Santhosh's ramblings

We are living in an era of protests. History has shown us that protests do not belong only to the powerless. The powerless protest because they desire change; the powerful often protest because they fear it. One seeks transformation, the other seeks preservation. Whether protest leads to anything meaningful depends largely on why it happens and how it is expressed. Yet long before there were placards, petitions, hashtags, and demonstrations, there was something much more personal. Deep within every human heart lies the instinct to protest. In many ways, life itself is a long journey of protesting reality, whether that reality is experienced or simply perceived.  An infant enters the world with strong opinions and limited means of communication. Every inconvenience is met with a vigorous response. Milk is delayed. A protest follows. A nappy is changed. A protest follows. A nappy is not changed. The protest continues. Put down, picked up, too warm, too cold; all are considered le...

This weekend was spent with a group of schoolmates whose friendship stretches back nearly five decades. We come from different backgrounds, faiths, professions, and political viewpoints, yet we are connected by six formative years together from the 5th to the 10th standard. What struck me was that our differences made very little difference to our relationships. It made me wonder why. Was it because we first met as children, before labels and loyalties became so important? Or was there something deeper? Our country today often seems marked by divisions, with differences amplified and conflicts nurtured, sometimes for the sake of influence and power. If we had wanted to, our group too could have found enough reasons to disagree. After all, five decades have given us plenty of time to collect opinions, convictions, and a few stubborn certainties. Yet that was not the point of our gathering. There was an unspoken agreement to enjoy one another's company, laugh at old stories, revisit ...

I worry about worrying. I worry when I am worrying, and I worry when I am not worrying. Before you reach for the phone to counsel me - or gently suggest that I see a counsellor - let me say this: this is exactly why I ramble.  Sometimes I need to place my confusing thoughts somewhere outside my head, preferably before they start holding a committee meeting inside it. Those of you who are non-worriers, please feel free to stop reading and move on to some more meaningful activity. Do not waste your calm and well-organised minds on this blog. Let me try to explain. I grew up like many middle-class children, without too many worries. My parents took care of my needs. I knew my wants - and certainly my greeds - could not always be met, because we did not have the resources for everything. But life was simpler then, and we learned to settle for what was given. So, in those early years, worry did not occupy much space. It had not yet been given a room in my head. Alongside this, I was tau...

Five years ago, I wrote a blog called  "A Day in Duncan".   It was a snapshot of the critically ill patients I encountered during a typical day in the hospital.  read it here If you revisit that post, you'll notice that many of those patients were battling non-communicable diseases, while the major infections were tuberculosis and HIV. The rest were a mix of drug-related complications (such as steroid dependence leading to hyponatraemia), trauma, and a few immunological disorders. Fast forward to a recent "Day at Duncan". Among roughly 50 patients admitted in the wards, more than 20 were critically ill. What stands out is that the disease landscape continues to evolve. We are seeing unusual infections more often, the familiar HIV and TB pairing but with increasingly complex complications, rising addictions, attempted suicides, growing mental health concerns, all layered on top of the ever-present burden of non-communicable diseases. Diseases, it seems, are becom...