Behind the White Apron

Rajuan Ahmed
 

​“I cover the color of sin in white attire, silently hiding tears behind smiles. Here, it isn’t people, but diseases that are sold—and the price of truth is paid in blood.”

​It was almost midnight. A strange scent hung in the air—a mixture of smoke, sweat, dust, and medicine blended with an unfamiliar fatigue. Like other parts of the capital, life here never stops; night never truly falls upon a hospital.

​An ambulance suddenly halted in front of the emergency department of Dhaka Medical College, bathed in white light. The siren ceased, but its echo seemed to linger in the air. Two men hurriedly lowered a stretcher. On it lay a middle-aged man—eyes half-open, lips trembling, chest rising and falling with faint vibrations.

​Watching it all from one side was Ripon Rahman.

A young investigative journalist for The Daily Janakantha Barta. He was only 32, yet his eyes held a history of accumulated fatigue. For the past month, this man had been working on the darkness lurking inside the country's healthcare system. The editor himself had proposed the potential title for his report—

"Behind the White Apron."

Hearing the title, Ripon had felt that the truth of the entire nation was hidden within this single phrase.

​Today, he had visited three hospitals in Dhaka—two private, one public. Now, he was at the fourth, to witness the hospital at night. What gets caught in a journalist's eye often escapes the ordinary gaze.

​In front of the emergency department, a young woman was screaming and crying—

“Someone please come! Look at him! My brother can't breathe!”

A nurse was walking by; she stopped the girl and said,

“There are no beds. Keep him there, let’s see if a doctor comes.”

The nurse’s face wore fatigue, her eyes held irritation.

Ripon looked closely; the hospital logo was on her chest pin, but her white apron was covered in stains, as if it were a reflection of this country's system.

​Ripon stepped forward and asked softly,

“Are you not taking admissions?”

The nurse looked at him and said,

“It would be good if we could, brother, but there have been six new cases all day. There is no space.”

There was no sympathy in her voice, only mechanics.

​Ripon took out his notepad and wrote something. An old man sitting nearby said,

“Son, are you a journalist? Please write a little—my daughter has been sitting there for three hours, and no one has even come to look at her once.”

Ripon nodded in consolation, but inside, a cold fire burned—this fire was the fuel for his writing.

​Entering the hospital, the first thing that caught his eye was rows of people. Some in wheelchairs, some on the floor, others lying in agony against the walls. The air was heavy—the smell of oxygen cylinders, medicinal fumes, and human suffering all mixed together.

​He saw a nurse sitting beside a bed, scrolling through her mobile. An old woman said,

“Mother, give me a little water.”

Without lifting her face, the nurse replied,

“Not my duty. Where is the attendant?”

To Ripon, it seemed this single answer was the abbreviated form of Bangladesh's health system. “Not my duty”—this phrase seemed to have become the new religion of this society.

​He thought,

“Why have doctors and nurses become like this? When did the profession of service turn into a trade?”

​At 1:00 AM, he stood before the emergency room. A doctor came out. Dark circles under his eyes, lines of irritation on his face.

Ripon stopped him and asked,

“Sir, so much crowd, so many patients—is it possible to manage everything?”

The doctor looked at him once and said,

“Are you a journalist?”

“Yes.”

“Then write this—doctors in this country don’t work, okay? But no one writes that we are on duty for 18 hours a day. No one sees that our children don’t get to see their father’s face. People think we are devils.”

There was anger in his voice, and hidden exhaustion in his eyes. Ripon understood—there was some truth within this man as well.

​Going inside, he saw a patient struggling for oxygen. The family was crying—

“Sir, please give us a cylinder.”

A ward boy stood nearby and said calmly,

“Arrange for some ‘tea and water,’ and it will be done.”

“Tea and water”—within these two words lay the dark politics of Bangladeshi hospitals.

​Ripon stood silently. He knew a journalist's job was not just to see, but to feel.

He remembered his mother.

Ripon’s mother was once a nurse in a government hospital. She retired three years ago. Every day she would come home and say,

“Son, people don’t come to hospitals anymore, customers do. Doctors calculate money, nurses look for tips. It breaks my heart.”

