It reminds me of the scene from A Few Good Men where Jack Nicholson is in a court-martial and is asked to tell the truth. And he goes "You can't handle the truth". And continues to deliver a monologue telling why exactly sometimes you have to live with the truth so ugly, that perhaps you are better off living without knowing it.
Last night, I was at a local clinic. The kind you find on a busy Indian street, neatly lined in a row of beauty parlors, neon-lit tiffin centres, medical stores, ATM outlets and the like. The clinic itself was a tiny establishment, with an assistant who was perhaps 70 year old guy himself, skinny to the bone seated on an old bamboo chair that seemed only as strong as the guy. He looked at me bleakly as I enquired, seated on my bike - "Is there a doctor?"
He looked sideways from me and opened his mouth so to speak. He was squinted. He coughed for a good 10 seconds. I fidgeted impatiently on my bike seat. Then he just nodded in reply.
In India you don't take people's word at first go. You always confirm - that's the rule of thumb. So my next impulse was to go inside the clinic and find for myself, if the doctor was around. He was.
In India you don't take people's word at first go. You always confirm - that's the rule of thumb. So my next impulse was to go inside the clinic and find for myself, if the doctor was around. He was.
I ask him, without as much as a statutory greeting - "So are you going to be here? Till what time?"
He points at the clock on the cracked wall, a lizard sneaking in from behind. "9:30" he tells me, loudly, in three languages - English, Hindi, Telugu. As I nod in return and get back to my bike I notice a few men giving me furtive glances. I am dressed in old jeans and a bright turquoise colored T-shirt with a golden print that said "Peace". You almost always get glances like that. Pretty or not, adequately clothed or not. So long as you are a woman, you will be stared at. And you almost always are immune to it.
I just continue to my bike and ride away to appear after a good 30 minutes. This time to see a long line of people in waiting. For a moment, I am infuriated. A third class, "hole in the wall" clinic with a doctor who doesn't even have a pen and pad to write prescriptions, is suddenly in demand. But statistics defy everything here. India's population density will assure every doctor an unending supply of patients looking for treatments from the common cold to body fractures.
I wait indefinitely in the line. Men still staring, but I give them a hard look and they feign looking towards the sky. I look the other way, and can see from the corner of my eye, their stares returning back to me. I mutter a curse or two, under my breath. Just a bit longer and I can go, I assure myself.
And finally, it is my turn. The doctor is now writing prescriptions on post-it notes. In between he gets up and disappears behind an old, strange smelling, floral printed curtain with a patient on the other side who has some kind of bowel problems, lying on the bed and grunting in pain. He comes back to write some antibiotics on the post-it notes. He asks me if I am married. I don't answer and almost open my mouth to say it is none of its business but just nod to say no. I want to just get out of this shit hole, I say to myself again.
He explains in three languages again about the medicines he is writing me. I look at my watch and get restless - I have a remote meeting to attend in an hour and I am not even listening to him at this point. I quickly try to grab the prescription (now a total of 4 post-its) but he looks at me questioningly and says - "Where is the money, madam?"
I give him a 50 rupee note and head out. After scouting for medicines at 3 drug stores, I grow impatient and give up. Of all the fever antibiotics, he had to write me the least accessible ones, I think to myself.
Medical care is a big business here, like anywhere else in the world. A drug store doesn't just try to sell you drugs. They try to sell you only "certain brand" of drugs made by a "certain" pharmaceutical. So they are often trying to con you to take substitutes from pharma companies that pay them kickbacks for promoting their brand over others. But with all things India, you fight your way through it. Lets just say I had a bad day and wasn't open to any more drama for the day.
Failing to find the drugs, I am even more agitated this time. I rush back to the doctor, with the post-its in my hand, waving them furiously at the doctor's face and question him, grinding my teeth - "No one carries half the prescriptions you have given me."
The doctor is mid-flight, half of his body behind the curtain and half out. He doesn't appear shocked, while standing firmly in front of a young guy, whose chest is in a pool of blood. That's when I look down and realized I am standing in what seemed to me like someone just spit out red paan on the floor.
That was instead a stream of human blood following the guy on the bed now. I turn now to see two of the young men (the ones who were giving me the stares about half an hour ago), one panicking and talking on the phone to hail an ambulance, while the other trembling, his hands drenched in blood.
