<p>Not counting typhoid that I was inflicted with during my late teens, I escaped childhood and adolescence with no major ailments, save for the occasional cold/cough/fever. It was enough for a cold to persist a tad longer than usual for my father to issue marching orders to see our good neighbourly doctor, Dr Rao. An elderly man, the doctor looked like he belonged to a more placid era. Walking stick in his right hand and an aged leather ‘doctor’s bag’ in his left, he had a drooping stance while walking. Golden rimmed glasses and a Maharashtrian topi adorning his head contributed in no less measure to his antiquated look. </p>.<p>His ‘doctor shop’ in Malleswaram was housed in the rear portion of a larger dwelling, whose occupants had usurped the better part that faced the street. The uninviting side entrance to the clinic-cum-pharmacy faced a vacant site with an overgrowth of weed. The entrance door frame had reddish deep furrows made by white ants that had made a feast of the cellulose in the wood rendering it a dilapidated look. The glass windows seemed like they were shut decades ago for good. A grandfather’s clock (tick-tocking quite loudly, I must say) and a couple of mahogany benches were the only paraphernalia in the waiting room. The smelly clinic gave one a dingy feeling but that did not deter trusting patients from seeking his wise counsel. </p>.<p>A gigantic table occupied most of the ‘examination room’, which doubled up as the pharmacy. Oversized jars and bottles holding various liquids and salts and secured by wire bail swing-top lids were arranged all over the table, leaving a small desk space at the centre. He never wrote prescriptions to procure, rather confected his own medicines, dispensing them via the empty bottle brought by patients. He would neatly fill his pre-printed label with the patient’s name, dosages and frequency of intake, and stick it to one side of the bottle. The other side would be pasted at its centre with a handmade graduation strip that he himself had neatly cut from paper. </p>.<p>I can still feel his cold thumb pressed against my wrist as he took my pulse. It seemed he relied more on his senses than instruments to examine patients. His peering eyes appeared to probe the innards of my condition. Diagnosis complete, Dr Rao would start preparing his medicine by grinding salts, shaking bottles and mixing potions, all the while interrogating me on my studies, my siblings or other general topics. Finally emerging to hand over the potent mixture, he would repeat the instructions on the label running his index finger on all that was written, before dismissing me. Rarely there would be a necessity to go back again.</p>.<p>The child in me wishes that I could pay him a visit even now, but alas, he is long gone.</p>
<p>Not counting typhoid that I was inflicted with during my late teens, I escaped childhood and adolescence with no major ailments, save for the occasional cold/cough/fever. It was enough for a cold to persist a tad longer than usual for my father to issue marching orders to see our good neighbourly doctor, Dr Rao. An elderly man, the doctor looked like he belonged to a more placid era. Walking stick in his right hand and an aged leather ‘doctor’s bag’ in his left, he had a drooping stance while walking. Golden rimmed glasses and a Maharashtrian topi adorning his head contributed in no less measure to his antiquated look. </p>.<p>His ‘doctor shop’ in Malleswaram was housed in the rear portion of a larger dwelling, whose occupants had usurped the better part that faced the street. The uninviting side entrance to the clinic-cum-pharmacy faced a vacant site with an overgrowth of weed. The entrance door frame had reddish deep furrows made by white ants that had made a feast of the cellulose in the wood rendering it a dilapidated look. The glass windows seemed like they were shut decades ago for good. A grandfather’s clock (tick-tocking quite loudly, I must say) and a couple of mahogany benches were the only paraphernalia in the waiting room. The smelly clinic gave one a dingy feeling but that did not deter trusting patients from seeking his wise counsel. </p>.<p>A gigantic table occupied most of the ‘examination room’, which doubled up as the pharmacy. Oversized jars and bottles holding various liquids and salts and secured by wire bail swing-top lids were arranged all over the table, leaving a small desk space at the centre. He never wrote prescriptions to procure, rather confected his own medicines, dispensing them via the empty bottle brought by patients. He would neatly fill his pre-printed label with the patient’s name, dosages and frequency of intake, and stick it to one side of the bottle. The other side would be pasted at its centre with a handmade graduation strip that he himself had neatly cut from paper. </p>.<p>I can still feel his cold thumb pressed against my wrist as he took my pulse. It seemed he relied more on his senses than instruments to examine patients. His peering eyes appeared to probe the innards of my condition. Diagnosis complete, Dr Rao would start preparing his medicine by grinding salts, shaking bottles and mixing potions, all the while interrogating me on my studies, my siblings or other general topics. Finally emerging to hand over the potent mixture, he would repeat the instructions on the label running his index finger on all that was written, before dismissing me. Rarely there would be a necessity to go back again.</p>.<p>The child in me wishes that I could pay him a visit even now, but alas, he is long gone.</p>