Ripon couldn't believe it back then. But seeing what was in front of his eyes today, there was no room for doubt.

​Towards dawn, a little light was breaking outside. A cleaner was mopping the hospital corridor. In a corner, a young doctor sat with a cup of coffee. Ripon approached and said,

“I am journalist Ripon Rahman. Working on the reality of the healthcare system.”

The doctor smiled slightly. She said her name was Dr. Samiha Hossain.

“Everyone just criticizes us,” Samiha said, “But no one sees that we see 50 patients a day, each with a different story. People think we are hard, but actually, we are helpless. We can’t save the patient, so we become hard.”

Ripon listened in amazement. There were no excuses in Samiha’s voice, rather a heap of truth.

“You know,” she said, “After my first patient died, I cried all night. Then I realized, there is no time for tears here.”

Ripon thought, perhaps this girl was the bright side of his story.

​As the Fajr Adhan floated in from outside into the darkness of the night hospital, Ripon slowly walked out. The sky had a pale blue light, but inside his mind, it was pitch black.

He opened his laptop and wrote the first line—

"In Bangladeshi hospitals, people do not die merely from disease; they die from negligence, corruption, and the rot of the system."

Then he wrote the subtitle—

"Behind the White Apron: The Story of One Night in a Hospital."

But he knew this was just the beginning. There was still the cruelty of private hospitals, the politics of the medical business, commission trading, pharmaceutical company dealings, and many more layers—where every layer was a piece of darkness hiding beneath a white apron.

​Ripon looked out the window silently. In the distance, the sun was spreading its light.

He told himself,

"Today I am not just a journalist, I am a witness—a witness to the death of humanity."

​It was 10:00 AM. The sun was intense, but in the wealthy area of the capital, the color of the sunlight was different—glittering, glass-caught, metallic. Ripon Rahman parked his motorcycle and stood in front of "Asian Medi City Hospital." A massive gate, shiny glass building, rows of expensive cars in front. It looked like a five-star hotel—but inside, a market for human survival was running.

​The security guard, walkie-talkie in hand, stopped Ripon.

"Are you a patient or a visitor?"

"Patient's relative."

A weary smile on Ripon's face. For journalism, one has to wear a false mask every day.

​The guard opened the door, and he entered the palace of the trade named 'Treatment'.

Stepping inside, the air was cool. The smell was expensive—a mix of AC, sanitizer, and coffee.

Three young women sat at the reception in formal attire, looking like bank executives.

One asked,

"Sir, patient's name?"

Ripon said,

"Rafiqul Islam, fever and weakness."

"Okay Sir, first registration fee 2,000 Taka, then consultation fee 1,500."

Ripon smiled lightly and asked,

"Why so much?"

"Sir, international standard doctors sit here."

There was pride in her voice, but no warmth in her eyes—only a trained indifference, like a machine.

​Sitting in the waiting area, Ripon looked around. All patients were middle to upper class—some holding bills with trembling hands, some looking down calculating on calculators.

An old woman slowly said to her daughter,

"Child, if I don't survive this time, don't sell my jewelry. Use it for your studies."

Tears in the girl's eyes. Ripon's chest trembled. Would this country be like this—where the cost of treatment is more terrifying than the disease itself?

​Dr. Iqbal Rashid, MBBS, MD—a renowned medicine specialist of this hospital. On the door of his chamber hung a golden nameplate,

"Appointment Must Be Prepaid."

Upon entering, the doctor didn't lift his face. He was scrolling on his mobile with one hand and writing a prescription with the other.

"Tell me, what is the problem?"

Ripon said,

"My brother has a fever, feels a bit weak."

"Blood test, Urine test, Dengue profile, X-ray. Get them all done. Nothing can be said without reports."

Ripon thought, what is the need for so many tests? But he walked out without saying anything. He went to the test center outside.

An employee said with a serious face,

"Total cost will be 16,450 Taka."

Ripon asked,

"Are all tests necessary?"

"Sir, the doctor said so. Without them, the report won't go through."

