The Man Who Knew the Doctors

My ninety-one-year-old uncle has been a father figure in our family ever since my own father passed away in 1995, thirty years ago now, though it rarely feels that distant. He stepped into that role quietly, without ceremony or proclamation, and over time became one of those steady presences around which family life unconsciously reorganises itself.

Whenever a medical need arose in the family, he was invariably our first point of reference. It was understood, almost instinctively, that he would know whom to consult. Over the years, he had built an extensive mental directory of doctors across hospitals and specialties, knowledge earned the hard way through his own ailments and those of my aunt, who became increasingly dependent during the last seven or eight years of her life. After retirement, he had also served as the administrative head of a hospital, where he developed professional relationships with several specialists. Between lived experience and institutional exposure, his medical network was formidable.

What always struck me was the quiet confidence with which he navigated this world. Hospitals did not intimidate him. He treated them as systems to be understood, not battled.

Despite living in South Bangalore, my uncle chose to consult a doctor at Sakra Hospital, about twenty kilometres away. The journey itself was tiring, particularly since it had to be undertaken once every couple of months. In addition, he continued seeing his heart surgeon at Fortis, Cunningham Road, where he had undergone a Pacemaker implantation about two decades ago, and another specialist at Sagar Hospital, Kumaraswamy Layout, for kidney-related issues. Bangalore traffic ensured that none of these visits was ever simple.

Though he was covered under the CGHS scheme, not all specialists were empanelled, including the one at Sakra. Each visit meant paying around ₹1,200 as consultation fee from his own pocket. I once asked him why he continued seeing a doctor who was not covered under CGHS. His answer was immediate and firm. This doctor, he said, had assured him that if he followed the prescribed regimen diligently, he would be able to get off insulin injections. That assurance mattered to him. And so, every two months, we went.

I accompanied him to most of these visits.

During one such consultation, about five years ago, in the middle of the COVID period, we went through the now-familiar routine. After paying the fee, we first met the assistant doctor, who recorded vitals, reviewed blood reports, updated medications, and checked for new symptoms. When we were finally ushered in, the main doctor sat masked at one end of the room. We were seated at the opposite end. Between us stood a large pedestal fan, roaring loudly and blowing air straight at our faces.

From an infection-control perspective, the arrangement was impeccable. From a communication standpoint, it was far from ideal. The fan’s noise, the physical distance, and the masks made conversation difficult. My uncle, then eighty-six, had mild hearing issues and a naturally soft voice. I found myself acting as an interpreter of sorts, relaying questions and responses back and forth.

As my uncle began explaining his condition, the doctor remained absorbed in his computer screen. After a while, he looked up and said he had already reviewed everything the assistant had updated in the system.

Oddly enough, my appreciation for his professionalism increased at that moment.

Based on the blood reports, he advised continuing the same medication. My uncle then gently asked whether there were alternatives, as the medicines prescribed were not covered under CGHS. The doctor replied curtly that there were no substitutes and that the same drugs had to be continued.

My uncle persisted, politely. As a pensioner, with expensive medicines and a dependent wife, could the doctor at least provide a letter stating that no alternatives were available, so reimbursement might be attempted? The doctor refused outright, even more brusquely, saying that his prescription should suffice and that he would not provide any such letter.

I found the response deeply insensitive, directed at an eighty-six-year-old pensioner who bore his responsibilities quietly. My uncle, who in other circumstances would not have tolerated such remarks, said nothing. He simply accepted it.

As we rose to leave, the doctor asked if we had any clarifications. I mentioned something my uncle had attempted to say earlier, before the doctor had finished reviewing the notes.

The doctor snapped. He said he was not Google and would not answer layman’s questions.

It felt, at that moment, as though the invitation for clarification had been extended merely to reinforce a hierarchy.

Outside the consulting room, my uncle appeared strangely content. I, on the other hand, was unsettled. Was it worth travelling two hours across Bangalore for an interaction that felt so dismissive?

My uncle’s response was calm. We must learn to tolerate such things, he said. After all, the doctor was a two-time Presidential awardee, highly regarded in his field. More importantly, he had promised to get him off insulin.

It took me a couple of years to fully understand my uncle’s wisdom, to look beyond tone and focus on outcomes. True to the doctor’s assurance, my uncle eventually stopped insulin injections altogether and is now managing well on oral medication alone.

In time, my brother and my mother also came under the same doctor’s care.

Only then did I fully recognise what my uncle had been doing all along, choosing endurance over ego, results over resentment, and long-term wellbeing over momentary slights. He was not being submissive; he was being strategic. At an age when patience is often mistaken for frailty, he focused on what truly mattered, his health, his independence, and his ability to live on his own terms.

I, meanwhile, was still wired to react, to defend, to correct, to expect courtesy as a given. He had already learnt to filter out the noise. The long drives through Bangalore traffic, the expensive medicines, the impersonal consultations, even the roar of that pedestal fan, all of it was incidental. What mattered was the destination.

In the process, he taught me something quietly profound. Competence does not always arrive wrapped in warmth. Respect is not always delivered in equal measure. Sometimes, wisdom lies not in pushing back, but in stepping aside and letting results speak. Endurance, I learnt, is not weakness; it is often a carefully considered choice.

Today, when I see my uncle managing well without insulin, I realise that he had been looking at the horizon while I was still fixated on the road bumps. In his unassuming way, he once again played the role he had assumed decades ago, guiding us, not through instruction, but through example.

Stories, not instructions. Experiences, not advice—medical or otherwise. Data, only what the internet quietly gathers anyway. Proceed with equal parts curiosity and common sense.