(A Survival Guide for the Newly Reincarnated Doctor)
Look at you — young blood, fiery enthusiasm, and freshly descended in this era of chaos — a true Kaliyug Avatar! Naturally, you must establish your divine presence… I mean, open your temple — sorry, I meant hospital. Why not? If the youth won’t step forward, who’ll heal this aching nation?
Now, people still like to say “Doctors are Gods in disguise.” You’ll find some folks who will even say this to your face — while slapping it. Yes! Right amidst a glorious beating or a poetic shoe-throwing session, they’ll still yell: “You know what? Doctors are gods!”
That’s how I got fooled into this profession. But you, my friend? Turns out you’re not a god — you’re a full-blown demon, a looter in a lab coat!
So, you’re planning to open a hospital? Noble thought. After all, every god needs a temple. Just make sure your temple is modern.
See, nowadays it’s common — private temples of these so-called gods (hospitals) are frequently vandalized. So, while saving the patient is noble, saving yourself is wiser. Build your temple like a fortress: iron grills, thick walls, a moat if possible. Forget aesthetics — think Game of Thrones meets Emergency Ward.
“What about windows for air and sunlight?” you ask.
Ha! Dear sir, in today’s temples, fresh air is subject to the devotion of patients. If they feel like it, they might cut off the air and your oxygen supply. You may or may not get light, but there’s always a higher chance of stones, sticks, and sometimes, bullets.
Install CCTV cameras everywhere. And don’t forget the holy scripture — a shining signboard beneath each:
“You are under surveillance.”
It’s less of a security measure, more of a jackal’s howl. Still, when the breaking begins, at least the police will have some footage to sip tea over. And since you’re a Kaliyug God now, even the cops will say, “Who would dare hit a god?”
Then some genius might quip — “Maybe the doc got his own hospital wrecked for the insurance claim!”
Mock drills? Absolutely necessary. But not for fire or earthquake.
No, no — practice drills should focus on rage mobs and mayhem prevention strategies.
I’d say: cut down on nursing staff, but for heaven’s sake, hire at least two bouncers. Park them at the entrance like temple lions. And keep a speed-dial list of local unemployed goons — handy muscle, on-call rage tamers. They work by the hour — flexible plans available.
Don’t forget the panic buttons. Stick them on walls like family photos. Throw in a few sirens too. But use them sparingly — ring them too often, and instead of relatives, your neighbors will come first to vandalize your divine abode.
Worry not. You’re not alone. Insurance companies now offer special post-riot, post-death, and post-lawsuit packages. There are even “Out of Court Settlement Experts” — the new temple priests. Invest generously. The bigger the premium, the safer your shrine.
Also, do put up huge boards detailing the specific laws meant to protect hospitals. Frame them like divine commandments. So that every patient walking in feels like they’ve entered both a hospital and a police station. A two-for-one enlightenment.
At the very least, let the angry mob know exactly which sections of the law they’ve just broken.
Now you’re new in town, so first — meet your “staff.”
Feed them, wine them, “Daaru-Sharu” your way in.
No, no — not doctors. They’re your fraternity.
I’m talking about your real staff — Municipal officers, police, lawyers, politicians, sanitary inspectors…
Without appeasing this holy brigade with saam-daam-dand-bhed, no hospital stands a chance.
Study the scriptures of modern-day health rituals:
“Weekly Protection Money,” “Random FIRs,”
“Wrong Injections,” “Patient Dies,” “News Camera Arrives,”
“Protest Outside,” “Hospital Broken,” and finally…
“Compensation Negotiation.”
I’ll refer you to a seasoned lawyer — pricey, but a man of faith… in settlements.
All this, I was explaining to a budding orthopedic surgeon who sought my advice on starting a hospital.
He said, “You’ve given years to this field — do bless me with some experience.”
But as I spoke, I saw doubt cloud his face — maybe he thought I was discouraging him.
Perhaps he feared I’d open my own hospital and steal his bread and butter.
“जब डॉक्टर को भगवान मानने वाले, मंदिर यानी अस्पताल पर पत्थर बरसाते हैं — Kaliyug Healthcare Manual, now with bouncers, panic buttons, and DJ-proof walls!”
Just then, my OPD walls started trembling — as if an earthquake hit.
I looked outside — a wedding DJ, probably playing in fifth gear, was doing his best to bring down the building with Baja Baaja Bhakti.
This is routine for us.
The road outside is broad — perfect for a barat to dance their souls out.
Outside my hospital is a sign:
“No Horn Please — Hospital Zone.”
But who reads that?
If you want to put up a “No DJ Please” sign, you’ll need official permission!
And if you oppose the DJ, you’re anti-culture!
Come on! How dare you stop a groom from becoming a husband?
It’s Indian tradition — be it wedding, funeral, or religious procession —
Not an inch moves without a DJ.
Inside, patients were panicking like it’s a terror attack.
My feet too were itching to dance to the beats of DJ Devastation.
Turning to the young doctor, I said:
“You must be bored of my sermon by now. Let’s go out and join the wedding.
Let’s shake a leg in a stranger’s baraat, become ‘Abdul in someone else’s wedding’!”
He stared at me, dumbstruck by this unexpected comic twist.
Then I added:
“Doctor saab, if you ever build a hospital — make sure the walls are not only vandal-proof but also soundproof.
You may claim it’s for patient comfort, but the real reason?
You want to stay close to a police station!”
If you build it outside the city?
Good luck. Just like fuel pumps and toll booths — hospitals in lonely places are perfect for loots and riots.
So, tell me — am I helping him or not?
Once upon a time, they said —
“Want revenge? Push him into politics.”
Now we say —
“Want someone to suffer? Help them open a hospital.”