Death of a Doctor

Kirpal Singh was a self made physician. Driven by a desire to cure a skin condition for his sister, he started researching into the topic. Once he succeeded at curing her, he set out to cure others. Before long, he was a well known homeopathic physician in Delhi. My parents were ardent patrons, if there's such a thing for doctors.

For some reason, Dr. Singh was consulted as a last resort when I had a severe case of eczema of the scalp at about six years of age. He was as furious as a provider can possibly get with his customers (which is a lot in the medical profession, and a lot more for any profession in India). He cured me nevertheless. Took him three attempts, but it was a helluva shorter time than it took the others, and he did it like an artist. It was this wizardry, which comes only from extreme dedication to one's cause that propelled Dr. Singh from his humble beginnings to a renowned (and I understand, well paid) practitioner in a few years.

One evening, a few years later, my dad made the one hour journey to his clinic with my mom in tow. Being the methodical person that he is, dad had also called-in to the doctor to give a heads up on his arrival, especially since it'd be just pushing the clinic closing time. However, once my dad showed up at the clinic five minutes past the last appointment time, the doctor refused to see him.

Now given the amount of time patients with "appointments" wait for physicians, I'm not much of a fan of a physician who's not ready to cut his patients some slack. However, I'm ready to give the doctor the benefit of the doubt here - maybe it was his son's birthday, or maybe just a new year's resolution to be more considerate to his staff. However, his next remark is what I found most interesting. The doctor, came up with an impromptu analogy of how my dad's employer, the post office, probably wouldn't attend to anybody a minute past closing time either. My dad couldn't let the doc get away with the philosophical faux pas. The Post Office, my dad pointed out with due respect, charges five paise to carry a letter from Kashmir to Kanyakumari, and does so for millions of farmers, soldiers and mothers every day. So Doctor, with all due respect, there's no way in the world that you can ever compare your insignificant practice to the Post Office in any manner whatsoever.

The doc had nothing more to say. My dad never consulted with him again.

Would you pee on a friend's wound?

Back when antisceptics weren't a household commodity (and even today, wherever antisceptic isn't found in a bottle on the shelf), human urine was the disinfectant of choice. Pity the villager who gets bit by a snake just as soon as he's done taking a leak. His only hope would be for a true friend to happen to be just passing by, so he can bless his pal with some fresh warm brine.

Random musings of an international man

There are some experiences in life that you don't quite know for sure how to describe. Saying goodbye at the airport is one of them. It's bitter not because you're not going to see someone you love for some time, but because there's the uncertainity of whether you'll ever see them again. It's got that sweet aspect of eager anticipation - sometimes of the journey and sometimes of the destination.

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The seats inside the Cathay plane were surprisingly small. Sitting in the middle seat, with the person in front of you reclined back, almost feels like being shut in a coffin. When an aircraft accident happens, there are precious few seconds in which everybody needs to make an escape before the smoke engulfs and incapacitates you. Seat 64F is not the position to be in if you hope to be one of those who makes it out in time. You try not to think about that, lean back your seat (passing on the dismay to the one behind you) and try to lose yourself in the hollywood flick flashing on the little LCD screen in front of you. All said and done, economics is the justification - a bit of discomfort and a gamble on life is well worth the roundtrip journey half the way across the world in under $1500.

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There's a reason that India is a country that specializes in services. Indians are humble by nature, and it takes humility to serve well. Hotels over here are the true epitome of luxury, with people ready to run practically any errand for you at your beck and call. As a side effect, however, one may expect to face what can be called a 'Service Attack'. You find people serving where they shouldn't, and multitudes where there should be just one. Leaving my hotel in Hyderabad for a flight to Delhi, I was mobbed by about 7 people when getting into my cab - all seven having had some part to play in facilitating the simple process of beckoning a cab and getting my modest luggage in there. None of these seven was the cab driver. It'd have been simpler to solve a level five Sudoku, than to figure out how much tip is deserved for the whole service and who should get what.