“If we bleed, you bleed. Save us, save yourself.” That was the battle hymn scrawled across placards by RIMS doctors yesterday, as if the corridors of medicine had suddenly transformed into a battlefield. For a moment, one wondered whether these were physicians or freedom fighters rehearsing a war cry. Strange times indeed, when those sworn to heal speak not the language of compassion but of confrontation.
Yes, doctors are protesting the assault on a senior consultant — an act undeniably barbaric, indefensible, and an insult to civility. But instead of demanding justice with the dignity befitting their profession, they have chosen to brandish melodramatic slogans, as though patients and doctors are opposing armies locked in mortal combat. When healers shout threats that sound suspiciously like revenge notes, the very society they serve begins to recoil. In Manipur, where the relationship between patients and doctors is already fragile, this posturing has the subtlety of a scalpel wielded by a butcher.
In truth, the slogan backfires spectacularly. What it says, intentionally or otherwise, is that if society dares to hurt doctors, doctors will ensure society hurts too. Charming, isn’t it? Exactly the kind of reassurance a frightened patient wants when walking into a hospital — that their caregivers see them not as humans in need but as potential adversaries.
Of course, the doctors insist they are misunderstood, that this is all about solidarity. But solidarity wrapped in arrogance smells suspiciously like hubris. And here lies the problem: the public’s mistrust of Manipur’s medical fraternity is not conjured out of thin air. There is indeed no smoke without fire. Patients recount tales of misdiagnoses at home, cured with little more than a strip of tablets elsewhere. They speak of doctors outside the state who listen patiently, compared to the lofty demeanour of practitioners of the state who appear to listen with one ear while already reaching for the prescription pad. There are still doctors who embody compassion, who sit humbly by their patient’s side, who prove that medicine is indeed a noble calling. But sadly, the arrogance of a few overshadows the humanity of many.
The recent maternal death that triggered this latest outburst sits squarely at the heart of the matter. Was it negligence, or was it an inevitable tragedy despite the best of care? We are promised the truth from an inquiry committee, though history suggests such reports often vanish into oblivion, never to be read by those who deserve answers. The people have grown accustomed to this theatre of accountability without conclusion.
So we return to the vexing questions. Why do patients, at great financial cost, travel outside Manipur for even modest treatment? Why do families whisper of pride and haughtiness when speaking of local doctors? Why do so many tragedies at RIMS end with accusations of negligence? Are all these complaints elaborate fictions spun by a vindictive public? Or is there a rot within the system that the white coats prefer to ignore while perfecting their slogans?
At the end of the day, no society can afford doctors who shout war cries and no doctor can afford patients who raise fists. Violence inside hospitals is indefensible, arrogance is equally corrosive. The tragedy at RIMS must be met with accountability, not theatrics; with humility, not hubris. For in the fragile space between healer and patient, trust is the only true medicine — and once that bleeds away, no prescription on earth can revive it.