8.8
The Poet as a Shield
Defending Science through Satire and the Twitter Front
The early months of the COVID-19 pandemic were defined by an uncritical, almost religious enthusiasm for unproven remedies. In the vacuum of certainty, desperation became a business model. Drugs with little to no evidence were promoted aggressively, embraced eagerly by a panicked public, and prescribed widely by physicians who felt they had to “do something.” As Medical Superintendent, I watched this erosion of scientific temper with a mixture of alarm and exhaustion.
One of the most glaring examples was Favipiravir. It quickly displaced hydroxychloroquine as the new promise of hope, backed by a flawed trial involving barely 150 patients. Marketed as a “game-changer,” a full course cost ₹12,500—a king’s ransom for a rural family—and, at its absolute best, shortened a fever by a single day. The mismatch between the marketing promise and the clinical proof was staggering.
When Prose Fails, Poetry Speaks
On June 21, 2020, I found myself unable to respond with yet another thread of data, p-values, and clinical references. I realized that data often bounces off the armor of fear, but satire has a way of finding the gaps. I decided that if the world was going to be irrational, I would meet it with irony. I wrote a poem in the voice of the drug itself and posted it on Twitter.
I see a lot of activity today on Twitter Looks like I have sent a thousand hearts aflutter Pharma is happy and the media has gone crazy And so is the public, for the picture is so hazy
My name is Favipiravir, I have made my mark In the world of Covid, I am a new patriarch Don’t jeer at me, nor try to pull me off I am here to stay and shall have the last laugh.
The poem went viral. It captured, through irony, the absurdity of the moment—how a drug could “paint the country red” without ever having to prove its worth in a peer-reviewed journal. A few weeks earlier, I had done the same for Hydroxychloroquine, pleading with the public in verse to “test me in a proper RCT” before singing its praises.
I was not turning to poetry to escape science; I was using it to defend science. In a world filled with “noise,” rhyme allowed me to pause, reflect, and question without shouting. If my poems provoked discomfort among pharmaceutical executives or “miracle-cure” advocates, then the verse had served its purpose.
The Twitter Front: An Unlikely Classroom
Almost accidentally, I discovered that Twitter (now X) was a powerful instrument for public education. It offered something traditional academic platforms could not: immediacy. It allowed me to respond in real-time to the latest “miracle” drug or irrational testing protocol.
My focus remained firm. I wrote repeatedly against the indiscriminate use of Ivermectin, Azithromycin, Itolizumab, and Convalescent Plasma. I was equally disturbed by the official endorsement of unvalidated remedies, and I did not hesitate to question these policies publicly. This was not about visibility; it was about the responsibility of a Medical Superintendent to speak beyond the hospital walls.
Alliances of the Mind
This digital journey introduced me to a community of journalists, activists, and physicians who believed that even in a pandemic, reason deserved a voice. I connected with journalists like Priyanka Pulla, Rema Nagarajan, and Malini Aisola—interlocutors who became valued colleagues. I began a deep professional collaboration with Dinesh S. Thakur; together, we wrote a reasoned challenge to Favipiravir in The Hindu, using logic to bridge the gap between regulatory failure and public interest.
Twitter also opened doors to leaders like Dr. C.S. Pramesh, Director of Tata Memorial Hospital. Our conversations evolved into a close professional relationship, leading to co-authored articles in The Lancet and Nature Medicine on “Choosing Wisely” during COVID-19.
Looking back, my engagement on social media during those turbulent years was an act of duty. In a crisis, the defense of evidence is not optional. COVID humbled our certainties, but it also reminded me that sometimes, the best way to protect a patient’s life—and their pocketbook—is to dare to rhyme in the face of a miracle.