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?