Vendors of scare

If you want to be healthy then you ought to make the Doctor happy. The natural question to ask would be, will not the happier man also the healthier man? And the natural answer has to be that if you want to remain healthy then your Doctor has to be healthier. I haven’t seen or been in times that are not mine, but I doubt if there was any other time in the human history when society’s responsibility towards the Doctor’s health was greater than the Doctor’s responsibility towards the society’s health. If you think I am uttering nonsense then that must be because you are a doctor yourself or a patient patient.

When a patient approaches the Doctor, the relationship between them is that of a giver and taker. In the good old times the patient used to be the weaker one, looking helplessly at the venerated doctor saab. The patient was the taker of Doctor’s advice, medicine and a schedule. The Doctor was the giver of health and of advice to the patient. Both were patient enough to talk to each other while sub-consciously both understood that the Doctor was a bigger person. So he deserved more respect, cleaner hands and sharper brain. Everybody was happy and society was a harmonious place to be living in. Parents chased their children around and made them to sit in the corners of lightless rooms to study harder and become Doctors. It used to be a statement of great pride just to say that, “My son is preparing for his medicine test. He wants to be a Doctor like his uncle, you know”. The son had no clue what it meant but somehow agreed with the fact that it is always better to have cleaner hands and sharper brain when compared with rest of the society. And in the process if it gets him rid of the running nose nothing like it. And who doesn’t want to drive own car?

Over a period, everyone got comfortable with the sylvan societal ambience, especially the doctors. Their self confidence reached levels unknown to any other human profession and their hands looked cleaner like never before. Their homes got bigger and their own children had light when there was no light anywhere else in the country. As the doctors walked the corridors of the great old monuments converted into Government hospitals, people just stepped out of the way with folded hands, half bent back and moist eyes. “He is like a God to all the people who have lymphodictohippolocus of spine”, they would whisper among themselves. Consequently, the Gods of the modern society got used to empty walk ways, a sense of tallness (Because of the half bent backs) and general happiness resulting in glowing faces.

Years rolled on and the country chugged like an elephant. 80’s changed to 90’s and someone in some corner of the world realized that when the decade turns this time, it will be nothing short of a doomsday. Entire world’s automated systems will come to a halt because, they said, we have got used to a date notation that only used two digits for the year. “Unless the year is stored in four digits your dog will become a mosquito and the mosquito will become a Rhino”, they thundered. People shuddered at the prospect of buzzing Rhinos and barking mosquitoes. “It is ridiculous”, they agreed in unison. “We should change all the two digit years to four digit years”, the solution was quick and easy. But who would implement that? No one really thought about it. The average American kid was either too sharp or too dumb to convert years. After all, they thought wisely, who can change time? For some reason the same great companies that automated could not find a way to automatically change two digits to four digits.

“We need more hands. Even if they are not white”, the CEO of a large American banking institution thundered in the board room. “Where do we get them from?”, asked one of the less fortunate board members. “Don’t you read books? Is it not written that for all seemingly unsolvable problems we need to look east?” the CEO re-thundered. The board member looked out of the east window wistfully. He never really understood what his role on the board was but always admired the CEOs clarity of thought. But this time, all he could see from the 99th floor of the building was some clouds and mountains far off. “Should we all go and live in the mountains?” he wondered aloud. The CEO’s patience outran the board member’s vision. “We need to seek help from the Indians, you moron” the CEO’s thundering reached a state when the only thing left was the rain. The board member became wistful again. “What Indians? Did we not kill them all long time ago? And the few left are either wasting their lives in Casinos or downtown benches. What will they do about all this?” the board member thought to himself. He found it an interesting sight to see a bunch of Indians, feathers and all, roaming the corporate offices of large banking institutions solving problems. “May be their magical powers will help”. The board member did not wish to see more thundering from the CEO. He nodded his head wisely in agreement with what the CEO said and voted in favor of the work being given to the Indians.

The Indian lobby in Washington could not believe their luck. How did the well known anti-Indian board member of the large American banking institution vote in favor of the year conversion work to be done by Indians? It must the mercy of Goddess Lakshmi, their president thought. He decided to be more punctual and regular to the ancient Balaji temple in New Jersey. This is America and you don’t get temples of all kind for all Gods. There is a single window policy as far as prayers in America are concerned. Any God can be prayed at any temple and the wishes reached Him through internal courier.

Back in India, Balaji came back from the Physician’s clinic, where he had gone to get treated for viral fever, and hit the bed immediately. Balaji liked the Doctor but was also jealous of his ironed dress, clean hands and confident demeanor. One day, he said to himself, I will become a bigger doctor. Balaji was not unmindful of the fact that he did his Bachelor’s in Engineering which effectively ruled out any possibility of him becoming a doctor. He was also not unmindful of the fact that in India everything is possible. “I will become a Doctor and make more money than that physician and have cleaner hands too”. He slept off.

