<p>A recent visit to an ophthalmologist in an upscale hospital, where a battery of tests was conducted through state of the art techniques, took me back to my early experiences with “eye doctors” who simply examined your eyes with a book and a chart and prescribed correcting glasses. My first experience with this humble procedure was in a clinic situated near Lalbagh in Bangalore. My father brought me here all the way from Kolar Gold Fields because I could not see what was written on the blackboard. </p>.<p>We were greeted by a wooden name board hanging on the gate with just two words “Eye Doctor” scrawled on it in bold letters. The good doctor presumed that all those who visited him were near blind. He was a most genial soul, smiling and fussing to make sure we were comfortable. He seated my father in an easy chair and lifted me on to a high wooden stool. After discussing the day’s news, the weather and making kind enquiries about our uneventful life in the small mining town, he turned to me with a smile and said: “How many lines can you read on that chart, beta?” </p>.<p>I blinked and asked “Which chart?”</p>.<p>He nodded with understanding and removed the faded chart from the wall and slapped it with his hand. The room was covered with fine dust. I started sneezing. The doctor was unconcerned. He replaced the chart carefully on its rickety nail, and asked again: “Can you read the letters, now?” </p>.<p>I read the first two lines and stopped. </p>.<p>“Excellent,” he exclaimed and turned to my father. </p>.<p>“I will give a prescription for glasses. This child is highly myopic.”</p>.<p>He sat at his ornate black rosewood desk and wrote out a prescription saying: “You will find this optician near the city market. I will ask him to give you glasses at a concessional rate. I send all my patients to him.” The doctor lifted me back to the floor, patted my head and shook hands with my father. They spoke a little more about the ongoing world war, India’s freedom struggle and their repercussions on our daily lives. Neither of them was in a hurry to end the visit which was leisurely and free of tension. “Be sure you come back in six months’ time,” he smiled, and added cheerfully: “This is galloping myopia!” I remember he refused to accept consultation fee. </p>.<p>“I don’t charge for children,” was his explanation. He had no letters after his name. No titles, awards or framed photographs hung on his wall. But his smile, his warmth and his kind touch on my head still remain with me.</p>
<p>A recent visit to an ophthalmologist in an upscale hospital, where a battery of tests was conducted through state of the art techniques, took me back to my early experiences with “eye doctors” who simply examined your eyes with a book and a chart and prescribed correcting glasses. My first experience with this humble procedure was in a clinic situated near Lalbagh in Bangalore. My father brought me here all the way from Kolar Gold Fields because I could not see what was written on the blackboard. </p>.<p>We were greeted by a wooden name board hanging on the gate with just two words “Eye Doctor” scrawled on it in bold letters. The good doctor presumed that all those who visited him were near blind. He was a most genial soul, smiling and fussing to make sure we were comfortable. He seated my father in an easy chair and lifted me on to a high wooden stool. After discussing the day’s news, the weather and making kind enquiries about our uneventful life in the small mining town, he turned to me with a smile and said: “How many lines can you read on that chart, beta?” </p>.<p>I blinked and asked “Which chart?”</p>.<p>He nodded with understanding and removed the faded chart from the wall and slapped it with his hand. The room was covered with fine dust. I started sneezing. The doctor was unconcerned. He replaced the chart carefully on its rickety nail, and asked again: “Can you read the letters, now?” </p>.<p>I read the first two lines and stopped. </p>.<p>“Excellent,” he exclaimed and turned to my father. </p>.<p>“I will give a prescription for glasses. This child is highly myopic.”</p>.<p>He sat at his ornate black rosewood desk and wrote out a prescription saying: “You will find this optician near the city market. I will ask him to give you glasses at a concessional rate. I send all my patients to him.” The doctor lifted me back to the floor, patted my head and shook hands with my father. They spoke a little more about the ongoing world war, India’s freedom struggle and their repercussions on our daily lives. Neither of them was in a hurry to end the visit which was leisurely and free of tension. “Be sure you come back in six months’ time,” he smiled, and added cheerfully: “This is galloping myopia!” I remember he refused to accept consultation fee. </p>.<p>“I don’t charge for children,” was his explanation. He had no letters after his name. No titles, awards or framed photographs hung on his wall. But his smile, his warmth and his kind touch on my head still remain with me.</p>