Healing, Humour &; Humanity: A Doctor writes!

    The Scheme  O ur second night in the AFMC hostel began with the kind of confidence that only first-term medical students possess,  an intoxicating mixture of innocence, exhaustion and supreme confidence . I ndeed, looking back, one might say that of the three ingredients,   innocence was the first to be shown the door, while confidence was merely waiting its turn.  The exhaustion would become a lifelong partner.     There were three of us in 5Mid3 room in the hostel. Me, Baba and B1 (Nicknames for keeping the identity confidential). The previous night had been spent in what AFMC generously called “orientation.” By the second night, we were so exhausted that even the thought of getting out of bed was an unreasonable demand. Sleep had stopped being a luxury. It was now a fundamental human right. Unfortunately, we had forgotten to inform the mosquitoes.     They launched a full scale offensive...     Under the barrage of mosqu...

  Every doctor has to be a beginner before becoming an expert.

I failed. All three subjects—Anatomy, Physiology, Biochemistry. So did 22 others. In all, 53 students out of 107 didn’t make it through First MBBS that year. But when your name is on the failure list, it doesn’t matter how many others are there with you. It feels solitary. Sharp. A personal verdict. At AFMC, failure isn’t just academic. It’s almost moral. We were told to report to the Dean’s conference. Everyone knew what that meant. Not a conversation—an indictment. The man we were about to face wasn’t just the Dean. He was a serving General. A towering figure—by position, presence, and reputation. He walked in with a file and a fixed expression. The room braced itself. One by one, he called out names of those who had failed. When he reached mine, he paused. “Atul Jha,” he said. His gaze lifted. “You’re the son of Col Jha, aren’t you?” “Yes, sir,” I replied. A flicker of familiarity crossed his face—recognition not just of the name, but of its weight. He and my father had ...

     It had been a long, draining day. My head was full of problems that seemed impossible to untangle — deadlines pressing like weights on my shoulders, half-finished tasks piling up, and a gnawing sense of frustration that no amount of planning seemed to ease. Even the simplest decisions felt exhausting, and every step forward seemed to be met with resistance.  Out of despair and helplessness, I just got up and left. I walked aimlessly, hoping the evening air would quiet the noise inside me, though the tension in my chest refused to relent.      That’s when I noticed her. A little girl stood beneath a tree, tugging at a kite hopelessly knotted in the branches. She pulled and pulled, but the string wouldn’t budge. I moved forward to help her. Probably one soul that I can help today. Probably one task, that I could achieve. She seemed to understand and stepped back with a smile inviting me to try. Curious, I stepped forward and tried myself, but the ki...

  What can Nestle teach us?  Apparently a very important basic lesson....      I n the early 1970s, Nestlé faced a serious challenge in Japan. Their core product, instant coffee, was met with resistance in a culture deeply rooted in tea consumption. Early marketing efforts failed, and conventional strategies to convert adult consumers proved ineffective. But instead of pulling out, Nestlé took a long-term view. They got in Clotaire Rapaille, a child psychiatrist.  What?  A child psychiatrist for coffee makers?  Yes!!! Its true.     They redirected their focus — not toward immediate sales, but toward the generation.  Rather than pushing coffee on adults, they introduced coffee-flavored sweets and desserts to children and families. One of their most culturally impactful moves was the introduction of KitKat, branded with the phrase “Kitto Katsu” — a pun meaning “surely win.”  The campaign linked KitKat with academic success a...

       They say golf is a good walk ruined. I say it’s a controlled mental breakdown — and that’s exactly why I needed it. Let me explain. I’m a doctor. Which means I spend my days juggling patient charts, calls, and the kind of stress that makes your eye twitch involuntarily during meetings. A few months ago, I found myself sitting in the call room at 2 a.m., staring at my 12th cup of coffee and trying to remember if I had eaten that day — or yesterday. My phone buzzed. Another consult. Another day saving lives and losing mine, one “urgent” call at a time. Then something strange happened: I remembered my golf clubs. They were in the garage, under a pile of old journals and broken dreams. I hadn’t touched them since residency, back when I thought I’d have hobbies and a spine that didn’t ache when I sneezed. But something in me — the part that hadn’t completely burnt out — said, “Screw it. Let’s go whack something.” So I took a Friday off. (Yes, doctors can do th...