Dr Deepak Rai Ortho Kneeds – Spine, Knees & Sass

The Man with the Moustache and the Collar of Torture

Some 20-odd years ago, in a city where British discipline still lingered in the clinics if not in the bars, one doctor stood apart. Not just for his knowledge, but for his flair. A moustache, a necktie (without the blazer—my personal category for “medical reps who’d loiter endlessly outside clinics”), and a sharpness that made patients sit up straighter. He wasn’t just well-spoken. He was curious. Intellectual. Human.

When I first went crawling into his clinic—straight off a flight from Bangalore with a cervical disc gone rogue—he declared me his youngest case. Then he declared war. No operation, he said, but traction. Eleven long days of it. A collar, weights tugging at my neck, walls to stare at, and pain that could make saints swear. Twice a day, on time, he’d arrive with his flock of nurses. On the third day at dusk, you’d want to murder someone. By day eleven, you were plotting war crimes.

And just when I thought I’d broken records for torture endurance, the lumbar discs joined the party. More rounds of traction followed—because why should the neck have all the fun? Hospitals are their own brand of hell, but prolonged traction is a level of cruelty even Dante forgot to document.

And yet, there was his charisma. He’d breeze through hospital corridors, call out “Merlyn!” like it was theatre, while I muttered prayers for sleep amidst the nurses, the hundred pinched nerves, and the ghostly cleaners. My cousin stayed back once just to hear him talk—said it was worth it. The man could blush.

Fast forward a few years, and the moustache disappeared. I thought he’d lost his charm—like Samson without his hair. But no. If anything, he only got fancier. Suits sharper, conferences flashier, knowledge deeper. Turns out, it was never about the moustache.

Two decades on, he still owes me commission for the endless patients I’ve sent his way. And I owe him gratitude for every bone, ligament, and disaster he’s fixed—or refused to over-fix. He’s the rare breed who diagnoses beyond his own specialty, the kind who spots a malignancy before it’s too late. He’s saved more of my extended family than I can count, simply because he never treats symptoms in isolation.

He operates like a chef: clean, precise, artful. Not the greasy Udupi-hotel type. And he hasn’t slowed down. First robotic ortho in town, years ago. Flying off to China, Russia, Birmingham, one week after another. Conferences, new techniques, surgeries with the world’s finest. His thirst for knowledge makes me want to nap on his behalf.

So yes, doctor, I’ll still bother you, call you fancy, and send half the city your way. But give yourself a break. Or better yet—give me a robotic spine.