For the past three weeks, I have made a series of harrowing visits to various hospitals. My breathlessness has taken the form of allergic asthma, I have been told. Even as I write this, I am going in for a laryngoscopy. I am now in Kolkata – the city where I was born. Where we return annually for Durga Puja, to post happy pictures on Facebook, to stuff our faces with phuchkas, cakes from Flury’s, to buy expensive Jamdani sarees, and to cruise by the filthy waters of the Ganges. The only saving grace –the romance of the setting sun takes away some of the grime. I write this article not just as someone who feels deeply let down by the state of health services in the city, but by the state itself.

Down and Out

I am admitted at Fortis, Kolkata, considered to be one of the best super speciality hospitals: on night one I was rushed there, in the throes of a deadly spasm, only to be met by a rather burly lady doctor, who, after giving me the usual nebuliser and a chest X-Ray, asks me whether I want admission, because unless I am likely to “pop it”, I must clear out, pronto.

The attack can kill you, as those of you familiar with asthma would know. I was scared to leave right then, wanting to feel better. But the lady doctor kept asking me to decide. The hospital, as we later discover, allows us to spend up to four hours in the ER for a sum of Rs 1,200. Then why the constant pressure?

The attack can kill you, as those of you familiar with asthma would know. I was scared to leave right then, wanting to feel better. But the lady doctor kept asking me to decide. The hospital, as we later discover, allows us to spend up to four hours in the ER for a sum of Rs 1,200. Then why the constant pressure?

Kill Pill

At one point, my mother, a 66-year-old heart patient, had to run around with my uncle’s driver to buy medicines from the pharmacy – the one on the ground floor of the hospital had shut because it was way past their bedtime (midnight).

She then rushed to the second-floor pharmacy, where the pharmacists were found snoring, and needed to be woken up. Meanwhile, the doctor continued to ask me if I wished to stay.
This time, I snapped, “Look, I know the emergency room is for critical patients, and I’m sorry I am not suffering a heart failure or about to die on you, but no one rushes to the ER if they were hunky dory. Besides, my mother has to reimburse the medicines you used (an archaic ER practice that can easily be changed to patients being charged for whatever medicines/injections used for them to save them the harassment).”
I suddenly began to hear whispers that the next day was a trade union bandh and doctors would be hard to find – as rare as taxis and buses. Violence is expected.

The Emergency Room at Fortis does not have a 24-hour pharmacy. (Photo: iStock)