Life After KE
Nauman Mufti
After I passed my finals, the paid house jobs I could get were Cardiac Surgery and Chest Diseases. Cardiac Surgery was also called Thundi Ward because it was entirely air-conditioned. Summer was upon us and I loved being in an air-conditioned ward. While on call one weekend, I heard a lot of commotion. Loud noises were coming from the lower entrance next to Cardiology Ward. I went down-stairs. The gatekeeper at the entrance came rushing to me. He said Doctor Sahib there is a strange guy on a bicycle who wants to enter the hospital. He claims the he is a Professor. He pointed towards the person who was wearing a tracksuit and sweating from head to toe. I looked at the person and turning to the gatekeeper, I said, please let him in. He is indeed our Professor of Surgery, Col. Cheema.
The other surgeon we had was Dr. Jawaad Ahmad. He was the nephew of Ashfaq Ahmed, my most favorite author, intellectual and human being of the highest order. After a successful surgery, Dr. Jawaad would treat all house officers with delicious home cooked feast. However, during surgery he was the most fearsome of any surgeons, I encountered. He would throw instruments and his shouting curse words, though not directed at me, made my hands tremble. I remember after my first thoracotomy, which went flawlessly, he said to me Nauman, you should think seriously about becoming a cardiac surgeon. What he did not know was that when I had picked up the saw for thoracotomy, I had prayed to Allah, O Allah please do not let me harm this patient and I promise you I will never pick up the saw again. Allah helped through the surgery and I kept my promise.
After my paid house jobs, I wanted to do a house job in a Medical Ward. I vividly remember that one professor took his pen out to grant me the permission to do an honorary house job. He casually asked me so when are you going to take your PLAB. I said, never. I am going to USA. He put the pen back on his lab coat, without signing my application. This was the first symptom of the foot-in-mouth disease I suffer from. I have the knack of saying the first thing that comes in my mind, without assessing the consequences.
After my house job, I applied for many jobs within Lahore but had no luck. I finally found a job in Chak 25 GB (Guddu Barrage), a village near Okara. It was a Basic Health Unit (BHU). There was a residence for the Medical officer. I would have loved to live there and serve the village people however, there was a problem. The village people were using it to house their buffalos. Moreover, I was told that the electricity was disconnected because local people were stealing it to light their houses. I could get it connected without much trouble, provided I paid the outstanding bill. It was Rs 20,000. Being that my ‘salary’ was Rs. 2,000; my first 10 months salary would go towards paying the bill. In addition, they were not willing to accept installments. I was keen on doing the job so I decided to commute from my Temple Road residence. I would get my bus from Mozang Chungi at 6 AM to Okara. From Okara, I took another bus to reach Chuk 25. This bus was always crowded, packed with villagers and their animals. I reached the BHU by Noon after 6 hours. There were 20-30 patients politely waiting for me. I would then see patients, some of whom had never seen a physician. They were indeed very grateful. At 3 PM, it was time to head home for the 6 hr trip back home. After couple of weeks, my parents, who had by then moved to Lahore from Karachi, grew worried. One day I asked my Dispenser, if it was okay if I skipped a day every once in a while. Surprisingly, he was very pleased. Then he told me that that the doctor before me, never bothered to come at all and he (the dispenser) ran the BHU. He told me that I could do the same. I could not do that. Finally, we decided that I would come every other day. I felt very guilty, but 14 hr days were beginning to take their toll and my salary was barely covering the bus fare.
Luckily, after only 3 months at Chuk 25, I found what I thought was a better job in Shamke Bhattian only 40 km south of Lahore. What happened there is a story for another day.
Nauman Mufti
After I passed my finals, the paid house jobs I could get were Cardiac Surgery and Chest Diseases. Cardiac Surgery was also called Thundi Ward because it was entirely air-conditioned. Summer was upon us and I loved being in an air-conditioned ward. While on call one weekend, I heard a lot of commotion. Loud noises were coming from the lower entrance next to Cardiology Ward. I went down-stairs. The gatekeeper at the entrance came rushing to me. He said Doctor Sahib there is a strange guy on a bicycle who wants to enter the hospital. He claims the he is a Professor. He pointed towards the person who was wearing a tracksuit and sweating from head to toe. I looked at the person and turning to the gatekeeper, I said, please let him in. He is indeed our Professor of Surgery, Col. Cheema.
The other surgeon we had was Dr. Jawaad Ahmad. He was the nephew of Ashfaq Ahmed, my most favorite author, intellectual and human being of the highest order. After a successful surgery, Dr. Jawaad would treat all house officers with delicious home cooked feast. However, during surgery he was the most fearsome of any surgeons, I encountered. He would throw instruments and his shouting curse words, though not directed at me, made my hands tremble. I remember after my first thoracotomy, which went flawlessly, he said to me Nauman, you should think seriously about becoming a cardiac surgeon. What he did not know was that when I had picked up the saw for thoracotomy, I had prayed to Allah, O Allah please do not let me harm this patient and I promise you I will never pick up the saw again. Allah helped through the surgery and I kept my promise.
After my paid house jobs, I wanted to do a house job in a Medical Ward. I vividly remember that one professor took his pen out to grant me the permission to do an honorary house job. He casually asked me so when are you going to take your PLAB. I said, never. I am going to USA. He put the pen back on his lab coat, without signing my application. This was the first symptom of the foot-in-mouth disease I suffer from. I have the knack of saying the first thing that comes in my mind, without assessing the consequences.
After my house job, I applied for many jobs within Lahore but had no luck. I finally found a job in Chak 25 GB (Guddu Barrage), a village near Okara. It was a Basic Health Unit (BHU). There was a residence for the Medical officer. I would have loved to live there and serve the village people however, there was a problem. The village people were using it to house their buffalos. Moreover, I was told that the electricity was disconnected because local people were stealing it to light their houses. I could get it connected without much trouble, provided I paid the outstanding bill. It was Rs 20,000. Being that my ‘salary’ was Rs. 2,000; my first 10 months salary would go towards paying the bill. In addition, they were not willing to accept installments. I was keen on doing the job so I decided to commute from my Temple Road residence. I would get my bus from Mozang Chungi at 6 AM to Okara. From Okara, I took another bus to reach Chuk 25. This bus was always crowded, packed with villagers and their animals. I reached the BHU by Noon after 6 hours. There were 20-30 patients politely waiting for me. I would then see patients, some of whom had never seen a physician. They were indeed very grateful. At 3 PM, it was time to head home for the 6 hr trip back home. After couple of weeks, my parents, who had by then moved to Lahore from Karachi, grew worried. One day I asked my Dispenser, if it was okay if I skipped a day every once in a while. Surprisingly, he was very pleased. Then he told me that that the doctor before me, never bothered to come at all and he (the dispenser) ran the BHU. He told me that I could do the same. I could not do that. Finally, we decided that I would come every other day. I felt very guilty, but 14 hr days were beginning to take their toll and my salary was barely covering the bus fare.
Luckily, after only 3 months at Chuk 25, I found what I thought was a better job in Shamke Bhattian only 40 km south of Lahore. What happened there is a story for another day.
