I am a doctor’s daughter. When your father is a doctor, you grow up amidst stories of patients, patient behavior,  diseases , medical representatives and loads of medical  journals all over the house. I don’t recall ever wishing my father on doctor’s day , father’s day, or even on his birthday.  My father fell ill, very seriously ill twenty five years ago, and the medical  profession he had lived for couldn’t give him a second  chance. So I miss him ever since, I miss him everyday and on these special days I want him to know that  “Baba, you were special “. I want to write about a few of the stories I have grown up hearing . They are the sweet and sour stories of a doctor who chose to practice medicine in a small town instead of shifting to the big city.

Warisaliganj was the name of the place where my parents lived,  the place where I grew up till I had to be sent away to Kolkata for better education. Kolkata made me the person I am today but my fondest memories still go back to that small place called Warisaliganj. But this story is about Baba and his patients.

Since the town was very small Baba had opened  a pathological laboratory within the premises of his chamber. Little did he know that one of his naive patient would one day land up with a ‘mithai ka handi’ filled with his morning job’s  sample and place it on the doctor’s table with a victorious smile. Baba had just about started scolding the person for getting him rasgulla when he was stopped short and was told about the contents within the handi, it was a sample for the path-lab! Needless  to say what happened after that ,but my poor Baba lost his appetite for handi full of rasgulla forever.

In the seventies, the small towns and villages of Bihar were often attacked by dacoits in true Gabbar Singh style. The ‘gaon walo ‘ would run indoors, shut all doors and windows and wait for the bombarding  to stop , which was an indication that the  dacoits had left. No one ever dared open a door or come out to help anyone. But a doctor’s door is open at all times without any discrimination towards the patients. One such night, when the dacoits were raiding our town , amidst  bombardment someone rang our bell loud and sharp and insistently. Baba opened the door, only to find two armed dacoits in black clothing with their faces masked standing there. They had not come to rob us, we were not wealthy enough to be robbed ! They had come to take Baba to their adda/ thikana ( whatever you may call it ) to treat a fellow dacoit who had suffered  bullet injuries. Yes, my Baba had to go that night with the dacoits. They blind folded him before starting their jeep. I still remember the extreme agony and tension Ma went through that night, though quite young I too stayed up the night with Ma waiting for Baba to come back home. Baba returned home in the early hours of the morning .Though such incidents were never again repeated in our life but Baba loved to recall this hair raising experience in light jest and call himself “Daku ka Doctor.”

If poverty is a curse, being poor and sick is a bigger curse. I understand now the immense sense of purpose Baba must have had to spend his life amidst the poor, to give them access to healthcare they otherwise might not have received. He spent many nights in small huts to be next to his ailing patients. His resources as a doctor were not many in that small town. Many patients had to be referred to the bigger hospitals in the adjoining district towns, but Baba stayed on with grit and determination. Another extreme story of poverty had left its mark on my childhood  memory. During a house visit to a seriously ill patient Baba noticed the man of the house leaving  home stealthily with ‘pital ‘ utensils. On being asked he admitted of not having any money, he planned to sell his utensils to pay for the medicines. Baba paid the medicine bills for many such patients. He had set up an arrangement with the medicine shop. He would write the word “free patient” on top of the prescription,  this was a code for  the shopkeeper to understand that the bills would be paid by the doctor himself and not the patient party. His diagnostic expertise and selfless dedication made him the most famous doctor amongst many districts of Bihar. People thronged from far and wide for their faith in his medicine.  What Baba earned in cash fell short to what he earned in kind. He earned trust, he earned goodwill, he earned the blessings of people who didn’t have much to give.

These stories were not meant for the world to know,  these  stories were not meant to sing his praise. These stories are of my Baba, who just lived a simple life being truthful to the oath he had taken once as a medicine man. Ending my story here with a last funny note. When my Baba and Ma left Warisaliganj and came back home to Kolkata to start their retired life, his chamber did not shut down. Baba’s very accomplished  compounder continued  practicing ( as a quack doctor ) in the same chamber with “Dr. Chakladar” written on the board. Many admonishing letters were sent his way, whether to any avail or not, we do not know.

Thank you Doctors, health care providers, and scientists.  Thank you for holding our hands all through the pandemic raging days. A big salute to our real life super-men and super-women.