Nah! Not so glamorous 🙂
- Existential dread uprising like a Phoenix every Monday
- When “Assistant Professor” is Just an “Extended” PG at your work place!
- Torchlight Exams and Vintage Equipment: Welcome to OPD
- OT: The Museum of Surgical Instruments
- The Fellowship Dream: Where Real Learning Happens
- Gratitude Moments and the Rarity of Real Impact
- Surviving Existential Dread: Humour, Travel, and Solo Escapes
They say every doctor in India chases medicine propelled by something noble—a calling, a childhood inspiration, an annoying neighbour who slyly boasts about their “doctor son,” or, let’s face it, the reality that medicine is absolutely an excellent option for those bad at math. Honestly, I am one such!
If you’re waiting to hear how I dreamt of eye surgeries since childhood, get ready for disappointment. My heart longed for the adrenaline of general surgery—a field filled with drama, mess, and a sense of urgency. Instead, destiny gently nudged me into ophthalmology – which is actually a blessing in disguise; because Ophthalmology is apparently a chill branch! Yes it is. I can now set a part of my time to travel which would have been difficult if it was general surgery – not impossible though.
I’m a 33-year-old Indian ophthalmologist working as an Assistant Professor at a Government Medical College. Fancy title, but my official duties could easily pass for an overworked Junior Resident (JR). Add to this a dose of existential angst, a hippie heart that craves freedom, travel, and local adventures—plus a strong aversion to bureaucracy—and you have the makings of a not-so-glamorous government doctor life.
If you’ve ever romanticized being a hospital hero, here’s a reality check: welcome to surprising truths about this journey. Buckle up, the ride is bumpy, funny, earnest, and one hell of an eye-opener.
1. Existential dread uprising like a Phoenix every Monday
Monday – the universal nemesis doesn’t spare me as well. Monday mornings be like “Why Oh Why?” I drag myself out of bed into the kitchen to start the day and of course with a cup of coffee. This slightly dampens the dread but not completely. A symphony of Krishna bhajans from Spotify, played loud enough to drown out thoughts of the endless week (also of the noise of the traffic during commute). If spiritual compensation were currency, I’d have retired by now.
Why Krishna bhajans, you ask? Because if I must start another monotonous week, I might as well let philosophy remind me it’s “duty”— karma. Why else would have Krishna placed me here? Also, I hope for some cosmic support to brave the traffic and dust.
I scramble to leave home by 8:30 am, which means a 9:00 am arrival (if luck holds and the signal gods are kind). Honestly, the commute isn’t that bad – green corridors, with canopies of huge old trees, (a typical old Bangalore charm) the scent from the fallen Mogra giving a light headrush – all surreal
There’s something meditative about being stuck in traffic surrounded by millions on the same rat-race. Sometimes, I imagine Krishna himself waiting at the next signal, offering me wisdom (or maybe just a lift to work).
2. When “Assistant Professor” is Just an “Extended” PG at your work place!
Super annoying! Agghhh! But what to do! Until the next better job
Titles and designations sparkle on appointment orders but rarely in real life. Sounds grand when I say I am an Assistant Professor – but it’s all a slog. Being yelled at, not giving the freedom to treat patients in my own way, no healthy discussions but only reprimands, dumping of duties, no accountability for own cases and dumping the case on others – the lines of professionalism is blurred here.
In fact Assistant Professors were openly told to be as “Extended Post Graduates.” I have a experience of 5 years post my post-graduation. Till when! Sad but true 😓
The hierarchy in government medical colleges is a beast of its own. You’re expected to mentor, but you rarely get real teaching time. You’re a junior when it suits the seniors, and an “expert” whenever the paperwork looks complicated
Well my routine kicks off with biometric log-in. Then, the all-important register signing. I sometimes fantasize about animated registers that insult me for poor penmanship. Twice is the magic number (no, still not eligible for double salary).
Most days, I shuffle between admin rooms, sometimes wondering if the only thing multiplying faster than squinting patients is the paperwork. Once upon a time, I thought medicine meant healing. Now, I think it means paperwork with a license to prescribe over the counter drugs.
When the boredom gets too much, I picture myself as a rebel leader, organizing a paperwork strike. But then I remember: I like my job stability, and I still have EMIs to pay.
3. Torchlight Exams and Vintage Equipment: Welcome to OPD
Ever imagine yourself heroically diagnosing obscure conditions with super-sophisticated tech? Welcome to OPD, where the odds are:
- 70% torchlight diagnosis
- 20% “Is the slit lamp working today?”
- 10% prayer
Our slit lamp, bless its heart, is probably as old as the first Bollywood movie. On most days, it’s as illuminating as a candle. There’s a running joke among colleagues: anterior chamber cells require special vision, not just special lighting.
Patient flow is a steady parade—cataracts, conjunctivitis, worried old uncles who google every symptom and arrive certain they’ll need a transplant. The exam itself is part skill, part imagination. I can confidently say my torch is my sidekick, my Excalibur – the prized and only tool in our OPD in 2025. If modern Ophthalmology is a Marvel movie, our OPD is the old-school Door Darshan.
Medicines? Most vital drops are out of stock. Insurance, meant to make life easier, but means another trip outside for the patients, and another apology from me: “Sorry, you’ll need to buy this from the store opposite.”
