The Studio and the Stethoscope
My War on the Airwaves
Maintainng Sanity in the Age of Noise
The pandemic was fought in two distinct arenas. The first was the sterile, terrifying silence of the ICU, where the only sound was the hiss of oxygen and the rhythmic beep of monitors. The second arena was the cacophony of the television studio and the smartphone screen. It was a world of screaming anchors, 30-second soundbites, and a “breaking news” ticker that moved faster than the virus itself.
For decades, I had been a creature of the first world—a physician-teacher content with the quiet rhythms of Sevagram. My “audience” was a batch of medical students or a terrified family in the OPD. But as the second wave crashed over India in 2021, I realized that the silence of the ward was being drowned out by the noise of the world outside. My patients were arriving not just with damaged lungs, but with damaged minds—convinced that a ₹12,000 antiviral would save them, or that a herbal coronil kit was a shield against death.
I realized then that if I wanted to save the patient in Bed 4, I had to fight the misinformation that had put him there. And so, with deep reluctance, I traded my stethoscope for a webcam and stepped into the glare of the digital public square.
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The “Choosing Wisely” Campaign: A Battle Against Medical Clutter
One of my most significant interventions was with BOOM Live and the journalist Govindraj Ethiraj. The topic was ostensibly simple: “Choosing The Right Medicines.” But in the context of 2021, this was a revolutionary act.
The medical establishment had become a bazaar. Doctors were prescribing “Covid Kits” that resembled grocery lists—Zinc, Vitamin C, Doxycycline, Ivermectin, Favipiravir, and steroids. It was a “poly-pharmacy” panic. On air, I had to be the killjoy. I had to look into the camera and say, “None of this works.”
I remember the tension of those interviews. The pressure to offer “hope” is immense. People want to hear that there is a magic pill. When I argued for “Minimalist Medicine”—oxygen, proning, and steroids only for hypoxic patients—I was often met with incredulity. “But doctor,” the subtext went, “surely we must do something?”
My argument was Orwellian in its starkness: Activity is not achievement. Prescribing a useless drug is not “doing something”; it is doing harm. It is financial toxicity. It is false hope. In my talks with Govindraj, I tried to dismantle the “more is better” fallacy. I explained that medicine is not a buffet where you pile your plate high just in case; it is a sniper’s rifle. You fire only when you have a target, and you fire to kill the disease, not the patient’s bank balance.
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The Rural Reality Check: Speaking to ‘The Wire’ and ‘The Times of India’
While the national media was obsessed with the oxygen crisis in Delhi and Mumbai, I felt a desperate need to turn the camera lens toward the village. The narrative was that rural India was “safe” due to open spaces and hardier immunity. This was a romantic lie.
In my interviews with Rema Nagarajan of The Times of India and IndiaSpend (later picked up by The Wire), I tried to puncture this myth. I spoke about the “Fear Factor” among rural doctors. I described how the government had dumped ventilators in district hospitals without training anyone to use them—like giving a Ferrari to a man who has never driven a car.
I told Rema, “A ventilator can kill you if you don’t know how to use it.” It was a brutal sentence, but it was necessary. The state’s response had been to throw hardware at the problem, while I was seeing software failure—a lack of trained nurses, fearful doctors, and a broken referral chain.
I also highlighted the “Digital Divide.” The CoWIN app, hailed as a technological marvel, was a wall for my patients in Wardha. I described the absurdity of expecting a daily wager to log in, generate an OTP, and download a certificate. “We are vaccinating the privileged,” I argued, “while the virus hunts the poor.” These interviews were not just medical commentary; they were social audits of a fractured republic.
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The Hydroxychloroquine (HCQ) Wars
Perhaps the most heated battles were fought over Hydroxychloroquine. In early 2020, this old antimalarial had been elevated to the status of a divine nectar, endorsed by presidents and prime ministers.
When BOOM asked me about it, I had to walk a tightrope. The ICMR (Indian Council of Medical Research) was recommending it as a prophylaxis. To contradict the apex body is dangerous for a government-aided official. But the data was the data.
I said, “If it works in a Petri dish, that doesn’t mean it works in a person.” I called for a large, multi-centric randomized control trial (RCT) instead of observational guesswork. I pointed out that “safety” in the past (for malaria) did not equate to safety in a viral pandemic where the heart was already under stress.
This advocacy wasn’t about being right; it was about protecting the scientific method. When I spoke to BBC World Service or VICE News, I wasn’t just debating a drug; I was debating the very soul of medicine. Were we a profession of evidence, or were we a profession of anecdote?
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The “Financial Toxicity” Coalition
The most enduring alliance I formed was with the “Resistance”—a loose coalition of journalists like Malini Aisola, Priyanka Pulla, and Dinesh Thakur. Together, we waged a war on “Financial Toxicity.”
In a memorable discussion on the high cost of curing Covid, we dissected the pricing of Remdesivir and Tocilizumab. I shared stories from Sevagram—of farmers selling their wives’ mangalsutras to buy a vial of Remdesivir that I knew would not save their dying father.
We coined the term “The Panic Tax.” This was the extra cost paid by the poor for the ignorance of the rich. Every time a TV anchor hyped a new “miracle cure,” the price of that drug spiked in the black market of Wardha. My role in these panels was to be the voice of the victim—the patient who survives the virus but dies of debt.
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The Legacy of the “Talking Head”
Looking back, those hours spent in front of a webcam, adjusting the lighting and checking the microphone, feel surreal. I am not a natural orator. I prefer the Socratic method of the bedside to the polemic of the panel discussion.
But I realized that in the 21st century, the “bedside” has expanded. It now includes the Twitter timeline and the YouTube comment section. If a doctor refuses to enter these spaces, they are ceding the ground to the quack and the grifter.
My media appearances were not an ego trip; they were a desperate extension of my Hippocratic oath. I realized that Silence is also a form of malpractice. When the world goes mad, the sane have an obligation to speak, even if their voice shakes.
I stepped out of the studio and back into the wards of Sevagram with a renewed respect for the power of the word. I had learned that a well-timed sentence, spoken with clarity and courage, could sometimes save more lives than a ventilator.