Forty years ago, going to a doctor was like visiting a kindly uncle with a torch. He made you open your mouth wide enough to reveal your tonsils’ secret history, tapped your chest, thumped your back, lifted your eyelids, and checked your pulse as if decoding Morse code from some lost civilisation.
Finally, after fifteen minutes of genuine attention, he declared, “Two tablets and hot water—done.” Ten rupees of fees, a bonus lecture on eating and sleeping properly, and you walked out cured, slightly wiser, and vaguely guilty about that extra ‘ladoo’ you had last week. Those were the days of warmth, patience, and waiting chairs made of cane that creaked in sympathy with your cough.
In the 1970s, the very idea of a nursing home didn’t exist. Whenever anyone fell ill, we would rush to the government hospitals. Back then, doctors were seen not merely as medical practitioners, but as divine beings. Their words brought reassurance, their treatments inspired trust, and their care became the very foundation of our lives. In those halls, humanity outweighed money; within simplicity, genuine service and heartfelt care flourished. Those days remain unforgettable—truly priceless experiences.
But today, enter a corporate hospital, and you instantly feel like you’ve stepped into a five-star airport fused with a shopping mall and a government office, all managed by an overachieving IT department.
The receptionist greets you with a smile that screams: “Welcome to our billing ecosystem!” In the old days, the doctor used to diagnose the illness; now the receptionist diagnoses your wallet. You are immediately handed a map that makes the layout of Hogwarts look straightforward: “OPD Block-B, Scan Block-C, Billing Block-A, Insurance Desk-D.” By the time you locate Block-B, your mild fever has evolved into high BP and existential dread.
Finally, the doctor appears. He grants you exactly 180 seconds of his precious time. No “open your mouth.” No “take a deep breath.” He does not even touch you. Instead, he gazes at your file like it’s a thriller novel, mutters a few words, and prints a test list long enough to require binding. Blood test, urine test, ECG, MRI, CT scan, ultrasound, liver profile, kidney profile, Vitamin B12, Vitamin D — apparently, every organ and nutrient wants to be included, lest it feel left out. If you ask, “Sir… do I really need all these tests?” Doctor replies, “Sir… protocol.”
Before you can gasp, a nurse storms in and inserts an IV needle into your hand. You ask, “I only have a fever, why this?” She smiles professionally: “Sir… protocol.” That needle becomes your loyal companion, swinging like a pendulum as you walk, jabbing like an overzealous motivational coach, reminding you that you’re financially hostage. You begin to suspect it has more connection to your bank account than your bloodstream. And then, the parade begins.
First comes the dietician. A charming lady, but generously blessed in areas where she seems to have personally defeated every diet plan ever invented. She lectures you on avoiding sugar, oil, salt, fried food, baked food, and perhaps even joy. You sit politely, nodding, while your fever feels embarrassed. You wonder if her advice works, or if she’s secretly testing your patience as a clinical experiment.
Next enters the smart casual clothing that is neat and well-groomed, a psychologist, notebook thicker than the hospital’s rule book. Do you know where you are right now? “Do you know what day/time it is?
Are you having any trouble focusing or concentrating on what I’m saying? Do you have any history of mental health conditions like depression or anxiety? How are you feeling mentally?” she asks. Mentally, you are breaking down like a biscuit soaked too long in hot tea. You smile and reply, “I’m okay.” She nods seriously, scribbles something indecipherable, and adds another ₹700 to the bill: “Patient in denial.”
The physiotherapist arrives next. You came with a fever, mind you. “Lift your arm, rotate your shoulder, bend your knee.” You obey because refusal might appear later as “Non-Cooperation Fee – ₹650.”
Housekeeping staff walks in, nudges your pillow just a little, and quietly leaves. Later, you spot it on the bill as “Pillow Reorientation – ₹180.” A nurse follows and tucks your blanket just a little tighter—with a hint of extra care. Nothing dramatic, just enough to feel cared for, but apparently billable: “Blanket Tuck – ₹220.” Then come the technicians: one checks the BP machine, another checks your BP, and a third seems to verify that the first two existed and did their job—each step carefully noted and, naturally, billed with admirable precision.
Meanwhile, the hospital app sends hourly reminders: “Rate your experience.” You desperately look for options like “Still suffering,” “Send help,” or “Call my lawyer,” but only “Good,” “Very Good,” and “Outstanding” are allowed. You sigh and choose the emoji with the forced smile.
Then there’s the canteen. One idli costs more than your childhood birthday party. The sambar looks like it went through emotional trauma before arriving on your plate. And the bill includes a “Hygiene Charge” — presumably to sterilise your karma along with the spoon. You chew slowly to justify the expense, pondering if chewing 32 times per bite will improve the Return on Investment (ROI) of your taste buds.
Every hour, nurses appear — not for vitals but to check your deposit balance. Your fever is mild, but your wallet is now in critical condition. You begin to suspect the thermometer was just a decoy to distract you while the hospital accountant silently applies compound interest to your bill.
Finally comes the grand finale: the bill. The printer groans like a marathon runner as it spits out page after page. Gems include:
- Oxygen Availability – ₹500 (You didn’t use it. You just breathed. Wrongfully.)
- Bed Sheet Adjustment – ₹250 (Someone touched it. Emotionally charged.)
- Nursing Visit – ₹400 (She only asked, “How are you?”)
- Doctor’s Corridor Walk – ₹300 (He passed your room. That’s worth money.)
- Chair Occupancy – ₹150 (You dared to sit.)
- Miscellaneous – ₹3750 (The Bermuda Triangle of hospital finance.)
You finally summon the courage and request the nurse to remove the IV cannula needle. She smiles like a seasoned negotiator: “Sir… after payment.” Only then do you realise the IV cannula needle is not medical. It is collateral. Emotional, financial, existential collateral.
After paying enough to sponsor a small wedding, the needle is removed ceremoniously. You walk out like a soldier returning from a long, overpriced battle. At the gate, the security guard cheerfully wishes, “Get well soon, sir!” You mutter under your breath: “First, let my bank account recover.”
Once upon a time, hospitals treated illness. Today, they treat experience, patience, endurance, and financial discipline. Real healing begins only after you see the final bill, regain consciousness, and maybe even learn basic economics.
As people now joke, “We don’t go to hospitals to cure sickness. We go to learn humility, patience, and how to survive a corporate audit.” And somewhere, in a parallel universe, the kindly uncle doctor still exists, waiting with his torch, stethoscope, and simple ten-rupee prescription. We can only pray that one day, his world and the corporate hospital world collide — preferably after our bank accounts have recovered.
Punchline: Corporate hospitals: where your wallet checks in before you do… and gets sicker than you ever will.
(The Author is BE (Mech), BOE, ASME. Deputy Director of Boilers [Retd], Mysuru)
