For a patient requiring an opinion outside my field, I have followed a simple dictum when identifying the right specialist to refer her to, particularly in a hospital teeming with talent. Awards and accolades, I’ve found, are often an eyewash. One might, ideally, consult directly with their patients, but such testimonies are not always readily available. Instead, I turn to a subtler, more telling measure: The opinion of the resident doctors who work under them.
These junior doctors, ever-present in the ecosystem of care, observe their consultants at both their best and their worst. They see how these senior figures conduct themselves under pressure, how they respond to setbacks, and how they navigate responsibility when adverse outcomes arise. A consultant who instinctively shifts blame downwards (on the residents) betrays a certain lack of courage, an unwillingness to acknowledge that their own shortcomings might lie at the root. Be it a failure to adequately teach, to establish protocols, or merely an unchecked tendency to intimidate, such behaviour points to something deeper — an aggressive streak, unbecoming of a healer. Resident doctors, occupying the lowest rung in the hierarchical ladder, are easy scapegoats, powerless to push back and entirely dependent on their seniors’ goodwill for their future. A consultant who mistreats these juniors is, I believe, not just uncouth but offers a perfect reflection of their broader character. Their interactions with residents often mirror their approach to patients: How meticulously they work, how kindly they treat individuals regardless of their ability to pay, and how deeply they honour the fundamental humanity of those under their care.
This method has served me well. In a world built on hierarchies and appearances, the observations of the powerless minions who stand the closest rarely fail to reveal the truth.
Toxic behaviour is not a gendered entity. I have seen it in women as much as in men. Against their house-helps, juniors, against wives, sometimes parents and children, too. It often begins with a disproportionate sense of being wronged, triggered perhaps by the smallest of inconveniences. What follows is a need to assert dominance, especially in situations where the other is unable to resist or push back. In such moments, the toxic individual places blame for their imagined grievance onto others, sometimes escalating into outright violence.
What is striking is the absence of an alternate narrative in their minds. No inner voice to challenge their perception, No recognition that their view of events might be flawed. At the core of it lies an inability, or perhaps unwillingness, to see the other as fully human, with their own thoughts, struggles, and feelings.
Growing up and living in Delhi, a city of 30 million, can feel overwhelming. Every part of life is competitive. Opportunities are scarce, and the prevailing ethos seems to be one of outpacing others in your cohort at all costs. The average school child survives through domination or submissiveness based on the behaviour of their peers. A child who stands out, perhaps in aptitude or temperament, may learn to withdraw into isolation or cultivate an elusive nature as a coping mechanism.
How, then, are parents of the nearly two million primary school children in this city to guide their young? What values should they prioritise? Should they equip their children with self-preservation and aggression as essential tools for survival? Or should they, against the tide, nurture kindness, consideration, and empathy? And, if so, where does one even begin in a world that so often rewards the opposite?
“Omoiyari” is a special trait that the Japanese possess, rather inculcate. The term itself combines omoi (thought) and yaru (to give or send), translating to “giving thought to others”. But it extends beyond empathy. It implies not only thinking of another’s well-being but also acting in ways that bring them comfort or happiness, often preemptively and without fanfare.
On our first visit to Japan in 2015, we encountered countless examples of this remarkable ethos in action. One moment stands out vividly. On an escalator, the three of us (my husband, son, and I) had unwittingly blocked the entire width, lost in conversation and unaware of the growing queue behind us. A gentleman stood patiently, waiting for us to notice. When I finally caught his eye and moved aside, he bowed and apologised profusely, as though he had inconvenienced us. The line of people passed with similar quiet apologies, without so much as a glance of reproach. The grace of it was almost bewildering.
Other moments revealed the same underlying ethos. Spotless public toilets in a bustling Tokyo bus station, not due to constant cleaning, but because every user left the space clean and usable for the next. People refraining from speaking loudly on phones in public, wearing masks when unwell to protect others, or shopkeepers stepping away from their busy shops to guide strangers to an unfamiliar address. Each act small, perhaps, but together forming a pattern of Omoiyari that felt very consistent. It left us, as visitors, humbled and awestruck. I remember hoping that some trace of this mindful regard for others, might imprint itself on our son. It was something worth carrying home.
As parents, we have rarely been around our son for the better part of the day. But, as a transgenerational family of five, we have always tried to come together for dinner. These moments at the table are when our days take shape in conversation, sometimes trivial, sometimes significant, but we’re never silent. It is during these dinners that we share with him glimpses of our world: The challenges of a particularly demanding case, what we think about the national or international events shaping our lives, and what these might mean for us as citizens.
The one thing we have tried to teach him is to be rational, to avoid passing judgement too quickly, to listen to both sides of the story before forming an opinion. And to be kind towards those less fortunate than himself, irrespective of whether they can offer anything in return. His grandparents, who have practically brought him up, are great examples of Omoiyari themselves — constantly giving and doing things for others irrespective of whether they are family or not.
And yet, none of this ensures how well he will manage to care for himself. He is now in college and I often worry about his ability to adequately get by in life, to wake up in time, to be able to cook a basic meal when nothing is available, to wash his clothes, to adequately plan his day as also his ability to complete a task through. At home, getting him to stick to a disciplined routine was always a challenge.
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After he left for college in August, I was cleaning his room when I stumbled across some crumpled, handwritten notes from younger children at his school. One said, “You are the best bhaiya I know.” Another simply read, “Thank you for saving me from xxx.”It reminded me of how fond the younger siblings of his friends are of him, how they had rallied behind him during his campaign for general secretary at school. And in that moment, I smiled. Perhaps he is kind. Perhaps he does regard others. Perhaps, in his way, he makes them feel valued.
And isn’t that what matters most in the end? How people remember how you made them feel? This large city, with aggression on its streets, sexual assaults in its corners, and increasingly a callous population that believes that minorities are taking away their opportunities, could certainly do with some kindness, some regard for the other, some Omoiyari. It’s not much, but it might just be enough.
The writer is a doctor with Sir Ganga Ram Hospital, New Delhi
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