A tale of two hospitals and a patient

BARELY looking up from his desk, the doctor at a government hospital said flatly, “Go stand in that corner and lower your pants.” The patient hesitated. The corner offered no privacy — it faced a medley of patients, men and women, all awaiting their turn, some trying to peek in out of fatigue or curiosity. The patient had come for a second opinion on his hernia, and for an answer to the all-important question: Should I go for a surgery in a private or a government hospital?

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The test results had already shaken him. The surgery was imminent — his first-ever. And now this doctor’s brusque command, in full public view, added a sting of humiliation. He stood still, uncertain if he had heard the doctor correctly. But before he could ask, the doctor looked up again, visibly annoyed: “What are you doing? You still haven’t taken off your pants, mister. I don’t have time. Do it fast so that I can examine you. Don’t you see the long queue?”

This was a government hospital, reputed to be among the better-run ones in the country. Clean corridors, attentive junior staff and a reputation for honest work. The patient had come hoping for reassurance, maybe a less aggressive surgical approach. But the experience felt transactional — and far from humane.

He couldn’t help but contrast it with his visit to a private hospital a couple of days earlier. There, the doctor had listened patiently, let him explain his discomfort and then gently asked him to lie down. A curtain was pulled around the bed, a towel draped over his waist. “Now you can lower your pants,” the doctor had said politely.

But that private care came with its own kind of tension. The moment they heard he was insured, the hospital’s business side kicked in. They began listing options: single-room, twin-sharing, four-bed shared — each with its own price tag and package. Even the surgical material came with choices. “If your insurance firm clears this amount,” the doctor said, “we can use this mesh — it’s the best available.” It was like choosing a hotel room with add-ons — here, your body was the site of the booking.

So, when the patient recently came out of the operation theatre and regained consciousness, he was relieved. Yes, it was expensive. But his dignity had remained intact. The small things — a curtain, a towel, a softer voice — had made a big difference.

That experience left him wondering: Why can’t government hospitals, despite their experience and volume, match that basic standard of patient dignity? Why must a patient’s first contact with public healthcare often involve being barked at, stripped of privacy or treated like a task to be completed quickly?

The common reason, of course, is overcrowding. Too many patients, too few doctors, not enough time. And there’s truth in that — public hospitals in India are under immense strain. But how long can this be the explanation? Overcrowding cannot excuse indifference. Lack of funds cannot justify a lack of empathy. Basic dignity doesn’t require expensive equipment or luxury settings — it needs awareness, training and a change in work culture.

In the end, the patient’s body may heal. But the memory of how one was treated — kindly or callously — often lingers much longer.