Next morning Balaji was feeling much better. He walked out of the house and was walking to the bus stop. He had to meet couple of friends and decide on the strategy to adopt for getting a job in India. As he crossed the lonely mad man at the corner of the street talking to himself, he saw one cloth banner tied between a tree and a lamp post. “Get a H1 and Go to the U of S A. Reelize your dreams. Work on lastest computar flatform” it read. He got interested. “May be I should give it a shot”, Balaji thought and duly noted down the address of the ‘foreign consultant’. There was no phone number. Not that Balaji could have called if there was one. Balaji walked with renewed vigor and soon was at the bus stop waiting for the bus that’d take him to his friends with a brand new idea. Six hours later, Balaji was at the roadside café with his friends discussing about their future. The friends liked Balaji’s idea and decided to go meet the consultant.

The ‘foreign consultant’ saw a bunch of young men walking into his office. He reached out quickly and put on his sun glasses. The room was already dark and he could hardly make anything out. But some professions demanded sun glasses, whether they demanded sun or not. After few hours of boasting about America and life there, he finished the job formalities for the young men. Balaji and friends left the place with a smile on their face. They had submitted their job applications and it is only a matter of time before they all boarded the train to Madras for an interview at the US consulate for a H1 Visa.

“So you intend to come back from the US once the years are converted to four digits. Do you?” the consular officer had a stern look and tone. He had no idea why he was talking to Balaji. He was told to give Visas to all people who stepped into the consulate at every 15th minute of the hour. Luckily, Balaji stepped in at 1015. He had to be given a Visa. “I will come back when all the years at the great American financial institution are four digits, sir”. Balaji felt proud making such a statement. It showed commitment and purposefulness. He had no idea what he had to do when he reaches America. The consultant gave him a list of answers that sounded good for any question. The consultant knew that neither Balaji or for that matter anyone else in India would understand the American accent. The consular officer was happy that he finally found someone who not only qualified the “entry time” criteria but also said something that sounded relevant. The officer had no idea what Balaji said but he granted him a Visa anyways.

Years rolled by. Balaji now visits India once every two years and dutifully falls sick. The first time around he went back to the Physician’s clinic. He couldn’t stand the crowd but had to sit through anyway because he wanted to show off his success to the Doctor. When it was finally his turn to meet the Doctor, he was shocked. “Is this the same man I admired all those years ago?” he wondered. The hands looked unhygienic and he just couldn’t stand the Doctor’s superior attitude. “I am just visiting India for two weeks and need to be fit as soon as possible” he thrust extra information on the Doctor. The physician was getting impatient. “Who is this guy talking like this to me?” he thought. But he realized from the way Balaji spoke that he had lot of money to spend. He decided to scare him a bit and make him spend a little more – the age old Doctor’s trick. So he gave some useless medicine to Balaji and asked him to return the next day. “You will be fit like a fiddle” the Doctor tried to connect with Balaji in English. Balaji looked triumphant when he stepped out of the clinic. I am getting special care because the Doctor respects me and my success, he thought. He doesn’t convert two digits to four anymore and that showed in his body language.

Balaji visited the physician eight times during his two week stay in India.The physician started off treating Balaji for viral fever but asked him to get X-Rayed, just in case. Consequently, the doctor suspected a short throat leading to rapid breathing cycles and then he suspected potential congenital anatomical malformation of heart. Balaji went through CT Scan, Village Scan, MRI and NRI ('must be special for those expat Indians'), CAT scan, MOUSE scan ('More like Tom & Jerry. This is to check your funny bone', the doctor explained) - all of which proved that Balaji was healthy - though inconclusively, as the Doctor explained Balaji. "We will go for more tests when you come back to India", he assured Balaji. On the final visit, as he stepped out of the Gynaecologist's office, Balaji wondered at the attention to detail and the holistic approach of the Indian medical system.

Each time he paid off with a smile the consulting fees and the charges for various tests conducted on the four hundred and twenty body parts. The Doctor was happy that he found a novel way of making quick money. “I don’t need to see hundreds of these real patients every day if one Balaji is always visiting my clinic” he told his wife. He asked his wife to stop teaching Biology to their only son and focus more on mathematics. “He needs to learn computers”.

The physician met his friends over the weekend and told them about Balaji. “You know, all we need to do is to come with novel ways of scaring the Balajis of the world and you can just mint money”, he professed. The Doctors consulted among themselves and decided that they are not givers of health anymore. “Let us all sell scare”, they resolved. They roped in their friends and partners who were running pharmacies and diagnostic centers to be part of the grand strategy. “The overall strategy is to sell scare while there could be interim tactics to trade emotions and some real medicine” the meeting proclaimed. “Soon there are going to be millions of Balajis in this country and this is the right way to go about it” they all decided.

And so, vendors of care became vendors of scare. They also found a need to create the right ambience lest the Balajis feel insulted about the kind of facilities Indian hospitals have when compared with the ones in America. So they built super malls of medical treatment. They decided to call them ‘corporate super specialty’ hospitals though the people who get treated in them would have preferred the term ‘Malls of Misery’.

The anti-Indian board member of the large American banking institution still did not figure why he sees more “Indians” on the streets of America and how come none of them have feathers. “Must be something the CEO did”, he decided.

Niren

PS: This is just a reaction to the pain my 20 day old daughter had been put thru by some of these vendors of scare at one of the malls of misery – all because we were a bit extra sensitive to her well being. I don’t mean to comment on the medical profession in general.