I can’t help but reflect on how different my life turned out to be from the rest of my family of medicos as I took up my first job after graduating as an engineer. Growing up among them was wonderful, and I shall always cherish it. I doubt if any other profession offers the same kind of eclectic experiences.
I always thought everyone in my family including my extended family wanted me to become a doctor. How often does it happen that your grandfather was a doctor, both your parents are doctors and your sister is a doctor — all from the same university as yours? However, despite my repeated attempts to understand biology, it did not take me long to realise that my interest lay in mathematics, not in the cell structure of some asexually reproducing, flagellum-toting mystic life-form.
Growing up with doctors was a learning process in itself. Important-sounding words such as ‘malignant’, ‘biopsy’, ‘catheter’ and ‘endoscopy’ would always be thrown around at home, and an endoscope was a familiar device by the time I was 10. I fondly recall how some patients would mistake me for my father on the home phone when I would rush to answer it. “Doctor sahib,” they would start. “The vomiting has come back, what should we do?” To which I would cheekily reply, “Take a tablet of Perinorm, uncle.” Fortunately for them and for me, these patients never seemed to have paid heed to my advice, and my parents simply laughed off such incidents.
At this point I must thank all the patients who my parents treated, who would be overly grateful to the extent of inviting our family to dinner at their new restaurants, or trying to send us for vacations at their resorts. Being government doctors, my parents would invariably decline such invitations, much to my chagrin. The weddings, however, were exceptions. Gracious patients would send out invitations en masse to teams of doctors who helped them out, and families of doctors would grace the occasion to “bless” the bride and groom. The scene wouldn’t be very different from the hospital’s coffee room, where my parents would catch up with other doctors.
I can still recall my attempts to become the next Van Gogh. There never was any shortage of paper to scribble and draw on. My parents would bring home their prescription pads, only to be secretly vandalised by my sister and me. However, thanks to my early failure on this front, I never had to draw diagrams for practical files — my parents or sister would draw them for me. Despite that, if today there is something that I can draw with my eyes closed, it is the human digestive system, something which my father, a gastroenterologist, made sure I knew before I entered high school.
The best part about having doctor-parents has to be the numerous conferences that children get to attend. Conference days would begin with talks and lectures which my parents would attend. But by the end of the day the entire family, along with several other families of doctors, would head out to visit some of the most exquisite locales in each region. When our parents would be busy with lectures, the bacha party would head over to the game-stalls organised by sponsors.
Living in a “doctor-family” has been an incredible experience, but the best part is watching the respect and admiration your parents get. However, I have seen the trials and tribulations of government doctors who are limited by red-tape, and it is sad to see doctors running after money today. That said, being around doctors has filled me with compassion and made me more aware of the reality of India.
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