Editor,
In my earlier letter, I wrote about the visible burdens carried by nurses in Garo Hills, the long working hours, staff shortages, and emotional exhaustion that are part of their daily lives. Beneath these visible challenges lies a quieter and deeper issue, one that many nurses themselves struggle to name – burnout.
Burnout is not just about feeling tired or overworked. It develops gradually when stress at the workplace continues without relief. Over time, it drains emotional energy, dulls motivation, and creates a growing sense of distance from one’s work. In professions, centred on caring for others, this gradual erosion affects not only personal well-being but also professional effectiveness.
Nurses experiencing burnout often feel exhausted even before their shift begins. Tasks that once gave meaning and purpose start to feel overwhelming. Empathy, the very heart of nursing, becomes harder to sustain, not because nurses care less, but because they have been giving too much for too long without adequate support.
In regions like Garo Hills, burnout often develops silently. Nurses work in understaffed wards, manage heavy patient loads, and shoulder responsibilities far beyond what one person can reasonably handle. Many work far from their families, with limited access to rest, recovery, or professional support. Over time, this constant pressure takes a toll not just on the body, but also on the mind and spirit.
Why does this matter? Because a burnt-out nurse is not a failed nurse, it is a sign of a failed system. Burnout affects concentration, decision-making, and emotional availability, all of which are essential for safe and compassionate patient care. When nurses struggle, patients inevitably feel the consequences.
Understanding burnout is the first step toward addressing it. If we continue to see it as a personal weakness rather than a workplace issue, we risk losing dedicated professionals and further weakening an already fragile healthcare system. Recognizing burnout is not about sympathy alone, but about strengthening healthcare for everyone.”
Yours etc.,
Khusi A. Sangma,
Via email
A needless debate
Editor,
With regards to the ongoing deliberations between the opinions expressed by Asaduddin Owaisi and Himanta Biswa Sarma regarding the possibility of a non-Hindu person becoming the Prime Minister of India, as widely reported in the Press, it is pertinent to remember Rishi Sunak, erstwhile Prime Minister of the United Kingdom. He has always been a devoted, practising Hindu but was chosen to be the Prime Minister of a predominantly Christian dominated country, which job he could carry out quite successfully. That was possible because the United Kingdom is essentially a modern democratic nation.
Therefore, one may safely conclude that India also being a modern democratic nation, there should be no harm, rather every likelihood, of a non-Hindu becoming the Prime Minister of India some day.
Yours etc.,
Subhasis Chakrawarty,
Via email
At the ‘Dukan Ja bad Sha’
Editor,
For me, a Dukan ja bad sha has never been a destination. It has always been a pause, a place to sit down, eat quickly and then return to the rhythm of the day. Like many people in Meghalaya, I grew up seeing these small eateries everywhere, in market areas, near offices and colleges, by busy streets and highways. They are so familiar that we rarely stop to think about what makes them special.
The first thing that always strikes me is what is missing, a menu. There are usually no board on the wall, no printed list, no prices displayed. Instead, the woman running the shop simply tells you what is available. She repeats the same list again and again, to every customer who asks. Over time, the words feel almost scripted, like a daily ritual. Regular customers often don’t even need to ask.
Once the food arrives, it arrives fast. Faster than fast food. There is no waiting, no token, no number. The food is already there, warm, filling and familiar. You eat without thinking too much about time, even though everything about the place is designed to save it.
Seating is usually on long benches and personal space is a luxury you don’t expect. More often than not, I find myself eating beside a stranger. Sometimes we exchange a few words, sometimes we eat in silence. Either way, there is something quietly comforting about sharing a bench and a meal with someone you may never see again.
Payment comes only after the meal. And this is where the Dukan ja bad sha reveals its most remarkable quality, trust. Many times, the shopkeeper asks, “What did you eat?” And based on your answer, she tells you how much to pay. There is no checking, no questioning. Just belief.
But during my conversations with some of these women, I was told something that stayed with me. They said there are customers who eat and then simply disappear without paying. It does not happen every day, but it happens often enough to hurt. What makes it sad is not just the loss of money, but the breaking of trust. These eateries survive on thin margins and most are run by women supporting families. When someone walks away without paying, it is not just a meal taken, it is dignity ignored.
Most Dukan ja bad sha are run by women who begin their day early and end it late. Many have little formal education, but they manage accounts in their heads, remember regular customers and keep the food consistent. Their small earnings go towards household expenses, school fees and survival. Yet their labour often goes unnoticed.
Each shop has its own speciality and reputation. There are no signboards announcing this. People just know. Word travels quietly. In a time when shiny cafés and foreign cuisines dominate attention, the Dukan ja bad sha continues to exist without demanding to be seen.
Next time we sit on one of those benches and eat, we can remember that this simple act works because of trust, a trust so visible and essential that it quietly holds the whole place together, and what feels ordinary to us can feel remarkable to anyone seeing and experiencing it for the first time.
Yours etc.,
Zaman E. Tongper,
Via email
