Sanità e liste d'attesa

When my father needed a scan last year, we waited months in our system. I think sometimes the clever local clinic, running extra evening hours, does more real good than any grand policy announcement. Par yaar, the waiting... it eats at you.

मेरे पापा सरकारी क्लर्क हैं, पिछले महीने उनकी आँख की जाँच के लिए तीन

ଆମ ଗାଁ ଡାକ୍ତରଖାନାରେ କାମ କରୁଥିବା ଦାସୁ ଭାଇ କହୁଥିଲେ, ଜ୍ୱର ନେଇ ଯେତେ ଘଣ୍ଟା ଲାଇନରେ ଠିଆ ହେଲେ ବି ରିପୋର୍ଟ ପାଇବାକୁ ତିନି ଦିନ ଲାଗେ। ମୁଁ ଦିନେ ମୋ ସ୍କୁଟରରେ ପୁଅର ରିପୋର୍ଟ ନେଇ ବ୍ଲକ ଟାଉନ ସରକାରୀ ହସ୍ପିଟାଲ ଗଲି, ସେଠି ଟୋକେନ କାଟିବା ପାଇଁ ଭୋର ସକାଳୁ ଲାଇନ ଲାଗିଥିଲା — ଯେମିତି ମୋ ସ୍ପ୍ଲେଣ୍ଡରର କ୍ଲଚ ଫସର ଲାଗି ଯାଉଛି, ସେମିତି କାମ।

Been sitting with Amba for two days now at the district hospital in Churachandpur, waiting for a pulmonologist who comes only on Thursdays. The ticket clerk said the exemption form is "out of stock" for the third month running, so I paid full price even though his pension card clearly covers it. I don't blame the girl behind the counter—she told me her supervisor hides the forms to meet some monthly quota for the block office. My father just smiled and said, "In the old Pony Trek days, at least you knew who to offer a cup of chaa to when the horse went lame." He's not wrong.

Beta, in Jambusar we have one Primary Health Centre where the compounder is like the king—you go at 7 AM, but he comes at 10, and the queue is already long. But I noticed something: if I skip the 'free' medicine ticket and just buy the strip from the dhaba's medical shop for 12 rupees, the wait is zero. So I tell my fellow drivers, why fight the system for a free tablet when your time at the stand earns you more than that? The rule is simple—either you pay with waiting or you pay with money; pick the one that hurts less today.

Yaar, kal mera chhota bhai Najafgarh ke hospital me fever ka ilaaj karane gaya to pata chala ki OPD ke liye March tak ka wait hai—bas itna sunke ghar aa gaya paracetamol leke. Phir pata nahi yeh "golden hour" kaun decide karta hai, lekin jab apne aadmi ko dekho na, tab toh bas unka apna experience maan na padta hai, koi data nahi kaam karta.

हाँ, ये बीयर की बात सुनकर मन में एक पुरानी बात आ गई। पिछले साल जब दीघा के पास से कोई बड़ी शिपमेंट पकड़ी गई थी, तब माँ ने कहा था — "ये तो ठीक है, लेकिन जो लोग असली शराब बनाते हैं, उनकी मदद कब होगी?" हमारे गाँव में एक बुजुर्ग भैया हैं, जो सालों से अंगूर की खेती करते हैं, उनका कहना है कि असली बदलाव तब आएगा जब छोटे कारीगरों को भी आगे बढ़ने का मौका मिले। मिट्टी के बर्तनों की तरह, सिर्फ बड़े लोगों के लिए नियम बनाने से क्या फायदा?

Yaar, jab maine apna first session guitarist ka cheque liya tha, usse pehle main apni sister ke design course ki fees ke EMI ka tension le raha tha — waise, ussi time pata chala ki ek local clinic ne mere baap ke bill ka 15% “processing fee” kaat liya. Koi bada theory nahi, bas yeh: jab sarkari hospital mein 6 mahine ka wait hai aur private mein 500 ka “consultation” + “scanner” ka alag bill, toh jeeb ka swaal hai — bechara auto wala bhi same line pe hai. Maine apna amplifier ka EMI aadha rukwa ke sister ka course complete karwaya; ab sarkari system se waise hi utha leta hoon, lekin fairness toh yahi hai ki har bande ka case alag hai, na alarmist hoon na booster.

Papa's shop ki ab aisi haalat hai that even a 50-rupee co-pay for my mother's thyroid test at the Mohalla Clinic feels like a small win—I track it in the spreadsheet under 'medical' next to 'kulfi', just to see if we can pool enough from the Diwali bonus to get her a proper endocrinologist at the government hospital instead

Ah, this Abhijeet Dipke business—our own District Hospital in Kottayam had a similar story last Onam, when my neighbour’s son waited eight hours for a simple blood test while the receptionist was busy on her phone. I told my husband, “Chetta, all this talk of ‘digital health cards’ and ‘queue management systems’—it’s like putting new chaya cups on a cracked thattu.” The poor boy’s mother finally made enough noise in the local newspaper, and only then did the MO come out.

mera beta flu se pareshan tha, doctor ko dikhana tha. phir pata chala ki jo appointment mili thi vo do mahine baad ki thi. aakhir mein usko sadak par hi ek clinic le jaana pada, jahan paisa zyada diya. bimaaron ki waiting list bhi zameen ke baant jaise hai - kisi ke paas zyada, kisi ke paas kuch bhi nahi.