When things get slow, I indulge in signature practice. I now sign so many discharge summaries, my signature looks like abstract art, or maybe a lost form of Sanskrit.
OPD also has moments of comic relief. Patients sometimes ask if torchlight exams are the “latest thing” or “that’s it?” I nod sagely—no other choice.
4. OT: The Museum of Surgical Instruments
If medical TV has convinced you that surgeons work in gleaming theaters with futuristic gadgets, let government reality burst your bubble. The OT here runs on SICS (Small Incision Cataract Surgery)—no phaco, no high-tech wizardry, and sometimes, no sense of urgency. The instruments have outlived two or three generations of surgeons; each one deserves a pension.
Surgery days start early but excitement rarely lasts. My fellowship at RJ Sankara Eye Hospital, Panvel, made surgery thrilling—cutting edge, bustling, and every case a new learning opportunity.
Still, I count my blessings here. OT fosters unique bonds: grumbling about scissoring forceps with fellow surgeons, trading stories of the ancient phaco machine (“it’ll come next month,” they say every six months.)
Sometimes, I wonder if my tools will retire before me.
5. The Fellowship Dream: Where Real Learning Happens
Not all ophthalmology is like this. My time at RJ Sankara Eye Hospital, Panvel—18 months that felt like medical bootcamp—was everything government life isn’t. Stellar staff, real workflow, hectic days bursting with learning. Surgery was a competition, professional growth a daily mantra.
It’s a memory so vivid that sometimes after a boring day in OPD, I close my eyes and try to recall the buzz of my fellowship days: assistants flitting around, surgeons mentoring with passion, the sense of energy in the air. I loved every minute. If you ask me about professional joy, that’s where I found it.
Back here, comparing the two is inevitable. One system values the pursuit of excellence; the other, survival. My journey at Sankara Eye Hospital wasn’t my plan, but now, I try to make the best of what I’ve learned.
6. Gratitude Moments and the Rarity of Real Impact
Let’s be honest: most days in government setups, doctors feel more like clerks. But every now and then, a patient pierces the monotony. The woman who arrived broken—convinced her cataract would be her doom—left smiling after a difficult surgery went well. Her gratitude? Genuine. Her transformation? Profound.
Those moments, fleeting as they are, keep me from giving up—and remind me why I don’t disappear into my wanderlust entirely. Most cases don’t make headlines, but for that one patient, the world shifts. Sometimes, that’s enough.
It’s in such moments I realize medicine isn’t always about numbers—it’s about helping that one person who needed you at your best. Not heroic, not dramatic. Just necessary.
7. Surviving Existential Dread: Humour, Travel, and Solo Escapes
The biggest truth? Working as a Government Indian Ophthalmologist isn’t always satisfying. It’s steady, sure, and the pay check is lifeline-level security after a rocky childhood and personal upheavals. But guilt still lingers—the “am I doing enough?” syndrome. Should I have fought for one more fellowship? Chased more certificates? Given more, risked more, learned more?
Reality wins out—35k INR/month isn’t luxurious. Especially when you are on your own – life is complicated, so survival is a daily art.
When it gets overwhelming, I escape into travel, writing, and solitude. There’s a peculiar peace in wandering Bangalore’s streets, or disappearing into the mountains, or just relaxing at home with a cup of coffee and my cellphone. Sometimes I feel judged, sometimes liberated. Sometimes I wonder if my version of success looks different from everyone else’s—and whether that’s okay.
My blog “Eyes and Escapes” is my refuge—stories, reflections, and a place where I reconcile duty with desire. I believe healing happens in many ways—sometimes for the patient, sometimes for the doctor.
Lighter moments abound. OPD patients asking earnestly whether torchlight exams are the latest innovation. Colleagues debating if our slit lamp is a lamp or a museum exhibit. Rumors of fancy surgical gadgets swirl, but never land. Insurance paperwork? Mythical skill. If you want comic value, spend a day with me—and remember not to ask about the phaco machine.
Travel, Solitude, and the Quest for Meaning
Away from the glare of the torch and the rustle of hospital papers, my soul stretches its wings. Solo travel doesn’t just recharge my energy; it saves me from burnout. Sometimes I write, sometimes just stare at Bangalore’s chaos. Is peace found? Occasionally. Guilt sticks, hope floats. Philosophically, I keep wondering what Krishna wants me to learn—maybe patience, maybe gratitude, maybe something still unfolding.
Focused Sight, Unfocused Soul
So yes, the life of a government Indian ophthalmologist is surprising—sometimes tedious, sometimes profound, sometimes unexpectedly hilarious. If you see a tired doctor blasting devotional music, signing papers with abandon, and dreaming of a new slit lamp and a phaco machine, say hello. I live somewhere between duty and wanderlust, structure and freedom, OPD and existential laughter.
If you’re another doctor lost in monotony, or a hopeful medical student, let these truths be your honest guide. Medicine isn’t all glamour—in India, it’s real, raw, unpredictable, and, with some luck, survivable. And if you’re ever caught in Bangalore traffic, humming Krishna bhajans, plotting escapes—don’t worry, you’re not alone.
Add your stories below, swap laughter, and return for more slices of government hospital reality. No sugar-coating, just the surprising truth.
Thanks for reading
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