Burma and settled in India after retirement. He had a small clinic in the city which he would visit twice daily. Whenever anyone fell ill (mostly it was me), one of the family members, mostly my brother, would visit his house and tell him. The doctor would then visit us before going to his clinic. The idea of using a telephone to call him was considered too disrespectful.
He never forgot a patient. The minute my brother returned confirming that the doctor was available, there would be some hectic activity at home. The bedroom would be tidied up and bedsheets changed. It was not that we lived in a mess, but the doctor’s standards were very high and he would tick off my parents if anything was not proper. As children it was fun to watch our parents being ticked off like children in a school. He insisted on windows being kept open and fresh air coming in.
When the doctor came in it was like a general inspecting his troops. He was, however, very gentle with the patient and would examine him or her for quite some time. Then the questions would start. The routine medical questions would be followed by others, such as what the patient ate, the way he commuted, and so on.
Then my mother would get boiling water. He would sterilise all his instruments and then the syringe, and give me an injection. He would then sit and write the prescription and explain each medicine and how and when it was to be taken.
An eye on everyone
He would then cast a glance at the other members of the family and if he felt someone was not okay he would examine them also. This was the reason that my brother would then quietly disappear to study or do some work in the other room.
The doctor would then pack his things and explain in detail to my mother the dos and don’ts, including matters dietary. His instructions were followed strictly. Then my father would follow him to the gate with his bag, and give him his fees.
In the evening he would return for a check-up and see the progress. The extra visits were never charged and he came mostly to monitor the progress. This visit was short and usually I would be sleeping. He would talk to my mother and leave.
The human side
As I grew up I also saw the human side of our doctor. He was a kind and good human being. As a doctor he had to be strict.
Once when I was sick and my father was away on work, he understood my mother’s difficulty in buying medicines. After examining me and prescribing the medicines he told my brother to get ready and go with him. He told my mother he would get medicines from the pharmacy near his clinic and put my brother in a bus to return home. If my brother was not available, he would give me one dose from his free samples and get the medicines when he returned home.
He also had a great sense of humour. My mother once had throat pain and she found it difficult to swallow. When he dropped in to see me she told him about her problem.
She then hesitatingly asked him if it was cancer. He examined her and gave her a glass of water to drink. My mother slowly started sipping it. He then suddenly barked, “Drink it”. In a rush my mother hurriedly drank it all in one gulp. He then laughed out aloud and said, “Cancer, my foot. There’s nothing at all wrong with you. See, now everything is okay. Leave the diagnosis to the doctor.”
The memories remain. I feel fortunate to have been under the care of a fine doctor. We now talk about holistic healing. I think that was what he did. He did not treat the disease alone. He looked into every aspect.
mangala9krishnan@g mail.com