It was like a chain reaction—the doctor orders, the lab bills, the hospital gets a commission. Everything arranged, a flawless machine of legal exploitation.

​By the time he got the reports, it was almost late afternoon. When Ripon went to show the doctor again, the reception said,

"Sir, follow-up visit charge is 1,200 Taka."

Ripon was surprised.

"On the same day? I just paid a while ago."

"Rules, Sir. Visit means a new appointment."

Ripon fell silent. He knew this silence was the common fate of today’s patient.

​He went and sat in the hospital canteen. Cup of coffee in hand, he wrote in his notebook—

"Here, doctors follow targets, not humanity; nurses are commission agents, not caregivers; and a hospital means a corporate bill factory."

Just then, the conversation of two nurses at the next table reached his ears.

"Admitted three packages today, if the surgery happens, I'll get the commission."

"You are good, I don't get tips, even if I smile, they get angry."

They were laughing, but in that laughter was fatigue and disdain—two tired souls descended from the profession of service to a corporate job.

​In the afternoon, Ripon called a male nurse from behind,

"Brother, is money really needed upfront to admit a patient?"

"Of course Sir, this is not a hotel, it's a hospital."

Ripon smiled slightly and said,

"Meaning?"

"Meaning, here bed means 'Room Rent'. Service means 'Sales'. And Doctor means 'Consultant'. If you don't pay, the machines won't even start."

With this one sentence, all definitions seemed to change.

​Night was falling. Lights were turning on one by one in the hospital lobby.

Ripon took the lift down. Suddenly, the sound of weeping reached his ears.

A young man was crying—"Sir, reduce my mother's bill. I drive a van, how will I pay 1 lakh 20 thousand Taka?"

The man at the reception said in a cold voice,

"Bill must be cleared before release. Otherwise, the body cannot be handed over."

Ripon froze. This was cruelty surpassing all boundaries of compassion and humanity.

He wrote in his notebook—

"Even after death, people here find release only by paying a price."

​Returning to the office at night, Editor Mahmudul Haque asked,

"Ripon, did you find anything?"

Ripon said,

"Sir, I found a lot. But it feels like I am not writing against doctors now, but against the whole system."

The editor remained silent, looking at him.

"Write, but be careful. These are powerful people, they have money behind them, and power too."

Ripon smiled faintly and said,

"Sir, truth has power too."

​He wrote all night.

"Behind the white walls of private hospitals runs a silent business. Here, the patient is not a disease, but a customer. Their fear is the capital of this market: 'I might die'—it is from this fear that the bill is calculated."

His words were trembling, but his pen did not stop.

At dawn, he wrote the last line—

"In Bangladesh, treatment now means product, patient means buyer, hospital means market. But there was a time when a white apron meant trust. Now that trust is the most sick thing of all."

​The night's sleep was restless. Those scenes revolved in Ripon's head constantly—the patient's crying, holding the corpse hostage, threats of bills. Upon entering the office at dawn, he said,

"Sir, I now want to know the internal transactions of the hospital."

Editor Mahmudul Haque said,

"What do you want, to talk to them directly?"

"No Sir, I will enter their system, posing as a Medical Representative."

A brief silence. Then the editor spoke slowly,

"Ripon, this is risky. They are a powerful corporate entity. If your identity as a journalist is leaked..."

"I know Sir, but if I don't see this game, the writing will remain incomplete."

Mahmudul Haque looked deeply into his eyes and said,

"Then go, but stay safe—speaking the truth is the biggest crime in this country."

​Two days later, Ripon created a fake ID card named 'Rana Chowdhury'—

"Medical Promotion Officer, SunLife Pharmaceuticals Ltd."

A cheap tie, formal shirt, and a bag on his shoulder. In that bag were prescription pads, leaflets, and some sample medicines—which he had collected through a friend.

​First target: Dr. Farhan Kabir, Cardiologist, Asian Medi City Hospital.

Ripon stood outside the chamber at 10 AM. The nurse brought tea; sounds of laughter in low voices came from inside.

A little later, the doctor said,

"Come in Mr. Rana, what offer are you giving today?"