My mouth turns dry. The doctor says to me - "One minute madam"
I step out for air, trying to take in what just happened. The 70 year old assistant looks at me quizzingly - "Did you try Vijayalakshmi (drug store)?" I am almost dazed and manage to say "No". He is squinted and tries his best to give me store directions. I am confused and do my best to follow his gaze.
I turn back and I see "facebook" written on the back of the T-shirt of one of the men - a guy who is barefoot, doesn't carry a phone and doesn't even have enough money to give to the doctor. I hear the doctor console the guy - "Don't worry. Your friend will be OK. I know the doctor at this hospital, he will fix your friend for cheap."
I find my drugs at Vijayalakshmi. I return home with the medicines, check my emails and finish the remote call. And then get back to surfing the Internet.
The incident is now a faint memory. Life goes on. And that my friends is the ugly truth.
I just continue to my bike and ride away to appear after a good 30 minutes. This time to see a long line of people in waiting. For a moment, I am infuriated. A third class, "hole in the wall" clinic with a doctor who doesn't even have a pen and pad to write prescriptions, is suddenly in demand. But statistics defy everything here. India's population density will assure every doctor an unending supply of patients looking for treatments from the common cold to body fractures.
I wait indefinitely in the line. Men still staring, but I give them a hard look and they feign looking towards the sky. I look the other way, and can see from the corner of my eye, their stares returning back to me. I mutter a curse or two, under my breath. Just a bit longer and I can go, I assure myself.
And finally, it is my turn. The doctor is now writing prescriptions on post-it notes. In between he gets up and disappears behind an old, strange smelling, floral printed curtain with a patient on the other side who has some kind of bowel problems, lying on the bed and grunting in pain. He comes back to write some antibiotics on the post-it notes. He asks me if I am married. I don't answer and almost open my mouth to say it is none of its business but just nod to say no. I want to just get out of this shit hole, I say to myself again.
He explains in three languages again about the medicines he is writing me. I look at my watch and get restless - I have a remote meeting to attend in an hour and I am not even listening to him at this point. I quickly try to grab the prescription (now a total of 4 post-its) but he looks at me questioningly and says - "Where is the money, madam?"
I give him a 50 rupee note and head out. After scouting for medicines at 3 drug stores, I grow impatient and give up. Of all the fever antibiotics, he had to write me the least accessible ones, I think to myself.
Medical care is a big business here, like anywhere else in the world. A drug store doesn't just try to sell you drugs. They try to sell you only "certain brand" of drugs made by a "certain" pharmaceutical. So they are often trying to con you to take substitutes from pharma companies that pay them kickbacks for promoting their brand over others. But with all things India, you fight your way through it. Lets just say I had a bad day and wasn't open to any more drama for the day.
Failing to find the drugs, I am even more agitated this time. I rush back to the doctor, with the post-its in my hand, waving them furiously at the doctor's face and question him, grinding my teeth - "No one carries half the prescriptions you have given me."
The doctor is mid-flight, half of his body behind the curtain and half out. He doesn't appear shocked, while standing firmly in front of a young guy, whose chest is in a pool of blood. That's when I look down and realized I am standing in what seemed to me like someone just spit out red paan on the floor.
That was instead a stream of human blood following the guy on the bed now. I turn now to see two of the young men (the ones who were giving me the stares about half an hour ago), one panicking and talking on the phone to hail an ambulance, while the other trembling, his hands drenched in blood.
My mouth turns dry. The doctor says to me - "One minute madam"
I step out for air, trying to take in what just happened. The 70 year old assistant looks at me quizzingly - "Did you try Vijayalakshmi (drug store)?" I am almost dazed and manage to say "No". He is squinted and tries his best to give me store directions. I am confused and do my best to follow his gaze.
I turn back and I see "facebook" written on the back of the T-shirt of one of the men - a guy who is barefoot, doesn't carry a phone and doesn't even have enough money to give to the doctor. I hear the doctor console the guy - "Don't worry. Your friend will be OK. I know the doctor at this hospital, he will fix your friend for cheap."
I find my drugs at Vijayalakshmi. I return home with the medicines, check my emails and finish the remote call. And then get back to surfing the Internet.
The incident is now a faint memory. Life goes on. And that my friends is the ugly truth.
2 comments:
Time to write a book dear :)...
:)
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