Every day, as I sit on the train, looking out at the slums, train track welders, stray animals, crowds, skyscrapers, and never-ending sea of rubbish, I can’t help but think—this place can’t be real. The mixed scent of fragrant spices and fermenting sewage drifts through the air while the relentless horns, blaring party music, and clanking metal rattle my skull. It feels like I am living in an alternate reality—and in many ways, I am.
I was told that India would be a culture shock. I thought I was prepared for the busyness, the clothing, the language, the sheer vibrancy of it all. But I didn’t realise the shock would seep into every aspect of daily life. The enthusiasm with which people speak, the relentless bartering for everything, the constant rush even when you’re early, the spitting, the unwavering hospitality, the lack of rubbish bins, the birds, and the apparent inability to form a queue. These quirks define India, and adjusting to them has been part of the journey.
Like the mix of smells on the train, India is a place of stark contrasts. The most obvious is the entrenched juxtaposition between the rich and the poor. What fascinates me most is that there is no obvious divide, rather, an apparent coexistence. In Mumbai, wealth and poverty blend together seamlessly. A person living in the worst of slums is just a 10 rupee train ride away from a sprawling four-story shopping mall, while within the slums, well-groomed men in tailored pants and collared shirts walk among the crumbling structures.
My time at Doctors For You has been incredible. The NGO has been so welcoming, and Sarah and I have had the chance to experience so much. We’ve been to mobile camps in the slums, tuberculosis clinics, primary schools, Republic Day celebrations, sanitation and hygiene drives, a post-mortem, and more. There have been many highlights, but one challenge I’ve struggled with is a sense of futility. At first, I questioned the impact of the NGO’s work—what’s the point of treating a patient if they are simply returning to the same conditions that made them sick?
In New Zealand, the mindset is to do everything possible for every patient. All the necessary investigations and treatments are arranged, and time is taken to talk to the patient to uncover additional concerns. In Lallubhai, a patient walks in, says one sentence, the doctor prescribes medication without examination, gives some basic advice, and moves on. I initially found this difficult to comprehend—sure, they could see 70 patients in an afternoon but wasn’t the standard of care suffering?
Then, one of the doctors said something that changed my perspective: “In areas like this, you can’t help anyone with everything, but you must help everyone with something.” Working in the slums is a constant balancing act—deciding which condition is the most urgent, which medicine is the most vital, whether a patient truly needs a CT scan or if their money is better spent on food. Watching her navigate these dilemmas was extremely humbling. Yes, maybe one more test or tablet could have made a difference for a patient, but today, 69 other patients were seen, and they all left at least 1% better. Perhaps that’s more meaningful than helping five people to 100% of your capabilities.