Ripon opened his bag politely and said,

"Sir, our new drug 'CardiRest' has hit the market. Great results for heart failure patients. If you give some prescriptions, you will receive samples and incentives from the company."

The doctor leaned back in his chair.

"Incentive meaning?"

"Sir, points worth 150 Taka per prescription. If there are 300 prescriptions a month, gifts worth 45,000 Taka."

The doctor smiled and said,

"Then that makes an iPhone in a month."

Ripon understood—here, it isn't ethics, but calculation that matters.

Dr. Farhan wrote a few names on the prescription pad—

"You send reminders, I will see to it. If the patient has money, then I'll prescribe the other one."

Ripon asked,

"Sir, how is the prescription finalized without seeing the patient's condition?"

The doctor smiled,

"All diseases are the same according to the profile. A little pressure, a little cholesterol—everything runs on the same pattern everywhere. What's the use of different medicines?"

With this one statement, Ripon shuddered. Human life here is like a 'profile'—numbers, graphs, commission sheets.

​Second destination: The regional office of the pharmaceutical company.

Inside sat three executives, laptops in hand, a large poster on the wall—

"Your Prescription, Our Progress."

One said,

"Mr. Rana, were you able to catch Dr. Farhan?"

"Yes Sir, he agreed. Asked to keep a monthly target."

"Great! Let's send his name for the Singapore Conference."

Ripon asked,

"Is this conference real?"

"Of course not! That is a 'Reward Trip'. But we call it 'International Medical Workshop'. If given a nice name, no one asks questions."

Ripon's heart grew heavy. Fraud is happening in the name of treatment, and everyone knows—yet no one stops it.

​In the evening, sitting at a tea stall with a medical representative, Ripon wanted to know,

"How many years have you been working?"

"Ten years."

"Was this commission system there back then?"

"It was, but now it has increased terribly, brother. Before, doctors would sign for one or two medicines, now they sell the whole prescription. Which company's medicine they will write, the rate is fixed."

Ripon remained silent. The steam from the tea cup hit his eyes, but it felt like—the steam was a reflection of society itself, dazzling the eyes.

​The next day he followed a senior doctor—Dr. Hasina Haque, Gynecology Specialist.

She sees an average of 80–90 patients daily.

Ripon calculated, if she gets 100 Taka commission from each prescription, then at least 8,000 Taka a day, almost 2.5 Lakh a month!

Ripon gathered courage and said,

"Madam, what do you think about taking these commissions?"

She said in a cold voice,

"Are you a journalist?"

Ripon was startled.

"No, I mean..."

"Look, the patient is also a businessman now. They want good treatment, but cheaply. And pharmaceutical companies help us maintain professional relations. Don't call this commission, call it a 'Professional Gift'."

Something broke inside Ripon's chest. "Professional Gift"—this phrase seemed to be the true name of the country's health system.

​Returning to the office at night, he was typing the report—

"Bangladesh's private healthcare system has today become a slave to corporate commissions. Doctors have become brand ambassadors, patients are testing materials, and pharmaceutical companies are selling products with calculators in hand in the name of human survival."

His hands were shaking, but his eyes were steady.

​Just then the phone rang.

An unknown voice—

"Ripon Rahman, be careful. Stop what you are doing. We know who you are."

Ripon was stunned. Silence in the room. Only the sound of the computer fan.

He slowly said to himself,

"Knowing the truth is scary, but if we get scared, they win."

​The night was stormy. Rain lashed against the window pane, as if nature itself wanted to say something. Ripon sat at his desk, the light of the laptop in front of him. On the screen floated that terrifying video—life support machines kept running despite the dead patient having no movement, the nurse's words making it clear that the patient would be considered 'alive' until the bill was cleared.

As the camera slowly panned to the right, it showed—Dr. Farhan Kabir, who was involved in the commission game in the previous episode, standing in the billing department whispering,

"Keep him until morning, clear the bill tomorrow, then release him."

Ripon played the video again, as if trying to make his own eyes believe it.

Cold sweat ran down his spine.

​Next morning.

