By Robert Clements
Servant Leader or Supreme Ruler?
It was like watching a low-budget remake of a despot’s courtroom drama—except this wasn’t set in some banana republic or fictional dictatorship. No, this bit of tragic theatre played out in the sterile, overworked corridors of a government hospital in Goa, where the stethoscope is mightier than the sword—except when a minister decides he’s the emperor.
Enter Health Minister Vishwajit Rane, stage left, flanked not by a medical board or even a clipboard, but by—wait for it—a television crew. Ah yes, nothing says “urgent medical crisis” like a cameraman in tow. The Goa Medical College Hospital (GMCH) was his chosen arena, and the unsuspecting Chief Medical Officer, Dr. Rudresh Kurtikar, his target. With all the righteous indignation of a man who had just been told his soup was cold at a five-star hotel, the minister stormed into the casualty ward.
“Where is the CMO?” he thundered, as if asking for a treasonous rebel, not a medical professional.
Dr. Kurtikar appeared, possibly mid-duty, possibly sleep-deprived, and tried to explain. Bad move. The minister, in full performance mode, shut him down, told him to get out, and called security—yes, security—to escort him away.
Not even a “thank you for your service” on the way out. And all because a journalist’s mother allegedly didn’t receive timely care. Not proven negligence, not corruption, not malpractice. Just an allegation. That too, without even a formal inquiry. Judge. Jury. Executioner. All rolled into one health minister with a taste for drama and, quite evidently, a flair for lighting.
Let’s pause here, shall we? Because what happened next wasn’t just an insult to one man—it was an injury to the very spine of public service. To every doctor working overtime, every nurse burning the midnight oil, every ambulance driver navigating potholed streets in the rain. What message did it send?
Simple: “We don’t need process. We don’t need proof. We just need power.”
Now, let’s be clear. Accountability in government hospitals? Crucial. Monitoring patient care? Essential. But humiliating a senior doctor in public, in front of his juniors, while the cameras rolled like it was a soap opera? That’s not accountability. That’s arrogance in technicolour.
My dear Minister, here’s a gentle memo from the people who elected you:
You are not the owner of the hospital.
You’re not even the warden.You are a public servant. Elected by the people. Paid by the people. Expected to serve—not show off!
And while we’re talking memos, here’s one from Leadership 101: You never humiliate a senior officer in front of his team. Because when you do, you don’t just break a person—you shatter a chain of command. You dismantle trust. You erode respect. And you send a chilling message to every junior doctor in that hospital: “If he can fall like that, so can you.”
Leadership isn’t about being loud. It’s about being just.
You don’t fix a system by breaking its spirit. You don’t improve a hospital by insulting its chief healer. Would you storm into the cockpit mid-air and slap the pilot because your samosa was cold? Or bang on the police commissioner’s desk because your scooter was towed? Then why this tamasha in a hospital?
Because it’s easy, isn’t it? Doctors can’t strike. Patients can’t protest. And TV crews love drama. It’s the perfect recipe for manufactured outrage.
But here’s what’s harder: real reform. Fixing infrastructure. Increasing budgets. Improving staff-patient ratios. Creating feedback mechanisms. That takes time, humility, and a working knowledge of healthcare systems—not just of how to locate the camera’s best angle.
This episode was not a wake-up call. It was a warning siren.
That our elected officials, some of them at least, no longer see themselves as stewards—but as sovereigns. That they confuse fear with respect. That they believe the rule of law begins with them and ends when the cameras stop rolling.
This attitude, dear readers, is not unique to Goa. It’s a virus spreading through the system. Ministers conducting surprise raids. Bureaucrats berating teachers. MLAs slapping airline staff. It’s all the same pathology: the belief that power justifies humiliation. But leadership, true leadership, isn’t about bluster. It’s about balance. It’s about walking into a hospital not to shame, but to support. To listen, not to lash out. To uplift, not upstage.
What India needs today is not leaders who roar—but those who reflect. Not men who demand submission—but who earn respect. Not television theatrics—but quiet, solid service.
Let’s stop pretending that accountability means aggression. That discipline means decimation. That service means servitude. Let’s start asking the real questions: What resources does the hospital lack? How can we support our doctors better? What systems failed—and how can we improve them?
Because when we break down professionals on live television, we don’t raise standards—we bury them.
So, Mr. Minister, if the government still believes in retaining you, may I suggest a different script for your next hospital visit? Leave the cameras at home. Take off your ego like you would your shoes before entering a temple. Walk in not with the air of a boss, but with the humility of a steward. Greet the staff. Ask questions. Listen carefully. And if something has gone wrong—investigate. In private. With dignity. Then act, if needed, with fairness.
Because this isn’t your kingdom.
It’s our country.
And we, the people, are not extras in your political drama.
We’re the audience. We’re watching.
And we vote….!
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