The No Nonsense Nation Series: A Stone’s Throw from Wisdom

By Dr. Shishir Srivastav

Physician | Founder – Vaccine Buddy | Editor – isaychaps.com

India is a land of plenty — plenty of people, plenty of opinions, and an overabundance of unfiltered knowledge. Knowledge fountains erupt from every ‘pan shop‘, podcast panel, WhatsApp group, and YouTube comment section. Everyone’s a guru now — even when they don’t know the difference between the uterine cervix and the cervical spine.

But perhaps the most unusual knowledge gurus I’ve encountered don’t wear white coats or hold MBBS degrees. They drive trucks.

Yes, truckers — India’s unsung philosophers — dispense life advice with the casual flair of Ghalib and the grit of Gabbar. Their wisdom is scrawled in fluorescent paint across the backs of dusty lorries, slicing through highways and illusions alike.

One message, seen on the Delhi–Meerut Expressway, hit harder than any journal editorial:

“If hard work pays, show me a rich donkey!”
Raw. Rude. Real.

And far more honest than most annual healthcare reports.

The Case:

Last summer, on a hot, sticky afternoon that could melt logic and liver alike, I rushed into my hospital. An emergency call had come — a middle-aged patient was writhing in pain, vomiting, and complaining of urinary discomfort. Classic ureteric colic.

His two attendants looked more anxious than he did. The younger one flaunted a fancy phone, wore designer goggles indoors, and carried a fragile ego stitched together with brand logos. His female companion matched his designer dread — manicured, impatient, and visibly unimpressed.

After administering pain relief, I sat them down for a counselling session — the kind that should ideally build understanding.

But over the years, I’ve come to realize that trusting your doctor should now be listed under endangered human virtues — right alongside attention span and humility.

A few minutes later, the sonography confirmed an obstructing ureteric stone.

“Ultrasound mein to stone aa raha hai? Ab kya?”

“Surgery,” I replied. “That’s the definitive treatment.”

“Yahan sab facility hai?” came the younger man’s interrogation — not of curiosity, but of concealed condescension.

I gave him my templated truth:

“No, this isn’t a tertiary care centre. But we do these surgeries routinely. And yes, you’re right — we don’t have everything. No one does. But here, it’ll cost around ₹35–40k.”

They looked at each other. Smirks were exchanged. Then came the final blow:

“Yeh jagah itne paise ke layak nahi lagti.”

And they left. Off to chase the air-conditioned illusion of better medicine.

Since it was only an emergency consult and my OPD wasn’t due to start until evening, I returned home. On the way, I glanced out the window. A truck passed slowly. Painted in loud yellow and red, as if written by fate’s own hand, were the words:

“Ya to youn hi chaalegi!”

The slogan of every Indian institution, relationship, and sometimes — kidney.

The Return of the Enlightened Stone Bearer

A month later, his name popped up in my OPD list: DJ stent removal.

This time, he came alone. No iPhone-wielding knight. No doubt-lobbing sidekick. Just him — thirty days older, and perhaps thirty insights wiser.

After the removal, I asked casually,

“So… how did the surgery go?”

He smirked — the smirk of someone who’s been to the other side and returned with both the receipt and the regret.

“Surgery theek ho gayi. Bada hospital tha. Posh interiors. Aur of course… bada bill.”

He lingered on the word bada as if it needed subtitles.

“How much?” I asked.

“Do lakh rupaye,” he said, matter-of-factly.

I nearly gasped. But I modulated my voice like a seasoned monk of medicine.

“But you had insurance, right?”

He nodded.

“Insurance se 1.7 lakh ho gaya. Co-payment 30 hazaar. Aur DJ stent nikaalne ke liye 18 hazaar alag se maang rahe the.”

He paused, then delivered the punchline with unintentional irony:

“Jo yahan de ke surgery karwa lete, wahi paisa wahan bhi gaya — sirf zyada wait aur zyada show ke saath.”

I didn’t say “I told you so.”

The stent removal already had enough satisfaction packed in it.

nd as he walked out, I looked out at the afternoon haze beyond my hospital gate. A slow-moving truck crawled past, its rear battered but its message bold:

“No one remains a virgin. Life fucks everyone.”

On your next highway drive, .If you spot a gem, share it. Truck philosophy is the country’s original TED Talk — with no slides, no stage, and no mercy.