Life, Death, And Chaos In Kashmir's Premier Hospitals

In the last year, I wrote scores of articles on the inefficiencies and inadequacies of our government hospitals. Drawn purely from observations over the past three years, the pieces focused on what factual analysis often misses.

They came with folded hands, requesting those at the helm to examine the details on the ground.

No committee could dig deeper than the author has. Factoring in details as granular as an“uff” escaping from the lips of attendants, to doctors sweating in cramped spaces, and as serious as an empanelled pharmacy pushing“Videsh” away, every observation is linked to (or derived from) a disease whose genesis and eradication remain unknown.

Issues persist in swathes. Some I may have forgotten to mention. Others I have stressed fairly enough. Of the former, examine the following, if you do not have time to confirm it yourself:

The resuscitation room is a holy place, where life is either saved by a doctor or snatched away by death. How distressing it is to watch those who have passed away being wrapped in the same room, in front of critically ill patients. How horrifying must the shrieks of attendants sound to the ears of the sick, sitting nearby and battling death?

This is a scene in one of the premier institutions of our valley: a three- to four-bedded room where resuscitation, the wrapping of a dead body, ECGs, dying patients, nervous attendants, and more all unfold simultaneously.

Can we zoom in on the root cause of this mess, equally grave and important, yet paid less attention?

Lack of space and inattention. Or spatial availability and inattention. Two possibilities. If the case is the former, carving out a space from the boundary-less hospital land and deploying a couple of men of honour there for post-mortem formalities should not be a tough job. But if it is the latter, then we are truly unlucky.

And this is now 2026. And I have been raising these issues for over a year.

The sole purpose of hospitals is to cure patients and give them relief, as clichéd as it may sound. But our hospital administration does not bother to confirm whether the resuscitation room is meant for saving lives or wrapping up the dead. It does not confirm whether the meagre sum released under the Ayushman Bharat Golden Card is enough to cover essential drugs in emergencies. In emergencies, I reiterate.

Nor does it account for the pain of attendants running relay races for drug requisitions - signed, stamped, and carried across departments - before reaching drugstores poles apart from the ward where their patient lies.

The pain is intensified by the pressure our premier hospitals face from hundreds of thousands of overwhelming patients. The situation is worsened by frequent referrals from peripheral hospitals for ailments they should have been able to handle.

Genuine or not, shouldn't this concern the hospital administration and the government enough to act, and clear this mess, in which both the workforce and the patients suffer?

When doctors burn out, patients are neglected. When attendants are exhausted, patients receive less care. How can this frustration continue in a sacred place, a hospital, of all places?

Granted, our hospitals are doing their best for patient care and trying to avoid irregularities, but when issues such as resuscitation chaos and endless queues arise, they taint the entire system.

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