The Game of Diabetes
- Madhukar Dama
- 11 hours ago
- 11 min read
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Prologue
Life does not fall into sickness in a single day.
It drifts, step by step, into a pattern.
What begins as sweet indulgence, careless sitting, and ignored whispers of the body, grows quietly into a full-fledged game.
A game no one chooses to play, yet millions are caught in.
A game where ignorance makes the first move, denial covers the second, and the rest of life plays out on a board marked with medicines, lectures, sympathy, and fear.
This is not a game of chance.
It is a game of choices — disguised, repeated, and passed from one hand to another until the body itself becomes the final scorecard.
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1. The Silent Beginning
The game does not begin in the hospital.
It begins in the kitchen.
It begins in the market.
It begins in the streets where deep-fried snacks are sold, in the homes where white rice is piled high, in the habit of finishing meals with sweets, in the belief that milk, sugar, and packaged foods are symbols of prosperity.
It begins in our chairs, our buses, our bikes, our screens, where we sit longer and move less.
It begins when the sun rises, but we do not step out to greet it.
It begins when the body whispers: thirst, tiredness, heaviness — and we shrug and say, “It’s nothing.”
This is the opening move: ignorance of lifestyle.
And because millions play this move together, it feels natural, unquestionable, almost cultural.
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2. The Curtain of Denial
One day, the body raises its voice. Blood sugar spikes. Tests confirm diabetes.
Yet the mind does not bow to truth.
The player says:
“It runs in the family.”
“I’m stressed, that’s all.”
“Medicines will handle it.”
Denial is comforting. It protects old habits. It shields the ego from responsibility. But it lets the disease dig deeper roots.
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3. The Crutch of Dependence
Once the diagnosis is accepted, the game takes on new actors.
The doctor prescribes. The pharmacy supplies. The family hovers.
The patient swallows the pill, injects the insulin, pricks the finger.
But the real soil — food, movement, sleep, stress — remains unchanged.
The patient believes the battle is now between disease and medicine, while lifestyle is left untouched.
This is the trick of the game: the illusion that external tools will solve what daily choices continue to destroy.
And here the hidden rewards appear:
The patient gains sympathy, attention, exemption from hard responsibilities.
The family gains importance as caretakers, controllers, moral judges.
The doctor gains authority as savior, scolder, rescuer.
Each collects their share of strokes for the ego.
The disease feeds not only on sugar but also on these rewards.
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4. The Spread of Complications
As years pass, the game grows heavier.
Nerves go numb. Eyes blur. Kidneys weaken. The heart stumbles.
Every complication is another stage of the play:
More medicines, more hospital visits, more bills.
More sympathy, more scolding, more drama.
More excuses, more control, more superiority.
The patient says, “What can I do? This is my fate.”
The family says, “We are sacrificing everything for them.”
The doctor says, “You must follow my orders more strictly.”
Each voice sounds different, but each is tied to the same hidden script.
The disease becomes a stage where everyone’s ego finds its role.
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5. The Tragic Finale
For most, the game does not end in healing.
It ends in hospitals.
It ends in dialysis, amputations, heart attacks, or blindness.
It ends in dependence, wheelchairs, tubes, and finally death.
Even in the final rounds, the game pays out its rewards:
The patient gets to say, “See, I told you, I was helpless.”
The family gets to say, “See how much we suffered for them.”
The doctor gets to say, “We did all we could.”
The story of tragedy becomes the final consolation prize.
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6. The Rare Breakthrough
But rarely — very rarely — someone stops and sees the game itself.
They ask:
“Why did I believe lifestyle didn’t matter?”
“Why did I cling to medicines while ignoring the cause?”
“Why did I accept sympathy instead of responsibility?”
They begin to walk, to sweat, to breathe in the sun.
They throw away the foods of ignorance.
They sleep in time, wake in time, and listen to the body’s signals.
They demand respect, not sympathy.
They take back responsibility for their own health.
And in that moment, the game collapses.
No more excuses.
No more hidden payoffs.
No more drama.
Only clarity, discipline, and healing.
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7. The Need
This rare ending must become the common one.
Awareness is the only way to stop the waste of lives, money, and dignity.
Ignorance begins the game.
Denial fuels it.
Dependence and complications extend it.
Ego rewards make it attractive.
Death is its final act.
But awareness — honest, practical, daily awareness — is the only move that ends the game before it ends us.
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Epilogue
The game of diabetes rarely ends in victory.
For most, it runs its course through complications, pain, and premature death — all the while feeding the egos of patients, families, and doctors who unknowingly keep it alive.
But there is another ending.
Rare, but real.
It begins when one refuses to play by ignorance, when one steps away from excuses, when one sees clearly that health is not in pills alone but in daily living.
Awareness is the only move that ends the game before it ends us.
And when that move is made, the stage of suffering collapses, the players step down, and life is no longer a contest of disease — but a quiet, radiant freedom.
