Mumbai physician launches “Unlimited Consultation Package”; Healthcare Industry left trembling.

Mumbai: In a business strategy that could put even major hospital chains and insurance companies to shame, a city-based physician has reportedly launched an “Unlimited Consultation OPD Package” for patients, leaving the healthcare industry both shocked and strangely impressed.

In an exclusive interview with our samwadata, Dr. K’abhi Matbann — the now-viral physician who has instantly transitioned from an overworked clinician to a celebrated venture-backed disruptor — said, “Modern startups become unicorns either by solving common public problems… or by monetizing human stupidity. This idea was born out of sheer frustration with modern patient behaviour. Patients think that after paying ₹1000 for one consultation, they own the doctor for life,” he said. “They behave as if they are entitled to perpetual, unlimited, free, multi-generational report-sharing on WhatsApp — not just for themselves, but for relatives, neighbours, in-laws, and occasionally even their pets.”

The doctor further explained that many patients avoid revisiting clinics for follow-ups because that would involve paying consultation fees again. Instead, they send random blood reports, vitals, and blurry medicine-strip photographs on WhatsApp months after the first consultation, usually accompanied by messages such as: “Sir urgent plz reply.”

He also highlighted the growing trend of patients self-medicating based on previous prescriptions or consuming medicines prescribed to relatives with vaguely similar symptoms.

“Hence, this visionary idea came to my mind — where we entertain all these nonsensical expectations, but for the right cost,” he added.

Healthcare experts believe the model has immense commercial potential in the current era, where patients begin every message with “Sorry to disturb you, doctor…” before sending 14 PDFs, 3 lab reports, and a 7-minute voice note at midnight.

While official details are still awaited, insiders claim Dr. Matbann is also planning several premium add-on services inspired by modern e-commerce platforms, including monthly subscription plans, no-cost EMI options for chronic overthinkers, family-sharing consultation packs, festive-season cashback on second opinions, and priority WhatsApp reply packages. 

There are even rumours of a revolutionary exchange offer allowing a deceased patient’s unused consultation benefits to be transferred to another family member.

The ultimate luxury : Time

Over the last few months, I’ve become much calmer and more composed within.

I no longer compare my life with anyone else’s — how much money someone is making, how successful they appear, or where they stand professionally. There’s no longer any urge to impress anyone, even at work. The best policy now feels simple: come, do your job sincerely, get paid, and go back home… where the real world awaits you.

The constant urge to change things, escalate issues, ensure everything is done the right way, attend every meeting punctually, or give brutally honest feedback — even if it meant upsetting people or pointing fingers — has slowly faded over the past few months. Somewhere along the way, I too became part of the system… like everyone else. Less reactive, less invested, more carefree.

I also no longer feel the need to constantly check or post on social media — no LinkedIn AI posts, no urge to share personal updates on Facebook, no pressure to stay connected on WhatsApp all the time. I don’t feel compelled to reply instantly to messages or keep reviewing reports and prescriptions outside work hours.

My focus has shifted entirely toward the things that truly matter — family, health, peace of mind, creativity, music, and time with myself.

There’s no longer a restless drive to chase money or run endlessly behind success. I’m genuinely content with what I’ve achieved and how far I’ve come. I’ve started to truly believe that when you practice gratitude, love, and appreciate what you already have, even more blessings follow.

Spending time with my parents and my children means everything to me now.

Maybe this is what contentment feels like — the realization that the ultimate luxury in life is time.

Medicine’s missing ingredient: The vanishing art of human connection

A 67-year-old man, a known case of metastatic liver cancer, was brought to my emergency department a few weeks ago with severe abdominal pain and a distressing feeling of tightness in his abdomen since morning.

He had been undergoing treatment at one of the city’s premier cancer hospitals, but that day, he came to us because he had only been prescribed oral medications for his unbearable pain and was not being admitted there — perhaps because there were simply no beds available in such an overcrowded hospital.

