It’s impossible for me to return home and not fall sick. If you have a body, it’s natural to experience discomfort. I have accepted this reality. That’s why I no longer break down when I get sick. I try to endure the pain. I don’t even feel like telling anyone that I am unwell—not even Jasmine. If I tell her, she’ll say, “You only remember me when you’re sick, right?” She’s not wrong. That’s why I haven’t told Jasmine this time that I am not doing well. Who wants to hear harsh words instead of sympathy from so far away? I feel a little embarrassed to write about my illness on Facebook. Yet, subconsciously, I crave sympathy. Friends will ask, “What happened? Get well soon.” A friend from Texas wrote, “I prayed two extra rakats for you.” Someone in a temple prayed for me. Hearing such things makes me feel good. It gives me strength.
Whenever I fall sick, I only think about not troubling anyone—not a single person. Even when I board a plane, I don’t feel afraid of dying. Before takeoff, they give a safety demonstration, but I don’t watch it. I don’t even know where the emergency exits are. When the plane flies over the Atlantic at 37,000 feet, what’s the point of worrying? It’s best to stay at peace.
Yesterday, I visited a doctor friend. I have pain in my left knee and foot. It’s not a severe illness, just a bit swollen. I can’t walk properly, but I still hobble around. I wander through the book fair. Missing a day at the book fair? That’s unthinkable! I inhale the scent of new books. I visit the stalls of my publisher friends. I sip free tea. I observe the readers and visitors. Thousands of people flock to the fair every day. The security is excellent this year. Everyone is moving around freely. I thank the Bangladesh Academy for this. The fairground has been expanded, allowing visitors to explore at their own pace. It fills my heart with joy to see people buying books. Even a random writer like me has readers coming from far away. Someone came from Rangpur yesterday. Zakir traveled from Singapore. A friend from Texas sent his brother to collect my book. May this love for books always remain!
Yet, something feels missing this year. A sense of absence lingers. Maybe it’s because many writers aren’t attending. Prominent authors are showing up very little. It would have been nice to have a designated space for writers to gather. The stall arrangement also feels somewhat haphazard.
The doctor patiently listened to me, prescribed medicine, and even treated me to chotpoti and fried chira. A doctor’s kind words and a warm smile can cure half the illness. And if the doctor happens to be beautiful—well, that’s another matter!
Visiting government hospitals in my country saddens me. So many people lie in the corridors. Despite having countless hospitals, patients still struggle to find beds and proper care. Meanwhile, private hospitals operate like luxury resorts, driven solely by money. The treatment there is often superficial. As a result, many people seek medical care in India, Bangkok, or Singapore, draining billions of taka abroad.
Even doctors themselves don’t know what to do if they suddenly fall ill—where to go, where they’ll receive proper diagnosis. Patients are dying due to misdiagnosis. In government hospitals, doctors are denied promotions unless they align with political groups. Juniors surpass seniors to become professors. Even doctors are suffering from depression in this chaotic system. Under such circumstances, providing proper patient care has become increasingly difficult.
Two years ago, I fell ill. I always do. Last year, I had a skin problem. It got better with medication prescribed by a doctor my friend referred me to. That time, I had a sore throat. At first, I thought it was tonsillitis. I was in Barishal then. My friend Panna, a medical representative, advised me to take antibiotics. But they didn’t work. Another friend took me to a renowned ENT specialist at Square Hospital in Dhaka. The doctor was polite, examined me carefully, and prescribed medicine.
At these hospitals, you are practically forced to buy medicine from their dispensary. Many inhumane things happen at private hospitals—patients die due to medical negligence, and some hospitals even withhold dead bodies until bills are paid.
I took the prescribed medicine, but my throat pain persisted. I grew anxious. It wasn’t normal to have a sore throat for so long. I had been eating all sorts of things in Dhaka, with no control over my diet. After completing a seven-day course, I returned to the doctor. He examined me again, reassured me, and increased the dosage. Another seven days passed. Still, no improvement. I was terrified—why wasn’t the pain subsiding? Jasmine told me to change my ticket and return sooner.
Instead of revisiting Square Hospital, I went to Holy Family Hospital to see a friend who was also an ENT specialist. He, too, increased my dosage. But nothing worked. Some doctors here prescribe unnecessary medications, often from specific companies because they receive commissions.
With my persistent throat pain, I returned to Toronto. I had been suffering for a month. I tried everything, yet the pain wouldn’t go away. I visited my family doctor. He didn’t take it seriously. Meanwhile, getting an appointment with an ENT specialist would take three to four months. How was I supposed to endure this pain for so long?
Suddenly, I remembered a doctor I had seen three years ago. Back then, he had given me a card and told me that if I ever faced any issues again, I could see him without an appointment. I never lose things easily—I keep everything safe, even visiting cards. But where had I kept that card? Would I be able to find it? Important things often go missing when needed.
But I found the card!
One day, I went to his clinic. It was packed with patients. I handed my card to the front desk receptionist. It looked a little worn out—it was three years old, after all. Fortunately, the doctor had not retired. He was an elderly Iranian gentleman, over sixty years old. I explained everything to the receptionist. She took the card inside and returned shortly after.
She said, “You can see the doctor today as a walk-in patient. But you won’t get this card back—it’s a one-time pass.”
I felt like I had won the lottery. I said, “No problem at all.”
She told me to wait. “You’ll see the doctor after five patients.”
As I waited, I mentally rehearsed what I would say. Should I mention all the medicines I had taken back home? Doctors don’t like it when patients hide things. But if the case was complicated, the doctor might refuse to take responsibility. Still, I decided to tell him everything.
When my turn came, I stepped inside. The doctor had a clean, bright complexion—just looking at him made me feel better. He was a bit serious in nature. He listened to me attentively, then examined my throat and ears using modern equipment.
Finally, he said, “There’s nothing to worry about. I’ll prescribe some medicine. Take it for three months, and you’ll be fine.”
I asked, “Doctor, what’s the problem?”
He replied, “Your stomach is producing excess acid, which is causing throat pain.”
Oh, my God! Is that what it was? How did our doctors fail to detect this?
I took the medicine for just one month—and I was completely cured.
Toronto, Canada