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DISMANTLING THE GAME OF DIABETES THROUGH A DIALOGUE WITH MADHUKAR
[Scene: The courtyard of Dr. Madhukar Dama’s off-grid homestead near Yelmadagi. Neem and banyan trees sway in the wind. Birds call. A circle is formed: the Patient, his Wife, his Mother, his Younger Brother, the Family Doctor, and the Neighbor. In the center sits Dr. Madhukar Dama — Veterinarian, Pharmacologist, Drug Discovery Fellow, Clinical Trials Consultant, Assistant Professor, Lifestyle Scientist, now living off-grid, a healer who sees things as they are. He listens. A clay pot of water rests by his side.]
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Prologue
Every disease carries two layers — the body’s suffering, and the stories woven around it. Diabetes is not just sugar in the blood; it is a theatre where family, doctors, and society each play their part. Everyone gains something, and so the game goes on. Rarely, someone steps outside the script. Rarely, truth is seen.
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Act I – The Patient Speaks
Patient (voice heavy, eyes lowered):
I was once strong, carefree. Food was my comfort after long days. Festivals meant plates piled high. Work was my excuse for no exercise. I thought illness came only in old age. Then the doctor said: “You have diabetes.” Since then I feel cursed. Medicines, diets — nothing works for long. I feel like a prisoner of my own body.
Dr. Madhukar Dama (calm, steady):
You are not cursed. You are careless. You call it fate because it frees you from responsibility. That is your prize — the freedom to do nothing while blaming destiny. That is the move you make in the game.
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Act II – The Wife Speaks
Wife (voice trembling, hands folded):
Since his diagnosis, I have lived in fear. I watch every bite he takes, I nag, I scold. At night, I wake to check if he is breathing. My life revolves around his illness. Without me, he would collapse. I sacrifice my peace for him.
Dr. Madhukar Dama (gently, but firm):
And in that sacrifice you feel important, almost heroic. You rule over him like a mother, not a partner. You believe he cannot live without you — and you enjoy that power, even as you complain of exhaustion. That is your reward in the game.
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Act III – The Mother Speaks
Mother (stern, voice sharp, but with eyes wet):
In my time, we worked in fields. We rose with the sun, ate simple food, sweated every day. He does none of that. He disrespects discipline. I scold because I fear for him. I want him to live longer than me. My words are harsh, but my love is deep.
Dr. Madhukar Dama (softening):
Your love hides behind anger. You punish him to mask your fear. And in punishing, you feel righteous, superior, like the guardian of old values. You forget that fear expressed as anger poisons both giver and receiver. That is your place in the game.
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Act IV – The Younger Brother Speaks
Brother (half-smiling, voice breaking slightly):
I bring him sweets, not because I want him to die, but because I cannot stand to see him suffer. I feel helpless. I cannot give him strength, so I give him pleasure. I say, “Better short and sweet than long and bitter,” because I don’t know what else to say.
Dr. Madhukar Dama (eyes narrowing, then softening):
You hide your helplessness in generosity. You push poison and call it kindness. You would rather keep him weak and grateful than strong and free. You give him escape because it gives you meaning. That is your role in the game.
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Act V – The Family Doctor Speaks
Family Doctor (straight-backed, voice proud, but with a trace of fatigue):
I have treated hundreds of diabetics. Medicines, insulin, tests — they keep people alive. Without us, there would be chaos. We are the shield against death. And yet… I know the truth. Few ever heal. They return again and again. Sometimes I wonder if I am saving lives or just prolonging suffering. Still, without my work, what am I?
Dr. Madhukar Dama (voice firm, steady):
I know, because I was you. I am a pharmacologist. I designed drugs, tested them, taught them. I was a drug discovery fellow. I ran clinical trials. I know the power of medicine — and its trap. Medicine can hold a crutch, but it cannot rebuild a broken foundation. Your profession gives you pride, status, income. That is your prize. And so you too play.
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Act VI – The Neighbor Speaks
Neighbor (shrugging, voice casual, yet hiding unease):
Everyone has diabetes now. In my lane, half the houses have someone on tablets. People live long enough. It is nothing special. It is just the way life is. Why make it a tragedy?
Dr. Madhukar Dama (voice deep, unflinching):
When everyone makes the same mistake, it feels normal. But normal is not truth. You comfort yourself by saying, “It happens to all.” That allows you to do nothing. That is your prize. That is your role in the game.
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Act VII – The Healer’s Unveiling
[The courtyard grows still. No one speaks. The koel calls. The neem leaves whisper. Dr. Madhukar Dama rises, his voice measured, slow.]
Dr. Madhukar Dama:
This is the game of diabetes.
The patient gains excuses.
The wife gains importance.
The mother gains righteousness.
The brother gains false kindness.
The family doctor gains power.
The neighbor gains comfort.
Each plays. Each wins in ego. And together, they lose the body, the joy, the truth.
But the game ends — not with medicine, not with scolding, not with sweets, not with denial.