At first glance, I assumed the family might not be financially capable of affording treatment at a corporate hospital. But assumptions don’t heal people. So I spoke to him gently, examined him carefully, and treated him the same way every patient deserves to be treated — with patience, empathy, dignity, and a simple human touch.

His frail body trembled with pain as I explained the likely possibilities to his family — ascites, spontaneous bacterial peritonitis, maybe even intestinal obstruction — all conditions that would need urgent investigations, IV medications, admission, and further management.

His wife stood silently near the bed clutching the edge of her saree. His son and daughter exchanged helpless glances before finally saying, almost apologetically, that they did not even have enough money for the investigations. Admission was impossible for them.

For a few seconds, the room fell silent.

“Abhi filhaal dard ke liye injection dete hain inhe… phir dekhenge aage kya karna hai,” I said softly.

The son slowly opened his wallet and counted the few crumpled notes they had brought with them. After discussing quietly among themselves, they agreed for the injectables.

As the medications were started, I kept walking back to his bedside every few minutes, asking whether the pain was easing, whether he felt a little better, whether he was comfortable.

And then, about half an hour later, something unexpected happened.

The old man suddenly broke down crying.

Not the restrained tears patients often hide. He cried like someone whose suffering had finally found a voice.

Alarmed, I went near him and asked, “Kya hua? Bahut dard ho raha hai kya?”

He looked at me with eyes full of tears and said words I don’t think I will ever forget:

“Aaj tak mujhse kisi doctor ne itne achhe se baat nahi ki hai… meri bimari jaankar log jaanwaron jaisa vyavhaar karte hain.”

(Till today, no doctor had spoken to him with kindness. People changed the way they treated him the moment they heard about his disease).

For a moment, I could not respond.

I just stood there… completely numb.

His wife started crying. His children lowered their heads, wiping tears silently as they looked at the old, exhausted man who had already endured more pain, humiliation, and helplessness than anyone should have to.

And in that moment, I realised something heartbreaking.

For those few minutes, the relief in his eyes was not because of the painkiller flowing through his veins.

It was because someone had spoken to him like he still mattered.

Like he was still a human being.

Not just a terminal cancer patient.
Not just another file.
Not just another bed number.

Those words, those tears, and that moment still echo in my mind.

Before they left, I instructed my staff to charge them only for the medicines and consumables and not for the consultation, IV therapy, bed charges, or other expenses. Hearing that, the family folded their hands with trembling gratitude, tears rolling down their faces.

As they walked out together, I kept thinking about how little they had actually received medically from us that day — just a few injections and some temporary relief.

And yet, perhaps what touched them most was something medicine textbooks never truly teach us:

Kindness.
Time.
Listening.
Humanity.

Over the last few days, I have kept asking myself a painful question:

Are we, as caregivers, slowly losing the most basic part of healing — the ability to make our patients feel seen, heard, and human?

Quackdoses Multispeciality Hospital clinches No. 1 spot in India’s Best Hospitals 2026 Paid Rankings.

 

Mumbai: Quackdoses Multispeciality Hospital (QMH) has once again secured the No. 1 position in India in the much-celebrated “India’s Best Hospitals 2026 – Paid Rankings.” The recognition marks the fifth consecutive year that QMH has featured prominently on lists critics describe as being as competitive as they are commercially negotiable.

The 2026 edition reportedly evaluated over 2,500 hospitals across India. According to the official narrative, the rankings were based on recommendations from thousands of medical experts, patient experience data, and quality metrics. However, seasoned observers suggest that the most decisive metric remains refreshingly straightforward: the size and punctuality of the NEFT transfer.

Industry insiders note that a hospital crowned “the best” one year can quietly disappear from the rankings the next — a phenomenon that occasionally coincides with excessive bargaining or delayed payments. Excellence, it appears, is renewable upon payment.

