Weekday Musings: When a Hospital Becomes a Place of Healing

I had volunteered to be with a close relative at the hospital, staying with him through the night. It was not much trouble for me, and when I had a chance to be of service, I took it up immediately.

This musing is based on my experience over two days at the hospital. It was Saifee Hospital, opposite Charni Road station. The building itself is impressive from the outside, a blend of Islamic and modern architecture, but equally striking are its interiors. Much of what one sees is subdued and understated, creating a calming and soothing atmosphere. Credit must go to the architect, Parag Parekh, who drew upon the Fatimid architectural style from the 10th to 12th centuries, lending the space a quiet dignity rather than overt grandeur.

As you enter the hospital, one thing is immediately noticeable: you don’t quite get a “hospital feel.” One of the reasons is the absence of that familiar hospital smell. Even in the wards, the air feels neutral — not masked by any artificial fragrance either. I could not help wondering what quiet miracle of engineering went into tuning the HVAC systems so impeccably.

One does not usually expect positivity in such places, but there was neither an oppressive sadness nor any sense of heaviness. Instead, there was a gentle neutrality, almost reassuring. You genuinely feel this is a place of healing rather than merely treatment. Fittingly, this quote is inscribed at the hospital’s main entrance: “When I fall sick it is HE who cures me.” It reflects the belief that healing (shifa) is a divine blessing, with doctors and caregivers acting as instruments. From what I saw and experienced, the idea did not feel merely symbolic.

Spending two nights there only reinforced that feeling. The doctors, nurses, and support staff were extremely cooperative and friendly. It may have helped that the patient was in First Class, where a certain standard of service is expected, but it is the small things that reveal the real culture of a place. Warm smiles, a manner suggesting care rather than obligation, and a quiet composure that suggested preparedness rather than haste. In such situations, the true differentiator is anticipation — providing what is needed even before it is asked for.

Talking of the nurses, who for very understandable reasons are called “sisters,” I found them very presentable. As they flitted in and out, it was hard not to notice how neatly turned out they were — spotless uniforms, hair in place, and an air of freshness that felt almost out of sync with the long hours they must have been working. I even suspected that some had taken the trouble of a little make-up, which, in a hospital setting, felt like an unexpected assertion of normalcy.

I tried reading the names pinned to their uniforms, but realised midway that it might appear rather obvious where my eyes were momentarily wandering. I quickly abandoned the attempt, amused more at myself than anything else. From their accents and conversations, they seemed a pleasant mix — Maharashtrian, Malayalee (no surprises there), and even Punjabi. Their easy smiles and gentle manner briefly made me wonder whether I was in a hospital or a hospitality setting. But that, perhaps, is precisely the point — care, when offered with warmth, does not feel clinical at all.

As in every service sector, there are quality standards, and many times these are followed merely to comply rather than to serve a deeper purpose. For instance, there was a fairly large board placed at the foot of the bed reading “Fall Risk.” Curiously, it appeared only on the third or fourth day. When asked why now, the nurse replied that it was meant for “old patients.” We all burst out laughing at the implication of ageing rapidly over three days. The nurse immediately realised what she had said and joined in the laughter. It was one of those small, human moments that lighten an otherwise serious setting.

Then there was a youngish nurse who entered with a set of papers and proceeded to survey the room in a very official manner, ticking items off her checklist. Even the slippers and bed linen were inspected, as if patients or attendants might quietly slip them into their bags. Rather than feeling offended, I found the moment amusing, especially since she made no attempt at discretion. She was quite earnest, and it was obvious she was simply doing her duty.

Which brings me to the human aspect. Everyone there, irrespective of role, is a human being first. They work hard, carry their own responsibilities, and are not untouched by personal worries — much like the rest of us. Many travel long distances by public transport, yet arrive on time, fresh, and smiling. In conversation, we learnt that the surgeon was a serious swimmer, well known in his circles, and that his children too had taken to the sport, even swimming the English Channel. People wear multiple hats, but we often see them only through a single lens.

There are many misconceptions about hospitals. My experience here gives me reason to believe that when we approach such places with trust, it is often returned in good measure. Healing, after all, is as much an internal process as an external one — hospitals merely assist that journey.

Saifee Hospital

You may also want to read my piece on:  Sunday Story: The Compassion Of Nelson Mandela

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