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Spice of Life| Life in the army, they say, is mighty fine
Back home, we emptied the medicines that we had collected on a table. Not a single name from the heap matched our prescriptions. Soon, we could not make out which medicine was for whom
Life in the army, they say, is mighty fine, you dial number 9 you get 99. This was a popular jingle which we as young officers would sing when faced with the harmless absurdities that were a part of our daily army routine. I was reminded of the jingle after a recent visit to the ECHS clinic. The Ex-Servicemen Contributory Health Scheme (ECHS) is for retired armed forces personnel.
ECHS clinics have the wherewithal to treat only routine ailments. For specialist advice and further management, you are referred to an empanelled hospital. Despite a few imperfections, ECHS has provided immense relief to scores of veterans by giving them cashless access to the best medical facilities in the country.
My wife and I were at the ECHS clinic for collecting medicines after a consult at an empanelled hospital. My wife had met a rheumatologist and I, a cardiologist. Medicines prescribed by the empanelled hospitals are dispensed by ECHS clinics. In all probability only substitutes of the prescribed medicines are likely to be available. The dispenser if questioned gives you an incredulous look and asks “What’s in a name? The salts in the substitutes are the same as in the prescribed medicine.”
There is more. Suppose a 50mg tablet is prescribed, you might receive a 100mg and be asked to eat a half tablet. Conversely, if the prescription says 100 mg, it is likely you will receive a 50/25mg substitute and be asked to pop two/four pills instead of one.
Veteran Fauja Singh; near blind and suffering from many chronic ailments, was in high spirits receiving his one-month quota of medicines from the dispenser. The prescribed medicines had undergone brand substitution (generic) at the hands of an ECHS doctor. The system of procurement of a soldier’s personal weapon while in service and his medicines post retirement is the same, at lowest tendered rates.
Fauja left the counter triumphant as in victory. Every pocket plus a small bag laden with medicine. I could not stop myself from asking, “Naik sahib, how do you manage the confusion?” “Sahib koi raula nayi. Ghar jaa ke saariyaan dwaaiyaan khol lainda haan te tee hisseian vich vand layi dae. Waheguru da naa laike ik hissa roz chhak layi dae te fauj de gunh gayi dai. (I open and mix all medicines and divide them into 30 lots. I invoke the blessings of the Almighty and eat one lot daily and thank the army.)”
I smiled at the humour and the indomitable spirit of the old soldier.
Back home, we emptied the medicines that we had collected on a table. Not a single name from the heap matched our prescriptions. Soon, we could not make out which medicine was for whom. Most of the salts mentioned on the reverse were not legible. For once, our time-tested friend, Mr Google, was of no help. My exasperated wife asked sarcastically, “Would you like to give Fauja Singh’s method a try?” A wry smile on my face and I recalled the jingle.
colipsk@hotmail.com
The writer is a freelance contributor