Reacting to the honour, Dr. K’abhia Matbann, Chairman and Managing Director of QMH, said, “Being recognized as the No. 1 hospital in India is a testament — because no LinkedIn leadership post is complete without that word — to our unwavering commitment to clinical excellence, innovation, and patient profit-centric care. We want to stay true to our guiding philosophy: ‘Jo dikhta hai, woh bikta hai’ (What is seen is what sells). Hence, we have recently invested in expanding our Award Display Infrastructure, ensuring that patients experience measurable reassurance before reaching the billing desk. After all, at QMH excellence is not merely practiced — it is prominently displayed, tastefully framed, and renewed annually. Health may be priceless; recognition clearly is not.”

Within minutes of the announcement, congratulatory LinkedIn posts erupted across the healthcare ecosystem, each thoughtfully tagged with #Grateful, #Blessed, #HealthcareLeadership and, in some cases, discreetly accompanied by a UPI ID.

Bring food from home, hospital advises patients as LPG crisis burns its kitchen.

Mumbai: In an unprecedented move that has sent shockwaves through the healthcare industry, the prestigious Quackdoses Multispeciality Hospital (QMH) has officially advised patients to "BYOF" (Bring Your Own Food). An LPG supply crunch, triggered by ongoing West Asia conflicts, has reportedly begun choking hospital kitchens harder than a kinked ET tube.

The announcement—ironically delivered via the same public address system usually reserved for “Code Blue” emergencies—urged patients and relatives to carry their own tiffins, citing “reduced LPG availability” and the “operational limitations of the kitchen.”

In an exclusive bedside interview, a relative of a Gujarati patient admitted to the ICU (Intensive Charging Unit) expressed his dismay. “We were prepared for surgery, not a dabba system,” he remarked while unpacking a three-tier stainless steel tiffin overflowing with khakra, thepla, and fafda—a menu carefully curated for his diabetic, hypertensive relative.

“Right now, the canteen is serving only dal-rice and sandwiches—which feels less like a dietician’s therapeutic diet and more like a bland discharge summary,” he added, while reaching for the mandatory mukhwas.

Industry observers say the crisis highlights how global geopolitical tensions can disrupt even the most sacred pillars of Indian healthcare—the hospital khichdi supply chain.

While hospital management maintains these are temporary measures, insiders suggest that if the LPG shortage persists, QMH may pivot to a “Treatment from Home” model for non-critical patients—effectively extending the corporate "WFH" culture into clinical care. 

Until then, thousands of patients may find that their recovery depends as much on their surgeon’s skill as it does on the contents of their tiffin.

Hospital committee’s 3:00 PM meeting reportedly commences at 3:00 PM; healthcare industry in shock.

 

Mumbai: In what experts are calling a “once-in-a-century administrative miracle,” a committee meeting at Quackdoses Multispeciality Hospital started exactly on time — triggering disbelief, mild panic, and palpable tremors across the healthcare industry.

Sources confirmed that the meeting, scheduled for 3:00 PM, began at 3:00 PM — not 3:17, not 3:43, and astonishingly, without the traditional ritual of waiting for “just two more consultants who are on the way.”

It is a well-known fact that in hospitals today, although invitations for committee meetings are shared well in advance, most stakeholder consultants consider punctuality optional and lateness a fundamental right. Standard explanations include “patients in OPD,” “on rounds,” “stuck in the lift,” and the evergreen “just five minutes.” The only members present at the scheduled hour are typically from the quality team, representatives from the nursing team, and a handful of dangerously sincere — and arguably foolish — consultants who still believe punctuality is a professional virtue rather than a personality defect.

In an exclusive interview, Dr. K’abhi Matbann, the hospital CEO — who appeared visibly unsettled — said, “Never in the history of this hospital has any meeting started on time. Normally, by the time quorum is achieved, half the agenda has already been carried forward to the next meeting. Also, since minutes of meetings and CAPAs in most hospitals are often conveniently ‘managed’ by quality teams, committee meetings largely exist to generate attendance sheets for accreditation purposes.

