Humour in Medical Uniform
Maj. Satish Kumar, Veteran
“When Orders Didn’t Mean Results”

We were seven PG Trainees at AFMC, stumbling through the most baffling limbo in military medicine. A PG Trainee is a walking paradox—you’re a doctor, fresh out of med school, trusted with lives but treated like you’re still practicing on cadavers. You’re not an intern scrubbing in blindly, nor a seasoned consultant barking commands. But hey, you get salutes from the orderlies, and that’s supposed to make up for the sleep deprivation.

You eat in the Officers’ Mess, where the air hums with the clink of cutlery and the weight of unspoken ranks. You perch at the edge of the table, ears perked like a stethoscope on a faint heartbeat, soaking in the seniors’ war stories. And everyone—especially the mess bearer—has your number dialed in: you look important, but your authority? About as solid as a placebo pill.

Every morning, as the first light filtered through the barracks windows, Bahadur—the unflappable mess bearer with a mustache that could command its own platoon—would saunter over with the gravity of a surgeon prepping for theater. He’d eye us trainees, seven eager faces buzzing from overnight calls, and intone like it was the Hippocratic Oath:

“Sir… chai to order?”

Oh, the rush! Our first real “decision” of the day, untainted by HOD scrutiny or patient charts. We’d huddle mentally, channeling our inner baristas, and fire off our demands with the confidence of consultants:

“Make mine a cappuccino, frothy with almond milk!” I’d declare, dreaming of that Italian café vibe.

“Green tea, steeped just right—no bitterness!” chimed in Raj, wiping sleep from his eyes.

“Espresso, double shot, black as midnight!” boasted Priya, flexing her caffeine tolerance.

“Herbal infusion, chamomile with honey—easy on the sugar!” added Vikram, ever the health nut.

The others piled on: “Masala latte, but hold the masala!” “Iced Americano, extra chill!” “Decaf mocha, whipped cream on top!”

Bahadur would listen intently, his nod as respectful as a junior saluting a general. He’d scribble phantom notes on his pad, mutter “Ji, sahib,” and glide off to the pantry like a ghost in whites.

We’d wait, hearts pounding faster than a tachycardia case, visions of gourmet brews dancing in our heads. And then… he’d return, balancing a tray with seven identical steaming cups of standard-issue masala chai—spicy, milky, and utterly unyielding. No froth. No herbs. Just chai, the great equalizer.

“Bahadur, this isn’t what I asked for!” I’d protest once, my voice cracking like a fresh intern’s.

He’d smile serenely, eyes twinkling under bushy brows. “Sir, best for stamina. Rounds starting soon.” No exceptions. No debates. No refunds on our dashed dreams.

The HOD’s morning ward rounds loomed like a court-martial, so we’d gulp it down. Silently. Gratefully, even—because caffeine was caffeine, and survival trumped sophistication. But inside? We seethed with the quiet fury of the powerless, wondering if our orders were just whispers in the wind.

Years blurred by in a haze of exams, surgeries, and sleepless nights. I clawed my way up to Captain, now with stripes that meant business—real authority, real charts to sign, real lives hanging on my calls. And wouldn’t you know it, fate—the cheeky bastard—reunited Bahadur and me at the same AFMC posting, like a bad sequel to our trainee days.

First morning back. Same creaky mess hall, same scarred wooden table smelling of polish and nostalgia. I slid into my seat, uniform crisp, stethoscope dangling like a medal. Bahadur spotted me from across the room, his mustache twitching in recognition. He approached, that same solemn stride, but now with a hint of deference I’d never seen before.

“Chai to order, sir?” he asked, voice laced with genuine warmth, like we were old comrades.

I couldn’t resist poking the bear. Leaning back, I tested the waters: “Black coffee today, Bahadur. Strong, with a dash of cinnamon. No milk, no nonsense.”

He nodded, no phantom scribbles this time—just a crisp “Ji, sahib!” and off he went. I braced for the masala chai ambush, half-smirking at the memory of our trainee follies. But when he returned? A perfect mug of black coffee, steam curling up with that unmistakable cinnamon aroma, perched on a saucer like it was royalty.

I froze, fork midway to my mouth. Stared at the cup. Then at him. “Bahadur… what in the world? Back in PG days, it was always the same old chai, no matter what we begged for. What’s changed?”

He glanced around, ensuring no eavesdroppers, then leaned in close—close enough for me to smell the cardamom on his breath. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper: “Sir, I always brewed it perfect for the ones who mattered—the consultants, the colonels. Couldn’t risk a slip-up with them. But you trainees? Harmless fun. Now, though…” He paused, eyes gleaming with sly wisdom. “You’re the one approving my duty rosters and leaves. Can’t take chances with the boss, can I?”

I burst out laughing, nearly spilling that precious coffee. The other officers at the table shot curious glances, but Bahadur just straightened up, saluted with a wink, and vanished back to his domain.

In that moment, over a steaming mug and a shared grin, the brutal beauty of AFMC’s hierarchy clicked into place. We’d always issued orders as trainees—grand, imaginative, full of hope. But results? Those only materialized when the rank backed them up. Power, it turns out, is the ultimate sweetener. 😆