Popping pills, Army style

Ex-servicemen are governed by a health plan called the Ex-Servicemen Contributory Health Scheme (ECHS). Should an ex-serviceman or his entitled dependent feel the need for medical assistance, he/she reports to an ECHS clinic that has the wherewithal to treat only routine ailments. For specialist advice and treatment, one is referred to an empanelled hospital.

Despite a few imperfections, compounded by rumour-mongers, especially on social media, the health scheme has provided immense help and relief to scores of veterans by giving them cashless access to the best medical facilities in the country.

My wife and I were at the ECHS clinic for collecting medicines after a consultation at an empanelled hospital. My wife had met a gynaecologist and I a cardiologist. Medicines prescribed by the hospitals are dispensed by ECHS clinics. Only substitutes of the prescribed medicines are likely to be available at the clinic. The dispenser, if questioned, gives you an incredulous look and asks, ‘What’s in a name? The salts in the substitutes are the same as in the prescribed medicine.’ There is more. Suppose a 50-mg tablet is prescribed, be sure to receive a 100-mg one and be told to have half a pill. Conversely, if the prescription says 100 mg, it is likely that you will receive a 50/25-mg substitute and told to swallow two/four pills instead of one.

Veteran Naik Fauja Singh, near-blind and suffering from many ailments, was in high spirits, receiving his one-month medicine quota from the dispenser. The prescribed medicines had undergone brand substitution at the hands of an ECHS doctor. The system of procurement of a soldier’s personal weapon when in service and medicines post-retirement remains the same — the lowest tendered rates.

Fauja left the counter triumphant, with every pocket and a small bag laden with medicines. I asked him, ‘Naik sahib, how do you handle the confusion?’

‘Sahib, koi raula nayi. Ghare jaa ke saariyaan dwaaiyaan khol lainda haan, te tee hisseian vich vand layi dae. Waheguru da naa laike ik hissa roz chhak layi dae te fauj de gunh gayi dae (I open and mix all medicines and divide them into 30 lots. I invoke the blessings of God, have one lot daily and thank the Army).’ I smiled at his humour and spirit.

Back home, we emptied our medicines on a table. Not a single name from the heap matched our prescriptions, nor could we make out which medicine was for what. The names of most of the salts, mentioned on the reverse, were not legible. For once, our time-tested friend ‘Mr Google’ was not of much help. Exasperated and feeling helpless, my wife remarked, ‘Would you like to give Fauja Singh’s method a try?’

I was reminded of the jingle: ‘Life in the Army, they say, is mighty fine.’