Wait for Dahanu’s doctor saheb ends in prayer

Dr Behramshah Mazda seen readying to fly his ultra-light aircraft over Dahanu’s coast in a file photo from mid-day’s archives

It is probably for the first time in decades that Dr Behramshah Mazda's clinic on Dahanu's Irani Road has been shuttered for three weeks straight. The last time he took a vacation was with his wife Roxana - who also spends half the day assisting him - and close friends, to Kashmir for less than a week. This was four years ago. He didn't believe in the weekly off, taking in patients for a better part of Sunday, too. When he'd down the shutters, having seen an average of 100 patients a day, a trickle would spill over. The ailing, several of them adivasis from the padas around, would knock on the door of Moti Manzil, his ancestral bungalow, a five-minute walk away from his clinic. The rest of the time, he was consulting on phone.

He'd fly as far as the adjoining coastal town of Gholvad

For the underprivileged, treatment was free. For the rest, he charged a nominal fee. Given his bedside manner and splendid diagnostic abilities - a rarity these days with doctors relying more than they should on pathological tests - he could have made a successful career in Mumbai. But he chose to live in the land of his ancestors, surrounded by chikoo wadis and a saal-tree-lined beach. It was here that you would find him late evenings, taking a walk with his wife, admonishing their 13-year-old pug for being slothful. This is also where he had for years nurtured another love.

A hobby aviator

Dr Mazda owned an ultra-light aircraft that he set up meticulously at 7 am on the shore on Sundays. It resembled a tricycle with hang glider-like wings. A helmet he handed you and trust in him were all you had - and needed - for safety. With hands firm on the handlebar control, he judged air currents judiciously to make it a smooth ride for his co-flier, with whom he communicated via a walkie-talkie.

His brusque exterior would magically dissolve mid-flight as he metamorphosed into a young adventurer, marvelling at old Dahanu below, the cottages embedded in a sweep of green like little Lego pieces. He would fly as far as the adjoining coastal town of Gholvad, but stop short of Gujarat's Udvada, Zoroastrianism's seat in India. The Coast Guard Station in Daman was what he was avoiding.

A couple of years ago, he sold the flying machine. It was getting cumbersome to maintain, and flying was now a bother with sundry protocols. Dahanu's Irani aviator lay his passion to rest after almost four decades.

Also Read: Over 400 doctors died of Covid-19 during second wave, at least 100 in Delhi: IMA

‘Like Russian roulette'

With an MBBS degree from the Government Medical College, Solapur, Dr Mazda, 62, has played the role of doctor for a better part of his adult life. And he didn't stop during the pandemic.

Adivasis in Palghar district where Dahanu falls, told mid-day during a recent on-ground reported series, that getting to a health centre meant walking miles. Containment Zone was a phrase they hadn't heard, and the mortal remains of those who had passed on after getting infected, were brought back to the village for a full-blown funeral, in complete violation of Covid-19 protocol. But, most of the time, they didn't know better. Awareness around the pandemic and how it can destroy lives was yet to reach them.

It is then, practitioners like Dr Mazda who have saved thousands, filling in like a sturdy pair of crutches to hold up rural and semi-urban India's crumbling healthcare infrastructure. According to the Indian Medical Association (IMA), as of last week, 513 doctors have lost their lives in the second wave. Close to 15 were from Maharashtra. The number was 748 during the first wave. Experts estimate that the numbers could be higher because the association only maintains a roster of 3.5 lakh members. India has close to 12 lakh practicing doctors. Given the repeated exposure to infection, including from Covid-19 patients he treated, Dr Mazda wondered how he had got away. In a text message to this writer in March this year, he said with characteristic wit, "For the past one year, I feel like the violinist on the deck of the sinking Titanic. But I am loving every minute. It's like playing Russian roulette."

On Thursday morning, Dr Mazda, who was admitted to a Mumbai hospital after testing positive, took the long leave that had eluded him.