I was reading the newspaper in the morning when the girl who helps with our housework came and stood before me. Usually, she offers a namaste and goes about her work, but today she clearly had something to say. I asked gently, “Is everything alright?” With a heavy face, she replied, “Something terrible has happened.”
A neighbor of hers had been severely burned. He was taken to a government hospital, but they turned him away, saying, “We can’t do anything here; take him to a private hospital.” I knew that victims with such severe burns could only be treated in a specialized “Burn Unit,” typically found in large private facilities. I asked, “How is he related to you?” She said, “He isn’t a relative, just a neighbor. They’ve admitted him to a big private hospital, but no one knows what happens next. He has small children.” She began to cry.
As I headed to the office, the thought of this stranger haunted me. It triggered a memory of my father from April 1993. He had been retired for a year then. He and my mother were staying in Delhi with my elder brother, Jyotiprasad, in his government quarters. My father had one bad habit: smoking. One night, unable to sleep, he tried to light a cigarette in the dark. It slipped from his hand onto the bedding. Before he could react, his clothes caught fire. He fell to the floor, and by the time my mother woke up to the smell of smoke and my brother rushed in, my father’s hands, legs, stomach, and neck were already charred.
He was rushed to Safdarjung Hospital, home to the largest burn ward in Delhi. I flew in from America immediately. The doctors told us 70% of his body had “third-degree burns.” When I reached the ward, I saw a motionless body, wrapped in bandages from the feet to the neck. He was in excruciating pain, barely able to whisper a few words.
The burn ward is primarily occupied by the poor. I saw parents whose children had fallen into boiling oil because they lived in cramped quarters; I saw young brides whose sarees had caught fire while cooking. The atmosphere was one of heart-wrenching grief.
Treating a burn victim is a battle against nature. Human skin, though only a few millimeters thick, is our primary shield against millions of germs. When it’s gone, the body is defenseless. After two days of watching him suffer, my father asked me to remove his bandages. I sat there and prayed: “God, if you truly exist, take this man. Don’t let him suffer anymore.” The doctors seemed to hear my prayer; five hours later, he passed away.
Fast forward fifteen years. The girl working at my house was now pleading with me to help her neighbor. I contacted a private hospital and spoke to a burn specialist. I realized the patient was in a desperate, helpless state. I told the doctor, “Don’t worry about the money. I will handle the bills every few days. Just save him.” Unlike my prayer for my father to be released, I prayed for this man to be cured.
A few days later, the doctor called. “We lost him,” he said. Though I had never met the man, I felt a deep pang of sorrow. But then, the hospital called again—not about the bill, but because they were in trouble. A group of people, including a local “leader,” had arrived. They were refusing to take the body, accusing the hospital of negligence and demanding compensation.
I called the local MLA, whom I knew to be a decent person. He sighed and said, “Talk to the corporator. This has become a daily occurrence—keeping a body to cause a scene, blocking highways, harassing doctors. It’s the reality of modern politics.”
It struck me then: this was a “vote-trap.” Everything was being auctioned for a price. In this world, every “territory” has its owner, and no one interferes with another’s business.
The outcome of that specific incident is a different discussion. But as I sat there, a hollow sense of futility washed over me. The request of the girl at my house, the helplessness of the family, the doctor’s reassurance, and finally, the anarchy of these “pallbearers”—it all blended into the face of that unknown man. And for some reason, in my mind, his unknown face began to look exactly like my father’s.
Subroto Bagchi
An author, co-founder of Mindtree, thought leader, and public servant from Odisha, India. He has authored books like The High Performance Entrepreneur, Go Kiss the World, The Professional, and Young Adults, MBA at 16.
(The views are personal)
