Window Seat Scribbles

  This morning, while on a phone call with my mother to check up on a family friend admitted in hospital with Covid-19, my mother happened to casually remark –“He is on ventilator since the past few days, you know how they simply keep patients on ventilators anyway for days on end…” I immediately retorted, “What do you mean, they keep patients on ventilators? You think they have any other choice when dealing with a critical patient?” This off the cuff remark, however casual, just reflected the deep mistrust most of people in this country have for doctors, especially the ones who practice allopathic medicine. Following the surge of Covid cases in India this year, the ICUs filled up fast and quick, more rapidly than anyone was prepared for. What we witnessed was no less than a tragedy of epic proportions unfolding before our very eyes, on our TV screens- or as far as doctors are concerned- everyday at work. That we were unprepared is no secret, and amidst the cries calling for account

  For weeks on end now, Indian news channels have followed – or rather, hounded- the case of an unfortunate and untimely death of a movie star with the persistence of a bank exceutive trying to sell you a credit card and the sensitivity of a sledgehammer. Many articles have since cropped up on both sides of the table-debating, analysing and ultimately ruing at what has come to pass for “journalism” these days- and with news channels crossing every ethical limit possible, the reproach is somewhat understandable. The antics of the anchors on the primetime news vary from outrageous, absurd, scandalous, sleazy to downright unintentionally comic, but this is hardly surprising to anyone who has been following popular Indian news channels for a few years now.   I have stopped watching primetime news altogether simply because I acknowledge that almost all of it is politically sponspored propaganda one way or the other aimed to distract people from asking real questions about real issues, with

Ever since Covid-19 broke out and disrupted our lives as we knew it, there has been an outpouring of gratitude for healthcare workers all over the world. It has been no different in India. From banging vessels to showering flowers, we have been at the receiving end of it all. One would think that would make us feel nice that our efforts are (finally) acknowledged. Unfortunately, it doesn’t.  It’s not about working without adequate protective gear. Many of us realise that PPE is a genuine logistical nightmare for even some of the first world countries , and to get PPEs for all doctors in a country with a doctor patient ratio as screwed up as ours was never going to be a cakewalk. It also isn’t about doctors or nurses being thrown out of their homes by landlords, nor is it about stones and abuses being hurled at healthcare workers responsible for community screening. Simply because doctors in India have always been so demonised, so deeply mistrusted, so taken for granted that all o

It is a Sunday morning. I wake up lazily around 8.30 am (which is two hours later than my usual), not sleep deprived and groggy for a change. A relaxed breakfast with the husband over discussions about the morning news followed by some chores and on to cooking a typical Sunday lunch of mutton curry and rice, which compels us to give in to the temptation of an afternoon siesta. The evening is spent enjoying some me-time – reading or calling up friends and family. Sounds like any usual Sunday, doesn’t it? Not for us. This, is something I haven’t been able to do (with or without Covid-19 wreaking havoc worldwide) for the longest time. For those who don’t know me, I and my husband are doctors currently working in Kerala. We moved here around 7 months ago from Assam for my husband’s three year superspeciality course. What with him being a first year DM resident and me working as an Assistant Professor in a medical college here, we both hardly get any time to spend with each other. Th

"Sister, when will the Doctor be here?", asked a middle aged man. I turned from my examination table, where I was examining a six year old boy, and replied, " I am the doctor, how can I help you?". The man looked at me doubtfully - I was in a salwar kameez with my stethoscope around my neck - and repeated - " No but Sister, I need my child to be seen by a Doctor  Sir".   This is only one of the many incidents that I- as well as most of my young female colleagues at work- go through on a daily basis. Young female doctors get mistaken for nurses all the time, although the nursing staff always has a specific uniform. The young male doctors, however, do not encounter any such confusion. I have no idea whether I can label this as casual sexism or pure ignorance, but people across social and economic spectrums tend to address female doctors as "Sister" as opposed to "Madam". The men, however, get to be "Sir" throughout.  S

As a lanky young girl in her late teens who first stepped into Medical School, I gawked in horror when I was told that I was supposed to wear sarees to classes for a month or so as part of the college tradition for all Freshers. That the whole saree thing was to be accompanied by drippingly oiled hair parted in the middle and braided with the ends tied with fluorescent orange and green ribbons is another story in itself, of course. But for the eighteen year old me, who didn't really care how she looked, the oiled hair wasn't an issue as much as the saree was - simply because I had absolutely no clue how to drape one.  Cut to a little over a decade later, as a newly married woman, the women of my husband's family and extended family are pleasantly surprised as to just how comfortably I drape my sarees, not requiring the help that was very generously offered by a bevy of aunts and sisters in law. Somewhere in these past few years, I fell in love with this quintessential