In the course of treating our columnist’s ugly pimples, one good doctor taught her the beauty of compassion.

IF you ask me right now, I will tell you that Dr Madhuri Majumder is the sweetest lady in the world. Yet my earliest association with her was one of terror.

The first time I walked into her clinic at Fair Park, Ipoh, I was 14 and terrified. Could she actually cure me? I had dealt with these ugly growths for so long and they never went away. I tried bird’s nest. I tried the foul-tasting frog stew my mum shoved down my throat. I tried Clearasil, Acne-Aid, Retin-A and every other over-the-counter medication you could think of. Finally, unable to bear his only daughter’s unhappiness, my doting father brought me to her clinic.

“How are you, my dear?” she greeted me cheerfully. I responded in sullen monosyllables, hating how she scrutinised my face under a magnifying glass – and how luminous and dewy her skin was in comparison.

VIPs: Datuk Dr Madhuri Majumder (in blue punjabi suit) with Malaysian Prime Minister Datuk Seri Najib Tun Razak at Ipoh’s Indera Mulia Stadium, where the early intervention campaign to prevent disability among children was held on May 3. – Pic courtesy of Persatuan Pemulihan Dalam Komunity Buntong

My visits became a monthly ordeal. At the end of every session, she would pack me off with a big bundle of antibiotics – tetracycline, amoxycilin, vibramycin, etc.

There would always be a tussle at the payment counter that resulted in fervent protestations from my dad, ending with him shaking his head and sighing, “OK-lah. Thank you. Please tell Doctor thank you.” I found out the reason for the tussle later: she didn’t want to charge us. My eyes grew big when dad told me the cost of each tablet. Good God. No way could he afford it on his teacher’s salary.

I was worried, and embarrassed. How long would we have to continue accepting her largesse? I hated accepting charity, but I was also vain. In the end, vanity won over pride. We continued going every month so that I would have clear, smooth skin. Later, she relented to charge a minimal fee that barely covered the expensive antibiotics she supplied me with. Eventually, dad started teaching her taichi to offset our mounting debts to her.

My acne persisted into my 20s. As I grew older and slightly more discerning, I started noticing things. One of her staff spoke funny, as if she had difficulty forming thoughts to articulate. When we went to her house in Jalan Hang Tuah, I noticed her servant had expressionless eyes. He talked funny, too.

“They are from Hospital Bahagia,” Dad explained. Because I was exposed to this from a young age, it never occurred to me that employing a mental patient was anything out of the ordinary.

Dr Madhuri at home with her pet Alsatians. The kind doctor, now 80, still keeps a hectic schedule.

In the course of researching for a book, I found out that Abraham – the doctor’s bald-headed, berry-skinned butler who talked like Chewbacca from Star Wars – was once so lucid that he managed to fool a visiting minister into thinking that he was the superintendent of a daycare centre. Abraham was mischievous – whenever dad dropped by, he would collect a “toll” of RM10 before allowing him to pass. Crazy or otherwise, Abraham had an infectious, sunny demeanour that was easy to warm to. It was one of the things I looked forward to whenever we visited the doctor’s house. Abraham lived there until he died of renal failure in a hospital a few years back.

I miss him – I realise with a pang – as his younger replacement, Chong, opens the gate today. As I stop to ruffle the fur of her greying Alsatian, I reflect on how the dynamics of our relationship have subtly changed. From childish resentment, to quiet admiration, to – finally – a sense of comfort that one usually feels with peers.

I’m here for two reasons. One, to collect a cheque for the umpteenth charity she had agreed to support. Two, I’m hoping to persuade her to give an “expert quote” for a magazine article about health. None of the other specialists I had approached had responded – probably because the questions were so long. But, surely, my long-time benefactor wouldn’t turn me down, right?

Keeping my fingers crossed, I walk into the living room. My heart skips a beat at the sight that greets me. She is lying on the sofa, a hand over her forehead. “Doctor,” I begin hesitantly. “Hello, my dear!” Like magic, that familiar warm persona slips into position. “She refuses to slow down! Four appointments in a day!” another feminine voice pipes up from the corner. Ah, her sister Pratima is visiting from Seremban. “I have only one appointment a day and I’m winded.” She pins an accusing glare on her sister.

“I’m trying to slow down already,” says Dr M, her square jaw reminding me of a stubborn little girl.

I exchange a rueful glance with Pratima, who shakes her head resignedly. We engage in some small talk about the political and writing scenes. Pratima is lively and opinionated, a joy to talk to. I’m so engrossed in our conversation that I fail to notice Dr M excusing herself halfway through a laughter-punctuated conversation.

Minutes later, Dr M totters heavily back to her sofa and opens up a cheque book. “What’s the name of the association again?” she looks at me expectantly. Under the bright light, the shadows underneath her kind eyes are more pronounced. There and then, I make my decision. She has just seen a doctor for heart palpitations, she’s nearly 80, she is still bending backwards raising funds and doing community work for the underprivileged. Sometimes at the cost of her own health.

I’m not going to ask her for the quote, dammit. Never mind if I have to beg another hundred doctors. Her brains – and energy – should be reserved for something more important. I may not be able to do much, but I can certainly stop from adding to Datuk Dr Madhuri Majumder’s burden.

Hey, somebody’s got to take care of the carer too, right?

> Alexandra Wong (www.bunnysprints.com) is inspired by the quiet leadership. Datuk Dr Madhuri Majumder is the President of the Perak Society for the Promotion of Mental Health (www.peraksocietypmh.com), an NGO founded by well-known psychiatrist Tan Sri Dr Mahadevan to secure the cooperation and interest of the public on mental health and break down prejudice against mentally cured patients, through compassionate and concrete solutions.

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