The Unforgivable Curses
An Ode to all the Doctors
The Stethoscope, his wand
with magic in his hand;
The Hippocratic Oath, his spell;
Medicine, his potion
The White Coat his robes,
His knowledge, the Defense
Against the Dark Arts
of syndromes and diseases.
With naive intentions
of greater good, healing people
did he choose upon this path
to not be cursed by wrath;
of unforgivable curses upon
being the bearer of bad news.
The white coat drenched in toils
of hard work, sacrifice, insomnia,
stains of caffeine overdose;
though now the brown
mingled with the red
as the young doctor bled;
the glint in his warm eyes
now an empty dark stare.
Little did people remember
that magic men are also mortal men
Humans, not God
Medicine not an immortal potion
nor an elixir of life;
Which brings me to say
even magic has its boundaries;
But within those
do we try our best to catch
Every Snitch of cure;
Hitting the Rogue Bludger
of ill-health and ailment;
racing on our brooms of
hope and optimism
to win this Quidditch match
against disease and disorder.
Thank you for reading!
This is an Ode to all doctors, especially in India, where recently many were the victims of attacks by the relatives of patients — upon bring the news of death of the patients. Last year an entire hostel of medical students was attacked, invoking nationwide protests and strikes by the medical community.
We do understand your agony when your loved ones die, we ourselves feel traumatized when a patient dies. Lashing out on doctors isn’t the solution — they try to do the best of whatever is in their hands. It’s a disrespect to the sacrifice and toil we put in.
