Ducktor Quack-a-Doodle-Doo

Ashok is holding his left arm at half mast and looking bemused. He shows me a peanut-shaped lump that has developed in his armpit. "You're are going to die soon, brother," I deadpan. His smile disappears.

"But the doctor said it was just a rash."

"A rash? What doctor said that? You aren't going to die anytime soon, but you have a swollen lymph node which means you probably have some kind of infection. Did you really go to a doctor?"

"You are right," Ashok says nodding gravely, "It wasn't a doctor. It was just a..."

"M.B.B.S."

"Yes, how did you know?"

"No doctor would have told you that it is just a rash. Tomorrow you should go to a real doctor."

"Yes, you are right."

The following evening I come up to Ashok's room to check on him and he is in bed with a large green leaf in the crevice formed by the ailing armpit. An application of red powder is visible along the edges. Ashok pokes at the leaf with his finger and awkwardly tries to get a better look at himself by craning his neck down and forward and squinting one eye.

"So it finally sprouted," I say, startling him from his self-exam.

"Yes. My wife knows some cure from her village," Ashok explains, "It's ayurvedic." Every backwoods Indian cure is casually ascribed to the hoary body of healing knowledge.

"But it will be sad when you have to cut it down, hai na?"

"What, no. Oh, I get it, it's a leaf. Yes, it's funny, I know."

"Seriously, even if the leaf manages to reduce the swelling there is likely an infection in your body somewhere that has caused the lymph node to swell. You still should see a doctor just to be safe."

"Yes, you are right," Ashok says. His signature cliché is repeated with such precision that my ego is seduced into a slight self-satisfactory throb. Playing doctor has never been so easy.

We go down to the street where two medical clinics sit directly opposite one another. Dr. Rajinder Singh on one side and Dr. (Vaid) Baldev Dass on the other. Ashok heads toward Dr. Singh's clinic then at the last second veers to the other. "It is cheaper," he explains patting his pocketed wallet.

"The sign says so, but do you think there is a real doctor here?" I ask Ashok as we enter.

"I don't know. Maybe? We'll see anyway."

"Yes?" a voice inquires from behind a curtain at the back of the deep and narrow office. Long wooden benches flank the anterior of the room and are followed by glass cases brimming with brown-glass bottles and clear plastic containers copious with pills.

Ashok explains his bubbly armpit ailment to the disembodied inquisitor pausing midway to remove his shirt. Finally a fifty-something man, with thinning whitish hair, pokes his head out and glances first at Ashok's armpit and then to me before quickly retracting. I take him to be the clinic's namesake.

"Is there any test you guys can do to determine what's causing..." I start to ask.

"Boils!" (Vaid) interrupts.

"But his lymph nodes..."

(Vaid) pretends not to hear my protest and begins barking orders to a youngish, bespectacled assistant who fishes in a jar for differently colored pills. In spite of the signage I conclude that these be no properly sanctioned men of healing and tell Ashok I will check across the street to see what competing snake oil they have to offer. I whirl around to see two heads disappear behind a partition in the back of the opposing clinic. The offices are so perfectly aligned that one is given the impression of being in a single, impressively long room, broken only by a maddening torrent of interlopers in the midsection. Two shoe boxes with cutouts set in opposition.

After navigating the traffic-congested divide I discover the layout of Dr. Singh's clinic to be identical to the (Vaid)'s. I proceed to the back of the office where I find a distinguished looking older man and a young assistant seated at smallish desks behind the partition. They self-conscientiously occupy themselves with a melange of papers and files. "Are you Doctor Singh?" I ask.

"Yes, yes. But not now. They're looking," he says. I turn back curious to see to whom he is referring and see Ashok paying for his envelope of pills and the pill's dubiously-qualified prescriber leaning out from behind his curtain – peering past Ashok, through the confusion of the street and right to where I stand.

"Is Doctor Dass really a doctor or just a M.B.B.S.," I ask. In truth, I myself don't know the difference between the designations, but had overheard someone speaking derisively about an M.B.B.S. degree sometime earlier.

"He is not even an M.B.B.S. He passed only tenth standard," Dr. Singh avers.

"But the sign says Doctor Dass."

"You can write anything on a sign, isn't it?"

"Yes, but you are a real doctor?"

"Yes."

"Even though your sign says you are a doctor?" My perverse attempt at humor is lost on the doctor (self-professed at least) who is clearly distracted. "My friend has had a impressively swollen lymph node for the past couple of days and was wondering if you could determine the cause." Dr. Singh leans to look beyond me to (Vaid)'s clinic.

"I can have a look tomorrow. Now will not be good. It would look bad." Ashok enters and I turn to him. Over his shoulder I can see (Vaid) peeking at us again with one hand on the curtain. Our eyes meet and he releases his hold on the curtain to return to hiding.

"He can take a look at you tomorrow, but doesn't want to do anything now," I explain to Ashok, "He said the other doctor really isn't a doctor." Ashok smiles grimly and looks to Dr. Singh.

"You can't have a look now?"

"It would look bad. You were just at the other clinic isn't it? Come tomorrow morning before the other clinic is open."

As Ashok and I leave I look more closely at Dr. Singh's sign. Dr. Rajinder Singh M.B.B.S. (Pb) M.A.M.S. (Vienna) P.C.M.S. (Ex). His shingle is rich with acronyms, but his warning about fake claims rings on in my ears. I catch him, one last time, spying across the street at (Vaid)'s clinic and he grimaces slightly when our eyes meet. Obviously I have upset some delicate balance. I turn to look again at (Vaid)'s sign. Dr. (Vaid) Baldev Dass & Son R.M.P. Regd. Medical Practitioner. What (Vaid)'s appellative lacks in acronyms is made up for with the parenthetical 'good' name I muse. A new client stands in his clinic, but (Vaid) is again looking with considerable distress across the street into Dr. Singh's and then to Ashok and me.

The next day I find Ashok reclining shirtless on the third floor veranda. His armpit sports a large piece of cotton affixed with a strip of tape. "What happened," I ask, "Was it a cotton plant?"

"No, the doctor gave me some oil and put this bandage on."

"You mean Doctor Singh from across the street? Oil on the lymph node isn't going to do anything for the infection."

"Yes, it was Doctor Singh."

"He didn't say anything about what kind of infection you might have or give you any antibiotics?"

"No. Just oil in the armpit."

"I don't think he is a real doctor."

"Yes, you are right."

Postscript:
Many months back while still in the States I received a package from One Infinite Way. No other information as to the sender was given. A sucker for mysteries, I breathlessly I tore open the parcel to find a single bootleg DVD, Munna Bhai M.B.B.S., and a business card proclaiming "Smile. You're it!" To this day I have no clue (Nipun) who sent the mysterious parcel. That night, as I lay on my couch, I propped my laptop open on my chest and watched the nearly three hour Bollywood masterpiece in its entirety. I can safely recommend this movie to anyone wanting to idle away an evening and to be initiated into the healing secrets of jaado ki jaaphi.