It ends with awareness.
Awareness that diabetes is not a curse but a creation.
Awareness that every bite, every step, every hour of rest is a move on the board.
Awareness that the real healer is lifestyle itself.
Awareness that sympathy, pride, control, and excuses are cheap prizes compared to freedom.
When awareness dawns, the board collapses. The players fall silent. The masks drop. Life returns.
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Act VIII – The Closing Silence
Patient (whispering, voice trembling):
So the game is mine. And I can stop playing.
Dr. Madhukar Dama (nodding slowly):
Yes. And when you stop, the others will have no game left to play.
[The Wife lowers her gaze. The Mother’s finger drops. The Brother closes the sweet box. The Family Doctor stares at his hands. The Neighbor avoids his own reflection. The banyan roots sway. The sun floods the courtyard. For a long moment, no one speaks. In that silence, the game dissolves.]
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Epilogue
Every family has its patient, its caretaker, its scolder, its sweet-giver, its doctor, its neighbor. Each believes they act out of love or wisdom, but most play for ego. The game of diabetes feeds on ignorance and pride, and it ends for most in complications and death. But once in a while, someone sees clearly. Once in a while, awareness dawns. And when it does, the game collapses, and what remains is simple living, clear truth, and quiet freedom.
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The Game
It begins simple.
Tea with sugar.
White rice heaped on steel plates.
A fried snack on the roadside.
Biscuits dipped in milk.
A soft drink fizzing in plastic.
It looks harmless.
It looks normal.
But normal is the disease.
The patient says: “Fate.”
The wife hovers: “Take your pills.”
The mother scolds: “You are weak.”
The brother laughs: “One sweet won’t kill you.”
The doctor prescribes: “Obey my orders.”
The neighbor shrugs: “Everyone has it.”
Each plays.
Each wins.
The patient wins excuses.
The wife wins importance.
The mother wins righteousness.
The brother wins false kindness.
The doctor wins power.
The neighbor wins comfort.
Only the body loses.
Eyes blur.
Feet numb.
Heart stumbles.
Kidneys choke.
Hospitals hum like factories.
Pharmacies stack boxes like bricks of profit.
Dialysis machines throb like slow drums of death.
Plastic tubes pierce arms that once lifted children.
Sugar strips pile like lottery tickets of survival.
Walk through the hospital corridor:
Men in wheelchairs with legs cut.
Women with eyes fogged white.
Children waiting outside the ICU,
clutching receipts of bills their fathers cannot pay.
Nurses move like machines.
Doctors glance at charts,
writing prescriptions like signatures on cheques.
Nobody speaks of life.
Only numbers.
Only “levels.”
Only “control.”
At home the rituals go on.
Birthdays with cake.
Weddings with laddoos.
Festivals with mountains of sweets.
The patient smiles, “Just one.”
The brother says, “Why not?”
The wife says, “Don’t.”
The mother says, “He never listens.”
The neighbor says, “Same story everywhere.”
The doctor says, “We’ll adjust the dose.”
And the game continues.
This is not theory.
This is real.
The smell of hospital disinfectant.
The sour sweat of a sickbed.
The click of pill bottles.
The sighs in waiting rooms.
The shame of asking your child to tie your shoes
because you can’t bend without dizziness.
The helplessness of needing someone
to walk you to the toilet.
The machine does not heal.
The pill does not heal.
They hold you up long enough
for the game to continue.
So the hospital profits.
The pharmacy profits.
The doctor profits.
The family profits with their roles.
Even the patient profits with pity.
And the body pays.
I have seen it everywhere:
In villages where men hide their insulin in shirt pockets.
In cities where women count pills in secret.
In offices where birthdays mean another round of cake.
In hospitals where dialysis chairs are always full.
In cremation grounds where wood burns faster than tears.
This is not tragedy from outside.
This is not a curse.
This is not fate.
This is creation.
Every plate is a move.
Every chair is a move.
Every skipped dawn walk is a move.
Every sweet is a move.
You write your own end with your hand,
one spoon at a time.
Most never see.
They cling to roles.
The patient clings to excuses.
The wife clings to control.
The mother clings to sermons.
The brother clings to sweets.
The doctor clings to his pride.
The neighbor clings to his shrug.
They play until the board swallows them.
Rarely, someone stops.
Rarely, someone sees.
Rarely, someone says:
“This is not fate.
This is not inheritance.
This is me.
And I will not play.”
And when that happens,
the board cracks.
The game collapses.
The wife learns to walk beside, not police.
The mother learns to love, not scold.
The brother learns to give strength, not sugar.
The doctor learns to guide, not dominate.
The neighbor learns silence.
And the patient learns responsibility.
What remains is plain.
Plain food.
Plain water.
Plain walking.
Plain sleep.
Plain sun.
Plain living.
Not heroic.
Not dramatic.
Not worthy of applause.
But free.
The game pays in ego.
Awareness pays in life.
Choose your prize.
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