Benny walked into my room with an obvious limp and a grimace on his face. Taking one look at his visage, I knew he was in excruciating pain. As he sat down, his lips pursed into an O, but what he really wanted to say was ouch. “Would you rather lie down?” I asked, already having made my diagnosis. He agreed and warily made his way from the chair to the examining bed amidst a few more moans.

He was in his 50s. He wore a tight-fitting black polyester shirt whose microfibers were stretched to their limit by his underlying paunch. “Do your friends call you Pot Benny?” I joked, pointing to his belly. He was jovial enough to acknowledge it needed to go, gesturing it with a tap downwards. “I have severe back and right leg pain,” he continued running his hand down the distribution of the pain along his cargo pants as he lay in bed. It had been two months now. He had tried the usual medication masala that we doctors prescribe for sciatica, a pain that radiates from the back along the path of the sciatic nerve in the leg. “I need to get back to duty, I can’t take any more leave!” he finished, exhausted.