Ripon entered the newsroom, sleepless fatigue in his eyes but firmness in his voice.

Editor Mahmudul Haque took the file and looked at it.

"You know Ripon, printing this means declaring war."

"I know Sir. But if we don't fight this war, we have already lost."

The editor sighed deeply.

"If this report is printed, advertisers will leave. Hospitals, pharmaceutical companies—everyone will come after you."

"Let them come after me, but let someone at least say once—we are selling humans."

A brief silence.

Then the editor slowly said,

"Okay, print the report. But without your name."

"No Sir, the name will remain. People need to know—we are not afraid to speak the truth."

Ripon walked out of the office.

Outside, the sun looked pale.

He felt as if the world was waiting silently—for an explosion.

​Two days later.

6:00 AM.

Online News Portal Headline—

"The Manual of the Death Trade: Humanity's Last Breath in Bangladesh's Hospitals"

Special Report: Ripon Rahman

A storm swept through the entire country. Social media was in an uproar. People wrote in comments—

"Our mother died in such a hospital!"

"This is what we see every day, no one said it like this."

"Truly brave work, salute journalist brother."

But as much support as there was, many more enemies were created.

​By noon, calls started coming. Unknown numbers.

"Do you think you will destroy our business?"

"I know your address. Don't roam alone."

"Your career is finished."

Ripon said in a cold voice,

"Even if my career ends, at least my conscience will survive."

​In the evening, Dr. Tahsin called, his voice trembling—

"Ripon, stay safe. They have fired me. Said I gave you information. I am fleeing."

"You go to a safe place, I will do something."

But after the phone cut off, a kind of fear was born in Ripon's mind.

He understood, now he was alone.

​10:00 PM.

Ripon was returning from the office on his motorcycle.

Rain was falling patter-patter, the streetlights were dim.

Suddenly, a black microbus sped up from behind and rammed into his side.

The sound was like a thunderclap.

Ripon was thrown to the side of the road, a blow to the head, blood rolling onto the ground.

Four men in black clothes got out, quickly took his bag and camera, and got into the vehicle.

Opening his eyes, Ripon only saw—a police van in the distance, but they did not stop.

​The next morning a call went to the newsroom.

A shaken voice said,

"Ripon brother cannot be found."

Editor Mahmudul Haque rushed to the hospital.

Someone said,

"An unidentified journalist was brought in at 2 AM, but he was declared dead at dawn after being admitted to the ICU."

Mahmudul Haque was stunned.

Tears gathered in his eyes, but his lips did not tremble.

​Two days later.

A small, silent news item was printed on the inner pages of the newspaper—

"Journalist Ripon Rahman Killed: Accident or Premeditated Murder?"

No one protested.

No one investigated the truth.

​But exactly one week later, an online portal mysteriously released a new video—

Title:

"Ripon's Last Video: Oath of Truth Before Death"

In the video, Ripon was seen sitting in front of the camera himself, saying—

"If I die, know that I spoke the truth.

In our hospitals, death is sold, life is sold, and conscience died long ago.

But believe me, this truth will return as light one day."

The video went viral.

The country shook. People lit candles on the streets, placards in hand—

"Stop the business hiding behind the white apron."

​A few weeks later, the government formed an investigation committee.

Some doctors, hospital owners, and pharmaceutical company officials were questioned.

But very quickly, everything was buried silently again.

People forgot, the news got lost in new discussions.

​But in one place, Ripon remained—

His name is now a symbol on the lips of journalists.

When a young reporter gets scared, someone slowly says—

"Remember Ripon Rahman."

​One year later.

Dr. Tahsin has opened a new clinic—"Manabseba (Human Service) Medicare."

Written largely on the front wall—

"Not Treatment, But Service—This Is Our Oath."

An old photo frame of Ripon sits on the cash counter.

Beneath it, in small writing—

"The price of truth is life, but its light is immortal."

​Night has fallen.

There are no stars in the sky of Dhaka, but beneath the earth, a soul seems to be smiling—

One who became light by getting lost,

One who proved,

"Even behind the white apron, the color of truth is as red as blood."