You must have seen his name in bold, lurid Urdu script splattered on walls and banners all across the city’s derelict, congested quarters. And his face too: the scraggly, swept back hair, the brushy moustache-and-beard, the cheesy grin. He doesn’t look like someone you’d entrust your health with, but appearances can be so deceptive. His ads run on the local TV cable too: you see a series of stills depicting his gracious, therapeutic poses with the various “patients” who throng his “clinic”; or else you see a rolling strip under whatever pirated, blurry, sleazy movie the local cable channel happens to be running at the time.
He is an accomplished homoeopath, hakim, faith-healer, herbalist and marriage consultant all rolled into one. The absolute and biggest know-all, cure-all authority on health matters in the country. Or so his adverts would have you believe. His range of therapeutic prowess is astonishing: kidney stones? no problem, he can eliminate them without ever touching your tummy or knowing what exactly a kidney is. Perennial constipation? Flatulence? You’d be rid of those with just a weeklong course of his arcane and divinely blessed medication. Same goes for piles: forget surgeries, the mixture of herbal and spiritual anointments he’d prescribe for your nether regions would remove any anomaly that dare rear its head.
Then, of course, he’s the perfect consultant for all posheeda matters. He’d detect masculine insufficiency in you even if you never knew you had it. His potent cure, divinely sanctified and homoeopathically proven, would make you rise to all necessary occasions. And of course he can deliver you babies (not in the literal sense, though) if you’ve never had any. Specially male ones. He gaudily advertises his cure for female infertility and male-childlessness and exhorts all ladies to try it; he’d have you conceive male children in no time, just as long as you regularly use his medications. Concocted using ethereal incantations and advanced German technology, the prescription is just a tad expensive, but highly effective. Just try it.
His repertoire of therapies doesn’t end here. Terminal liver disease? He’d make your liver live again. Diabetes? He’d beat it out of your system. Hepatitis, cancer, pyorrhoea, leucorrhoea, twisted spines, tormented intestines: his elixirs can fix them all. Lately, owing to his huge popularity, he’s secured a late-night slot on a local TV channel. He expounds his arcane theories and therapeutics—“just two drops of this solution and your blood cells would quiver and tell each other: we can beat this virus!” — fields live questions and offers discounted, home-delivered products to all callers. You can SMS him, email him, write him a letter. For a considerable amount of well-spent money, you can even have him make a house call. His credentials and expertise are indubitable. He’s a Gold Medallist, his promos tell you, and one presumes that wasn’t at the Olympics. Plus, most importantly, he caters to an exquisite and highly reliable clientele. He is, in fact, an erstwhile physician to the Prime Minister, or so his banners claim in garish letters.
With experts like him around, the nation’s state of health can never be in doubt. His clinic is always packed, a sure sign that our populace recognises the value of good health and sound medical care. One only hopes there are more professionals like him, and that our health departments continue to do nothing about it.
Published in The Express Tribune, October 9th, 2010.
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