I am in a narrow, crowded lane in a seaside suburb of Chennai, opposite an old yellow building that has clearly seen better times. It’s a hole in the wall beside a kabaddiwalla’s overflowing storefront. Up a flight of grimy stairs, past the abandoned paint tins and construction equipment, is Everest Clinic. The board outside the door proudly proclaims the domain of Doctor Biswas, BAMS. Underneath the glued-on plastic lettering, are the visible remnants of a previous doctor, Baul, who presumably used the same board and premises. A quick search of the Central Council of Indian Medicine’s database reveals that the registration number displayed on the board belongs to a man from Muzaffarnagar whose license has long been revoked.
The doctor is out, so I give him a call and take the opportunity to explore the clinic before he arrives. The cabinets are full of empty white plastic bottles with their labels peeled off and the walls are inexplicably decorated with several posters of various kinds of fruit — the kind you’d find in a nursery classroom. But otherwise it is a fairly normal if slightly low-rent doctor’s chamber.
Eventually, he arrives. A well-built, immaculately-groomed young man, presumably in his late 30s, dressed in jeans, a colourful shirt and black leather shoes. “So what is your problem?” he asks.
I explain that I am a journalist and I just want to talk. About what? Well, I say, there are all these posters on male sexual health all over the city. The address on one of them led me to him. “Just talk?” he asks suspiciously, “No problem?” “No problem,” I repeat, and launch into a volley of questions. Full story...
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The doctor is out, so I give him a call and take the opportunity to explore the clinic before he arrives. The cabinets are full of empty white plastic bottles with their labels peeled off and the walls are inexplicably decorated with several posters of various kinds of fruit — the kind you’d find in a nursery classroom. But otherwise it is a fairly normal if slightly low-rent doctor’s chamber.
Eventually, he arrives. A well-built, immaculately-groomed young man, presumably in his late 30s, dressed in jeans, a colourful shirt and black leather shoes. “So what is your problem?” he asks.
I explain that I am a journalist and I just want to talk. About what? Well, I say, there are all these posters on male sexual health all over the city. The address on one of them led me to him. “Just talk?” he asks suspiciously, “No problem?” “No problem,” I repeat, and launch into a volley of questions. Full story...
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