In India, every patient brings two things to the clinic—an illness and a story. The sickness I can usually diagnose; the story takes longer, because it is embroidered with family pride, social etiquette, and a pinch of exaggeration.
The lies start small, like appetisers. “I sleep by ten,” says the young techie whose dark circles clock in later than the midnight shifts of a call centre. “I walk every morning,” says the retired uncle who drives to my clinic in an auto and struggles to bend while removing his sandals. Their eyes dart nervously, as if even their optic nerves are guilty. The body, however, is the most honest witness. A swollen liver or sluggish pulse tells me more than their carefully rehearsed script. The body doesn’t know how to hide the truth.
Sometimes, the lies are pure performance. One woman swore she never touched sugar, even as the smell of Mysore pak lingered on her shawl like temple incense. Another man said, “Doctor, I don’t drink,” and then paused, “except socially.” I asked how often “socially” occurred. He said, “Every evening, doctor… but only with friends.” In India, alcohol is always social; loneliness never makes it to the glass. Our lies often come disguised as culture.
Children are the only ones who can be trusted. A mother once claimed her son ate vegetables daily. The boy instantly protested, “Amma, only potato!” In another case, a little girl blurted, “Appa smokes in the bathroom!” and the father coughed theatrically, as if the smoke itself was choking on his hypocrisy. Children don’t know the art of lying; they are whistleblowers in school uniforms. Every child is a mirror, and every mirror cracks the mask.
The most dangerous lies are often the most polite ones. Patients nod vigorously, “Yes, doctor, I will follow everything,” but return unchanged month after month, as if my prescriptions were spiritual mantras to be heard, not medicines to be swallowed. They bow, nod, promise discipline, then walk straight into the arms of fried snacks. In Ayurveda, we say discipline is the first medicine, but in real life, procrastination is the most prescribed pill. The biggest lie is not to the doctor, but to oneself.
Lies also reveal our relationship with shame. One middle-aged woman confessed she never skipped yoga. Her stiff joints told me otherwise. When I pressed, she whispered, “Doctor, if I say I don’t do, my husband scolds me.” Her lie was not about health, but about hierarchy. We lie to preserve peace, even if it means disturbing our bodies. Every lie is a treaty signed in fear.
In India, illness is never just an individual matter; it is a communal one. Some families escort patients like a wedding procession. A mother-in-law will interject, “Doctor, she eats too many pickles,” while the patient insists otherwise. Husbands often blame wives for overfeeding, while wives blame husbands for the stress. Everyone lies on each other’s behalf, a chorus of partial truths. It’s like an imbalance spreads through the family like fire on dry grass. Sometimes, it is not the disease but the storytelling that is contagious.
Some lies are truly poetic. A diabetic gentleman once told me, “Doctor, I only eat half a jalebi.” I asked, “Half in the morning or half in the evening?” He smiled, “Both, doctor.” The human brain is a factory of justifications, manufacturing loopholes on an industrial scale. Perhaps lying is not immoral—it is improvisation. After all, survival in India is impossible without jugaad, and lies are the jugaad of the soul.
I am rarely angry at these lies; I find them almost tender. Patients lie to me as they lie to their gods—“I have given up sweets,” like saying “I have given up sins.” Both are told more in hope than in honesty. The gap between an ideal life and a lived life is a chasm that everyone tries to leap. Lies are the small bridges we build, shaky but necessary. Truth may heal, but hope also keeps the heart beating.
Of course, some lies are hilarious in their creativity. One man told me he drinks only on “cold days.” In Bengaluru, where the weather changes thrice daily, this means a well-lubricated calendar. Another said he smokes to “help digestion,” as if Marlboro were ayurvedic churnas wrapped in nicotine. Patients gift me metaphors richer than any textbook could provide. Sometimes, the consultation feels like a stand-up show, where the punchlines are unintended but unforgettable.
Occasionally, the lies ache. A young woman insisted she was fine, only to collapse in tears when her parents stepped outside. One man swore that Ayurveda alone kept him healthy, but the insulin syringes hidden in his cupboard told a different story. Lies become masks worn to avoid stigma, and masks, if worn too long, suffocate. The most dangerous lies are the ones told in silence. Everybody carries a truth, but sometimes it is buried beneath fear.
I no longer chase truth with a stick. Instead, I sit with the lie, gently, like listening to a child’s fantasy. Sooner or later, the body, the pulse, or the eyes reveal what the tongue conceals. Medicine is not just about herbs, oils, or doshas; it is about listening beyond words. And sometimes, the lie itself is the diagnosis, for it tells me where the patient’s shame or longing resides. A lie is not the absence of truth; it is an indirect confession.
Some patients tell me, half in jest, “Doctor, we must never lie to two people—our doctor and our lawyer—because with them we only lose. With the chartered accountant, a lie might actually save us!” We laugh, but there’s wisdom there.
After three decades, I no longer demand absolute honesty. Patients lie, and sometimes even the body conspires, hiding disease until it is too late. I’ve seen white lies, grey lies, defensive lies, and even the occasional malicious lie. And yet, I find myself strangely forgiving. For beneath the excuses, the denials, and the imaginary yoga routines, most lies are not sins—they are shields.
In the clinic, I have come to see these lies less as deceptions and more as confessions of being human. Life itself is the biggest lie, whispering permanence in a body destined to end. The final truth always arrives, but until then, our little untruths help us stumble through.
So when a patient says, “Doctor, I am perfectly fine,” I no longer argue. I listen to the story behind the words. Perhaps the real medicine is not in catching every false note, but in hearing the music of humanity that makes us lie in the first place.
And maybe that’s why, after all the shades of lying I’ve seen, my patients remain saints in my eyes—because their lies are, at heart, nothing more than tender little white lies.
