Hospitals in India: Where Faith Goes to Die (and Bills Go to Multiply)

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I’ve realised one thing: if something isn’t written in your kismat, don’t chase it. I lost my grandfather, my father, and then someone I thought would be like a father. I had to watch his spirit crumble under disease. Painful? Yes. But the bigger slap? Realising in India, grief comes with GST.

We pay more tax than we earn peace of mind. But do we use government hospitals? No. Government schools? No. The one thing we do use — the roads — are basically obstacle courses designed by Satan. Yet we still live here, shrugging and saying “chalta hai.”

Hospitals: The Real Haunted Houses

Step inside an Indian hospital and you’ll instantly feel it — that sinking thought: maybe dying at home would’ve been less painful. Because here, hospitals aren’t places of healing, they’re theatres of absurd comedy. And the actors? Our “Bhagwan” doctors.

But let’s be honest. Bhagwan at least listens sometimes. Doctors? They’re busy running a consultancy empire — five hospitals, ten private clinics, pharma lunches, and a side hustle on Practo. And we still call them God. God must be like, “Excuse me? Don’t drag me into this mess.”

Doctors are human. They study like MBA aspirants, architects, engineers. Passing exams doesn’t make all of them genius healers. Some are toppers. Some are backbenchers. And when the backbencher has your life in their hands, you pray extra hard.

The Great Illness Masquerade

If you’ve got a cataract or gall bladder issue, chill — they’ll fix it like changing a tyre. But if you’ve got something complicated? Get ready for “Doctor Naming Ceremony.” Your illness will collect more nicknames than a Bollywood star.

First it’s septic shock. Then infection. Then UTI. By next week — surprise! You have TB. Meanwhile, you’re paying for daily scans nobody even glances at. An intern will waltz in, flip your file, and declare like an astrologer, “Sir, you’ve had UTI for seven days.” Fantastic. Who knew modern medicine was basically guessing games with a bill attached?

The Blood Thinner Tragedy

This one’s a classic. You’re on blood thinners. Doctor says, “Stop them, we’ll do surgery.” You stop. Doctor vanishes. Nobody tells you when to restart. Suddenly, you’re paralysed, speech gone, leg gone, brain buffering. Family whispers, “Karma tha. Khandan ki kismat kharab.” No, aunty. It wasn’t karma. It was Dr. Forgetful who skipped a line in the script.

Lawsuits? Nice Joke.

Can you sue? Of course not. Doctors have deeper pockets than Ambani’s parking garage. They’ll drown you in paperwork, excuses, and sympathy while your case dies a slow death. They’re consulting in five hospitals and ten private clinics. By the time you even think of suing, you’ll need another doctor. And round we go.

Final Diagnosis

So, I’ve decided: I don’t trust doctors. Don’t want to see their faces. If I need entertainment, I’ll watch a stand-up comedy show. At least there, when someone kills… it’s just the joke.