Nonsense Nation Series: Healthcare in India: Pandit First, Pediatrician Later

Nonsense Nation Series

Chronicling the Absurdities of Everyday India – One Ridiculous Episode at a Time

 

 

 

A few days ago, my wife—an obstetrician—received a call from one of her antenatal patients around 12:30 in the afternoon.

“Ma’am, I’m on my way. Are you in the OPD?”

“Yes, I am,” she replied.

But the patient never showed up.

 

At 5:30 PM, she called again—labour pains had started, she said, and she’d be reaching soon. Still, no sign of her. So, our receptionist rang her up.

“She’s on the way,” her husband said.

 

We waited. No one arrived. Finally, at 11 PM, we gave up and went to bed. But just as we began to slip into sleep, the phone rang—12:30 AM. The patient had finally arrived.

 

Naturally, my wife was upset. After a full day’s work, who wants to be woken up at midnight to deal with an overdue patient who thinks punctuality in labour is optional? Still, she dragged herself to the hospital.

The foetal heart was irregular. Meconium was present. Distress was evident. A C-section was performed without delay. The baby needed resuscitation and was shifted to the NICU.

By the time we returned home, it was 3:45 AM.

 

The next day, my wife asked her what caused the delay. And this, dear readers, is where it gets spiritual.

Apparently, her family had decided she must not be admitted to the hospital until their Panditji gave the go-ahead.

 

Yes, you read that right.

 

The husband had gone to consult Panditji in the afternoon, but he was busy. In the evening, he tried again—only to discover the priest was out celebrating his son’s birthday. Finally, when the stars aligned (or rather, when the priest’s dinner ended), the divine consultation took place around 10 PM. The advice? “Admit her after midnight.”

Thankfully, Panditji wasn’t out on a weekend trip to Nainital, or we might have ended up delivering in the back of an Uber.

 

But wait—the story doesn’t end here.

The next morning, the family was all smiles. The baby was safe. The mother had survived. Not thanks to the sleepless, sharp-eyed surgeon or the NICU team, mind you, but to Panditji’s divine grace.

And then came the final test of our patience—the billing.

“How can you charge for emergency services?” they demanded.

“We’ve been seeing your doctor for months! Delivery can happen anytime! This is unethical.”

Unethical?

We are a nation where a plumber demands payment before even lifting his wrench. A ventilator technician asks for ₹5,000 just to appear—with a 72-hour turnaround time. Try calling an electrician at 1 AM and see how much grace he offers you. But a doctor? A doctor must be omnipresent. Timeless. Tireless. And most importantly, guaranteed and cheap.

We are a nation where doctors are expected to work like God but get paid like government interns. And God forbid you invoke any compensation for midnight miracles—because all credit is already reserved for the likes of priests.

This wasn’t a delivery. It was a divine drama.

And the doctor? Just another side character.