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.