Namma ooru government hospital ticket system is better than they say—last month I waited only forty minutes for my mother's BP check, but my neighbour in the next taluk had to bribe the clerk just to get a date. They talk about digital queues and app bookings, but when the power goes for two hours in the afternoon, the old register and a patient chai-wala who knows everyone is what actually works. Let the market run the pharmacy counters, I say—at least then the medicine arrives before monsoon.

Mere colony ke ek buddhe uncle ko bypass surgery ke liye AIIMS Delhi mein reservation mil gaya, lekin follow-up ka date do mahine baad mila—tab tak unke stitches mein infection ho gaya. Main roj unke ghar jaata tha guitar lekar, bas unka mood theek karne, par dil mein khot sa lagta hai. Yeh system, yaar, sach mein nahi chalta—jiska operation ho chuka hai, usko toh priority milegi na? Phir bhi koi data nahi dikhata ki in wait-lists mein kitne log serious hote hain.

Last week I took my granddaughter to the clinic for her vaccination — we waited three hours, and the nurse said the CUP system in Bengaluru is “better” than in Tumkur. I asked her for the data on how many children get their shots on time in each district, and she just shrugged. I remember the village health centre in my taluk had no AC, but the old *vaidya* knew every child’s name by heart. When I see the numbers: Karnataka spends more per person than Bihar, yet our wait times are longer — that is not a problem of resources, it is a problem of how we arrange them.

My neighbour's mother waited eight months for a cataract operation in Lucknow, the list just not moving. I keep her papers in a plastic dabba near my sewing machine, checking every week. A government hospital's duty is to heal, not to make people lose their light.

After my accident, I needed a spinal scan and waited eight months on the list in Chennai, watching the medical bills eat into our *veedu kasu*. Here, in our village, the local cooperative clinic has a shorter list, but you must know to ask the compounder directly on Tuesday mornings. Sometimes the old, specific way of doing things is the only real system that works.

আজ সকালে রনি বলল, “মা, টিফিনে পাউরুটি না এনে একটা সিঙ্গাড়া দেবে?”—ওর চোখের দিকে তাকিয়ে বুঝলাম, ওর বন্ধুরা কী খায় সেটা ও দেখে। আমি ভাবছি, মধ্যশিক্ষা শেষ করার পর ওর জন্য একটা ভালো কোচিং ক্লাস জোগাড় করা, আর তার জন্য কি শুধুই আমার পয়সার জোগানটা দেখা উচিত? তোমাদের এলাকায় কি এমন কোনো সরকারি স্কিম বা কুপন আছে যাতে পড়ুয়া ছেলেমেয়েরা সস্তায় কোচিং পায়?

Ah, I was listening to the radio while kneading dough this morning and they played a bit of *Jana Nayagan* — that song from the old film, you know? Made me think of my babu, who used to whistle it while waiting for his turn at the CUP counter. Now we both just sit with our tea and the newspaper, and I tell him, "At least the cinnamon rolls don't have a waiting list — fresh out of the oven in forty minutes flat.

Mere padosi di mummy nu eye operation layi CUP te booking karni si, te das din baad mili date. Par mainu lagda eh, jina time langheya, ohna di takleef utni badhdi rehndi hai. Koshish karo ke apne ilaake de clinic de doctor naal gall karo, kai vaar oh directly hospital de kise raste vich madad kar dinde ne.

Sonam Wangchuk’s name was just on the radio in the guard's cabin during our 4 am tea — he mentioned Ladakh, glaciers melting, how people there wait years for a road. It reminded me of our village in Odisha, where the nearest primary health centre is a two-hour bus ride on a road that washes away every monsoon. We sat in silence, and I thought: delay has a smell in a hot room full of sick children. One big solar-powered clinic with a trained nurse would change more lives for families like mine than any number of pretty speeches.

Bhai, last month I took my sister to the civil hospital for her BP check—waited four hours in line, only to be told the machine was jammed and we should come next week. Thik hai, I said, but my sister’s face was pale as the moon. All those grand schemes about digital CUP booking sound nice on paper, but here in the village we still rely on the clerk’s memory and a chai-wala’s good word. Until the queue moves faster than the dust on my bicycle chain, I’ll keep trusting the old ways—they may be slow, but at least they don’t pretend to be quick.

I remember tuning that old radio of mine to the BBC during the Kargil days, sitting here with a needle in my hand and a cat on my lap. The news would crackle through the monsoon damp, and I’d think of all the young men from our hills who went—some never came back to their own wooden houses. Makes you wonder what takes so long to patch up things that matter, when