“What can be considered an industry first was made possible only because of my visionary leadership — specifically, announcing additional bonuses from the next financial year for consultants who reach the meeting venue on time. We have long incentivized surgical volumes and revenue targets. It was time we rewarded a rarer and more endangered skill — reaching a committee meeting before it ends.”

Unconfirmed reports suggest that several hospitals are urgently reviewing their internal policies to ensure such deviations do not disturb the sacred tradition and cultural doctrine of “Indian Standard Time,” under which meetings are constitutionally expected to begin only after sufficient collective delay.

At the time of publication, consultants across the city were reportedly rechecking their email inboxes and employment contracts to confirm whether punctuality has officially become a Key Performance Indicator (KPI).

Study finds surgeon happiness declines as colleague’s OT list grows

Mumbai: In a groundbreaking study that has sent shockwaves through the medical community, a recent report has found that the happiness quotient of surgeons in corporate hospitals is inversely proportional to the number of cases performed by another surgeon in the same specialty—the more cases your colleague does, the unhappier you are, and vice versa.

It is a well-known fact that surgeons in such setups are often far more invested in their colleague’s OT list than their own. Multiple sources confirm that a significant portion of the working day is spent discreetly tracking which physician is referring the maximum number of surgical patients, whether admissions are originating from the OPD or the emergency, and—most critically—whether the hospital’s business development team is “favoring” a particular surgeon.

Speaking exclusively to Quackdoses, Dr. Kabhi Mat’bann™, a senior consultant who requested anonymity for fear of being described as “not aligned with organizational goals,” said,
“I am genuinely happy when my colleague does well. But when he does too well—especially mid-week—it starts affecting my sleep. Yesterday, he finished three laparoscopic cases before lunch. I couldn’t even pretend to enjoy my ward rounds. I finally slept at night only after falsely reassuring myself that numbers always balance out by month-end.”

According to the study, surgeon happiness shows a transient spike when a colleague’s elective case gets postponed or cancelled due to reasons such as “insurance approval or clearance for surgery pending,” or “non-availability of an anesthesiologist”, with the maximum spike seen when the colleague’s patient gets operated on by the surgeon himself. A sharp dip in morale was noted when a surgeon discovered that a colleague had added a “walk-in” case.

The study also revealed that surgeons check the OT list more frequently than their personal WhatsApp messages, with peak activity observed immediately after morning rounds and just before lunch.

The study concludes by recommending kapalbhati, meditation, and—where possible—avoiding the OT list of one’s colleagues altogether, while also confirming what surgeons have long suspected: peace of mind in a corporate hospital is best achieved when someone else’s case gets cancelled.

Between the Emergency Room and Life.

There was a time when writing came easily—when I could pause long enough to make sense of how I felt, what I was going through, life in general—and capture it on this blog. Today, time feels like a luxury I can no longer afford. Life has grown hectic in ways I never imagined, leaving little room for reflection—except in stolen moments like this one.

Yet, on the brighter side, I make it a point to write at least one Quackdoses article every month. The joy it brings me is difficult to explain—when those articles are widely shared on WhatsApp, when colleagues (even within my own organization) tell me they wait for them, and when doctors I meet casually say they love the content. In a profession that rarely pauses to acknowledge anything beyond patient outcomes, that quiet validation means a lot.

I often think back to the time I was admitted to the ICU at Holy Spirit Hospital during COVID. The intensivist, after reading my name and learning about my profession, asked me, “Are you THE Mohit Garg who writes articles and poems?” I remember being unsure whether to feel proud or uncomfortable—especially when, at the back of my mind, I wondered if I would be in a body bag within a week. Life has a strange way of putting things into perspective.

Over the past few days, my thoughts have been unusually restless. There has been a lot churning inside my head, and writing felt like the only honest way to process it all. (I’m wide awake at 1 a.m. on my daughter’s birthday as I pen this.)

