The WhatsApp Doctor — A Family Hooked on Healing Forwards
- Madhukar Dama
- Apr 10
- 5 min read
Setting: A neem-shaded courtyard, birds chirping, the faint aroma of tulsi and cow dung in the breeze.
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[Ganesh, a proud retired banker with a crisp white kurta and a puffed chest, enters holding a thick file.]
Ganesh: Madhukarji, namaskara! We’ve finally come. And I’ve brought everything with me — see this? A complete file. Garlic for blood pressure, papaya leaves for dengue, turmeric for cancer, ajwain water for weight loss, and even one very rare one—burnt coconut husk powder for thyroid!
[Madhukar smiles without mockery. He pours tulsi tea for everyone.]
Madhukar: That’s quite a treasure chest, Ganesh. But tell me — if you’ve collected so many cures, how come you’re not cured?
Ganesh: (grins awkwardly) Arrey, we keep trying. Some things work. Some don’t. But at least we’re doing something, right?
Malathi: He forwards 20 remedies every morning, Madhukarji. To the colony group, the relatives’ group, even the yoga group. But my acidity has only become worse. I’ve had haldi milk, ajwain, hot water, cold water, rock salt, everything…
Madhukar: And what about silence?
Malathi: Eh?
Madhukar: Silence. Have you tried that? Sitting quietly after meals, chewing slowly, sleeping deeply, saying no to one unnecessary worry a day?
Drishti (daughter): Amma doesn’t know silence. She plays bhajans while cooking, news while eating, and dad’s forwards while trying to sleep.
Rohit (son): It’s like having 500 doctors in the house. Except none of them see patients.
[Everyone laughs. Even Ganesh loosens up.]
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Madhukar: You know what a forward really is?
It’s not just information. It’s borrowed confidence.
Someone somewhere feels good forwarding something that sounds useful.
But your body doesn’t run on feelings. It runs on truth.
Ganesh: So you don’t believe in home remedies?
Madhukar: Oh, I believe in home. And I believe in remedy.
But I don’t believe in turning your phone into a clinic and your mind into a pharmacy.
Malathi: But some of these work! My cousin took papaya leaf juice for dengue and her platelet count increased!
Madhukar: Maybe. But did anyone ask:
– Was it the juice, or her own immune system?
– Was it the rest, or the love around her?
– Was it nature’s rhythm, or man’s remedy?
Rohit: But how do we know what’s true and what’s fake?
Madhukar: Hmm… I’ll tell you a secret.
When something is truly healing, you don’t need to convince the whole world.
You just feel it.
Healing doesn’t scream. It whispers.
It doesn’t come with urgency. It comes with depth.
And most importantly — it makes you quieter, lighter, and kinder.
Drishti: So should we delete all the health groups?
Madhukar: Maybe not. But ask yourselves:
– Does this information bring clarity or fear?
– Does it make me rush or slow down?
– Does it feel like truth or just noise?
If it makes you anxious, obsessive, dependent — it’s not medicine. It’s poison.
---
Ganesh (softly): So… what should I do with this file?
Madhukar: Compost it.
Turn it into mulch. Plant tulsi or methi on it.
Let the weight of 300 fake remedies give birth to one real leaf.
Malathi: But if we don’t follow anything, won’t we fall sick?
Madhukar: You already are. Not from viruses, but from fear.
Not from bacteria, but from borrowed beliefs.
Your real medicine is very simple:
– Chew slowly.
– Walk barefoot.
– Wake up with the sun.
– Sleep with a smile.
– Talk to your body like it’s your oldest friend.
And delete one health forward a day.
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Drishti: I wish health education was like this in school.
Madhukar: It can still begin. Right now.
Let today be your detox from borrowed wisdom.
Look at your body like it’s a garden — not a battlefield.
Every whisper of fatigue, every cramp, every burp — is not an enemy. It’s a message.
You don’t need 500 cures. You need 5 habits, done with love and consistency.
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[A long silence follows. The neem leaves rustle. Ganesh looks at his file like it’s a plastic toy he’s outgrown.]
Ganesh (quietly): Maybe it’s time I stop being the WhatsApp doctor. And start being… a student again.
Madhukar (smiles): Ah. Now that’s medicine.
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[They leave lighter, not with a miracle, but with relief. No more inbox full of confusion. Just hearts full of stillness.]
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Forwarded a Thousand Times
they sit there
in tiny glowing prisons,
eyes red, fingers greasy,
scrolling like prophets
searching for gospel
but all they find
is a badly spelled diagnosis
from a man named "Sharma ji"
who once cured piles
with banana peels and mustard oil.
"don’t take the vaccine,"
one message says,
"drink cow urine,"
says another.
a woman with 8 filters on her face
explains liver detox
with lemon and rage.
some uncle with a paunch
claims turmeric is
stronger than chemo.
they believe it all.
they swallow it whole.
they make it their gospel.
and doctors—
those poor warriors—
sit in clinics with
degrees gathering dust,
watching patients argue
with screenshots.
"but this says otherwise, doc,"
they spit.
"see? it's on WhatsApp.
it's from a group called
‘Wellness Warriors 24/7’."
you could show them x-rays,
you could show them
petri dishes of proof,
but it won’t matter—
because Meena aunty’s
neighbour’s maid
once rubbed ghee on her forehead
and her migraine vanished
in 8 minutes.
this is the era of
Digital Delirium,
where faith is given
not to science,
but to forwards
with 17 prayer hands
and a quote by “Einstein”
that he never said.
truth is dead,
buried under
a thousand recycled PDFs
with Ayurvedic fonts
and the scent of
cooked-up cures.
and we—
the sick, the scared,
the half-literate army
of online oracles—
keep marching toward
organ failure
with smiles on our faces
and a USB full of
miracle cures.
and when someone dies,
they say:
“he didn’t forward it in time.”
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