රෝහලයි වෙදකමයි

Beta ji, mainu taan eh lagda hai—sarkari hospital da ilaaj vi changa hunda hai, par dawa da paisa apni jebon kadna painda. Pichle mahine mera knee operation hoya si, Ludhiana de civil hospital vich, 500 rupay di surgery. Par jadon bairaj di bottle lai ke aaya, naal di medical store ch 800 rupay di painkiller di bottle vi lai ke aayi. Eh ki fair hai? Jeppe Punjab vich kisan da putar engineering parh sakda, taan sarkar nu chahida hai ke dawa vi mufat kare—nahi taan sirf gareeb di kamar tootdi rehndi.

बस स्टैंड पर सुबह की चाय पी रहा था कि रमेश काका मिले—बेटी को आयुर्वेदिक अस्पताल ले गए थे, पेट की तकलीफ थी। डॉक्टर ने बिना किसी जाँच के 'वात-पित्त बिगड़ा' कहकर दो महीने की दवा लिख दी। मैंने पूछा, 'काका, पहले कभी ये दवा लग

I saw the long queue for paracetamol at the pharmacy this week. Sngewbha, if we had one more counter open during peak hours, wouldn't it sort the wait and let my nurses get back to their wards faster? Sometimes the simplest fix is right there, khublei.

Last week when I went to the govt hospital to get my old fountain pen’s nib repaired—yeah, I asked the compounder, no shame, yaar—he said the stock of basic penicillin shots had been out for three days. The new private clinic down the road has AC and free Bisleri, but the queue of people who still walk past it to wait two hours for that same shot, that’s a state of mind bhai, a trust you don’t buy with UV sterilizers. Paper and ink I understand; this gap between what should be and what is, that hurts more than any rent hike.

I was filling my father’s prescription at the government hospital pharmacy today, watching the long, quiet queue, and the name Umar Khalid came to mind. It makes me think of all the young minds we lose, to prisons or to loans, while the real sickness of inequality goes untreated. We just keep waiting in line, for medicine and for justice.

Last month when my sister had fever, I took her to the district hospital instead of the private clinic — the nurse there remembered my father from his government service days, and she gave us the medicine without any bill. Kasoo hota? Yes, but the waiting room had a fan that worked and a peepal tree outside where the bulbuls sang. Some say the government hospitals are all rot, but that day the system did its job, and for a moment I felt the state working the way it should.

The old clock in our verandah, which I finally repaired last week, keeps better time than the Vasco clinic's appointment system. They mean well, but the fattko for my mother to get her arthritis medicine each month is real. Still, seeing the young nurse explain the dosage so patiently to her, in our Konkani, I think of the proverb – a good system is judged by how it treats its oldest clock.

ගිය සතියේ පොඩ්ඩාට අඩි හතරේ උණ ඇවිත් හෙට්ටුකන්දේ රජයේ රෝහලට ගියා. එළිමහනේ පැය දෙකක් ඉඳලා බෙහෙත් හොයාගෙන ගෙදර එද්දී පරණ කොංකනි ගීතයක් ඇහුණා වාගේ දැනුණා — ටිකෙන් ටික අහිමි වෙන ඒ හඬත්, මෙතන බෙහෙත් කවුන්ටරේ ඉස්සරහා හැමදාම දකින ඉවසීමේ රෝගී පේළියත් එකම කතාව කියනවා. ගමේ ආයුර්වේද පොත් ටික දූවිලි වැටිලා තියෙනවා, අම්මා කියනවා "පරණ දොස්තර මහත්තයා සි

This morning after my shift, I saw the talk about Jana Nayagan on the TV in the cante

My mother still remembers the old Shillong of the 1960s, before everything got so carved along lines. She was shelling kwai last evening and remarked that the Sangh's people never came to our hill—they were busy with their own maps of the nation. I thought of our government school's roof: we have no funds to mend it, yet there is always money for flags and processions. I would rather see a line in the state budget for tarpaulins than for another rally.

Neha Bora's story—it hit close, baba. My sister's final year pharmacy practicals, every rupee I save from night shifts is for that. Government hospital in Mapusa took three hours just to register her friend's mother last month. Same old story: the ones with least can't afford the wait. We need better roads, faster ambulances, not just fancy signboards. Kitem time wasted, kitem lives

Last night, a young fellow came in with his mother—high fever, not eating for two days. The junior doctor wanted to start a new-brand antibiotic right away, but I said, let her try the old boiled neem water first and a simple paracetamol. By dawn, her fever was down. Sometimes our grandmothers' wisdom does

My granddaughter had a persistent cough, and the government clinic's wait was very long. We tried a simple kashayam from our neighbour aunty — turmeric, tulsi, black pepper — and it brought relief in two days. Sometimes the old home ways work with a little patience, haan.

My cousin’s boy had a fever that wouldn’t break, yaar. We tried the local clinic’s medicine for two days, but then my wife insisted on the old *desi* recipe with tulsi and kali mirch. The fever broke that night. Sometimes, what our grandmothers knew still works better than the free tablets.