Emergency medicine is an exceptionally demanding branch—not only for me as a Head of Department, but even more so for junior doctors. The Emergency never truly slows down. High-pressure decision-making, limited manpower, and the simultaneous management of multiple critically ill patients are routine. In comparison, wards and ICUs, despite their challenges, offer some structure—defined rounds, documentation, and a sense of closure to the day. This imbalance is one of the many reasons retaining junior doctors in Emergency Medicine is so difficult.

In the last ten months alone, I have seen eight doctors leave the department (same problem in most hospitals, in this specialization particularly). The reasons vary—postgraduate exam preparation, better financial packages, newer hospitals, marriage, or plans to train abroad. What is particularly disheartening is that most leave after just five to six months, despite committing to at least a year at the time of interview. This period includes nearly two months of intensive training and induction to familiarize them with departmental protocols and systems—an investment that is rarely recovered.

In general, Emergency medicine is also a largely thankless specialty, much like anaesthesia or diagnostics. Much of the work happens quietly, behind the scenes. Many consultants remain unaware—or unconcerned—about the constraints we operate under: stretched teams, operational KPIs, quality indicators, audits, meetings, workshops, and continuous training. It becomes easy to criticize junior doctors and nurses, sometimes even speaking to them discourteously, for issues beyond their control—why a patient was shifted to an inpatient area without being reviewed in the A&E for the sake of their convenience (no one likes to wait for the lift), why non-urgent investigations weren’t completed in the Emergency Department, or why delays occurred due to logistics such as beds, samples, pharmacy, or transport.

Everywhere, the Emergency Department often becomes the hospital’s emotional and operational punching bag - an easy target to put the blame on.

Over the years, I’ve developed a certain resilience—perhaps even a thick skin. I no longer tolerate unjust criticism directed at my team or my department. I respond immediately, clearly, and firmly. That part of me is non-negotiable now. I am no longer interested in being a people pleaser or seeking external validation. Jo dil mein hai, woh zubaan pe hai.

Then comes the administrative side—constant scrutiny over timings, leaves, and schedules. Ironically, these are the very same aspects that are heavily negotiated during recruitment and contract renewals. The DOUBLE STANDARDS are hard to miss—and sometimes hard not to laugh at—ESPECIALLY WHEN RULES DIFFER FOR DIFFERENT CONSULTANTS. It erodes morale and demotivates you, when you honestly give more than your 100 % to the organization. I often wonder why I can’t also be mediocre and uninterested like many others, just be a silent spectator, and why I need to be so obsessed with perfection.

Accreditation bodies like NABH, however, remain close to my heart. Becoming an NABH assessor transformed my understanding of how hospitals truly function—from water and electricity consumption per bed, to biomedical waste generation, infection control metrics, and quality benchmarks. It reinforced a simple truth: good healthcare is as much about systems as it is about clinical skill.

The same holds true for AHA. It has been fourteen years since I became a senior faculty member, and my belief in the power of structured training has only deepened. Teaching those courses continues to be one of the most fulfilling parts of my professional journey.

Life outside the hospital has become just as demanding. I leave home at 7 a.m. and return by 5:15 p.m., only to head out again at 7 p.m. for my clinic, finally getting back by 9:15 p.m. Add to this the constant calls and messages—from the department, patients, relatives, and friends—and the day rarely feels complete.

I am acutely aware that I don’t spend enough time with my family and children. Yet, this phase of life also demands growth, stability, and financial responsibility—running a household, caring for aging parents, raising children, repaying a home loan. These thoughts linger constantly, quietly taking a toll on mental and physical health. In the process of caring for everyone else, we often forget to care for ourselves.

I still choose optimism. I try to spread positivity, to smile, to keep the energy around me alive—even on days when it feels harder than it should. I hope the fighter in me never gives up.

For me, ownership and responsibility are intrinsic—they are not job roles. They are values.

And as long as I wear this coat, it will always be MY patient, MY hospital, MY department, MY team.