As a medical professional who spent the formative years of my career in Rajasthan, here’s an anecdote that highlights one of my social-cultural experiences in the region.
Back in 1954, I was posted in the primary health centre at a Rajasthan village. With no telegraph office or electricity, the place was cut off from the rest of the State. The nearest doctor was 50 miles away!
One day, while I was attending to patients at the health centre, I saw the village sarpanch coming towards the clinic with a serious look on his face. He walked into my room and said he wanted to consult me. Upon being told that I first needed to attend to my patients who were in the queue, he waited till my patient roll was over. When I asked him what he wanted to talk about, he said, “My buffalo is unwell. I want you to come and see him since I can’t get him to your clinic.”
Despite several attempts to tell him I didn’t know how to treat animals, he wasn’t convinced. The sarpanch’s inability to reassert his authority and get the job done made matters worse. He went on to say, “I don’t like liars. If you don’t want to see my buffalo, just tell me. Don’t tell me stories on how you don’t know how to treat animals.”
My clarification was of no avail. With his temper rising and nostrils flaring, he said, “You city-dwellers think we villagers are fools and idiots. Do you feel that way too?”
When I asked for the reason, he said, “You want me to believe that without proving your skills on animals, the government has allowed you to practise your medicine on human beings? Do you expect me to believe that?”
I was stunned. I couldn’t think of an answer to his valid question. After waiting for any reply, the sarpanchji stormed out of my room and I resumed my work.
A few months later, I saw the sarpanch coming towards the clinic again. Remembering our earlier encounter, I was apprehensive and I wondered what he expected from me this time. As he entered, I stood up and welcomed him.
In complete contrast to how he spoke to me earlier, he said softly, “Doctor, today I have come to tell you that you really don’t know how to treat animals.” Taken aback, I asked what made him say that. He replied, “I had assigned somebody to watch over you whenever you made any home visit. That person never saw you treat any animal.”
With a sigh of relief, I thanked him and appreciated his readiness to come and apologise for his mistake. However, before leaving, he said something that I continue to ponder over: “Doctor, I still wonder how the government has allowed you to practise medicine on human beings without first practising it on animals.”
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