Dr Biswas Gets a Taste of Palamau's Medicine
BARHAMANI, Palamau (Bihar): When the residents of Pochra stripped and beat up Dr Biswas and chased him out of their village, they had reason to be angry. Biswas, a quack without any right to the label 'doctor' , had given three bottles of glucose saline drip to Chottan Parhaiya's pregnant wife. The woman, Close to delivery time and desperately in need of medical attention, died. So did the child. Biswas, however, runs a fairly healthy practice just a few villages away. Meet Iqbal Qasim, 'doctor and surgeon'. He is proprietor Of the 'Qasimi clinic' in Balumath. This surgeon has practised for some years on the basis Of his extensive studies in Deoband. There, he acquired a degree combining 'botany, biology, zoology, gynaecology and unani— With a special course in modern allopathic medicine'. Just now. that
With a special course in modern allopathic medicine'. Just now, that degree is lying in his home town, far away. Qasim gives his patients ampicillin and tetracycline injections at seemingly the slightest provocation. He also does house calls. Biswas' s brother is also a 'doctor'. Taking a diploma in homoeopathy at an institute the name Of which he has regrettably forgotten, he now practises allopathy in the same village as his sibling. He says he is an 'R.M.P.'—but that doesn't mean Registered Medical Practitioner. It stands for 'Rural Medical Practitioner'. It's a line in which you can become a doctor, even in Patna, for just Rs. 765. All it takes is the signature of your village mukhiya and that of a practising doctor. These can be had for a modest fee.
The vast majority of the countless quacks in Palamau—and the thousands across Bihar—don't bother With such pretences. A little experience as a compounder helps. But, mostly, a board saying 'doctor' will do. Conversations With fifteen quacks revealed an engaging array of qualifications. Biswas gave me at least three versions Of his own. The last was that he had obtained his doctor's degree by correspondence from a university in Orissa, the name Of which had momentarily slipped his mind. His letterhead reads 'B.A.M.S.' (Bachelor of Ayurvedic Medical Science). But out here, he's an allopath. He has little choice. Allopathy is all the rage in Palamau and much of rural Bihar. Urban India may have rediscovered yoga and indigenous medical systems. But here, hakims, unanis, ayurveds, homoeopaths—all have defected to the allopathic school. 'Some of them,' says a police official, 'have been compounders or doctor's assistants for two or three years. All give injections, which they have no right to do. Besides, says a senior official, they 'are accountable to no one, can prescribe anything,
TB, malaria, diarrhoea, and dysentery affect many in Palamau. But the cure for almost all ills here is the saline drip. In remote areas, quacks mesmerise people With the drip. Even malaria patients are subjected to it. Many villagers believe that paani chadaana (infusion Of water) iS a mighty cure. so they borrow money to pay the doctor for the miracle. And then there are the tetracycline injections. A bottle of glucose saline costs Rs. 28. That's the retail price. Wholesale, the bottles can be had for Rs. 12 a Piece. The kit (tube and needle) costs another Rs. 12, retail. But quacks use the same kit for very long periods of time, inviting more risks. The quack charges patients Rs. 100 to Rs. 150 per bottle. 'The literate ones give less. The illiterate ones give more,' says Biswas With disarming candour. A 30 ml Vial of tetracycline costs around Rs. 8 to Rs. 10, retail. From this, the quack obtains fifteen injections of 2 ml each, charging between Rs. 10 and Rs. 15 per shot and netting from Rs. 150 to Rs. 225 on his
Everybody Loves a Good Drought: Stories from India's Poorest Districts
By Palagummi SainathBARHAMANI, Palamau (Bihar): When the residents of Pochra stripped and beat up Dr Biswas and chased him out of their village, they had reason to be angry. Biswas, a quack without any right to the label 'doctor' , had given three bottles of glucose saline drip to Chottan Parhaiya's pregnant wife. The woman, Close to delivery time and desperately in need of medical attention, died. So did the child. Biswas, however, runs a fairly healthy practice just a few villages away. Meet Iqbal Qasim, 'doctor and surgeon'. He is proprietor Of the 'Qasimi clinic' in Balumath. This surgeon has practised for some years on the basis Of his extensive studies in Deoband. There, he acquired a degree combining 'botany, biology, zoology, gynaecology and unani— With a special course in modern allopathic medicine'. Just now. that
With a special course in modern allopathic medicine'. Just now, that degree is lying in his home town, far away. Qasim gives his patients ampicillin and tetracycline injections at seemingly the slightest provocation. He also does house calls. Biswas' s brother is also a 'doctor'. Taking a diploma in homoeopathy at an institute the name Of which he has regrettably forgotten, he now practises allopathy in the same village as his sibling. He says he is an 'R.M.P.'—but that doesn't mean Registered Medical Practitioner. It stands for 'Rural Medical Practitioner'. It's a line in which you can become a doctor, even in Patna, for just Rs. 765. All it takes is the signature of your village mukhiya and that of a practising doctor. These can be had for a modest fee.
The vast majority of the countless quacks in Palamau—and the thousands across Bihar—don't bother With such pretences. A little experience as a compounder helps. But, mostly, a board saying 'doctor' will do. Conversations With fifteen quacks revealed an engaging array of qualifications. Biswas gave me at least three versions Of his own. The last was that he had obtained his doctor's degree by correspondence from a university in Orissa, the name Of which had momentarily slipped his mind. His letterhead reads 'B.A.M.S.' (Bachelor of Ayurvedic Medical Science). But out here, he's an allopath. He has little choice. Allopathy is all the rage in Palamau and much of rural Bihar. Urban India may have rediscovered yoga and indigenous medical systems. But here, hakims, unanis, ayurveds, homoeopaths—all have defected to the allopathic school. 'Some of them,' says a police official, 'have been compounders or doctor's assistants for two or three years. All give injections, which they have no right to do. Besides, says a senior official, they 'are accountable to no one, can prescribe anything,
TB, malaria, diarrhoea, and dysentery affect many in Palamau. But the cure for almost all ills here is the saline drip. In remote areas, quacks mesmerise people With the drip. Even malaria patients are subjected to it. Many villagers believe that paani chadaana (infusion Of water) iS a mighty cure. so they borrow money to pay the doctor for the miracle. And then there are the tetracycline injections. A bottle of glucose saline costs Rs. 28. That's the retail price. Wholesale, the bottles can be had for Rs. 12 a Piece. The kit (tube and needle) costs another Rs. 12, retail. But quacks use the same kit for very long periods of time, inviting more risks. The quack charges patients Rs. 100 to Rs. 150 per bottle. 'The literate ones give less. The illiterate ones give more,' says Biswas With disarming candour. A 30 ml Vial of tetracycline costs around Rs. 8 to Rs. 10, retail. From this, the quack obtains fifteen injections of 2 ml each, charging between Rs. 10 and Rs. 15 per shot and netting from Rs. 150 to Rs. 225 on his
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