In our continuing endeavour to present quality writing and thought, we are delighted to share Dr Arun Kishore’s article on “Reading”. With the widespread addiction to WhatsApp and other social media tools, the actual process of reading classics and any good books in hard copy has become rare. Views have to be expressed as a two minute read, else the eyes and mind move on to the next post on information overload.
Dr Arun’s article is a timely reminder – especially to encourage children to read, analyze, form opinions and share them. CLN is privileged to elicit some excellent responses as comments from readers. It would be nice to see more comments – at least on select articles not related to momentary, jarring and sensational news on politics, crime and gossip! – CLN Newsdesk
I grew up listening to stories my mother and grandmother told as I drifted into sleep. These narratives captivated me, drawing me into the lives of others and igniting an intense curiosity about human nature and society. I often wondered why people lived as they did, made their choices, and how these stories shaped individual personalities and entire cultures. As Yuval Noah Harari writes in Unstoppable Us,
“Stories are the greatest human invention. People need stories in order to cooperate, but there’s also something else very important: they can change the way they cooperate by changing the stories they believe.”
Most people recall a character—perhaps several—from books they’ve read, figures who have influenced them profoundly or subtly. While characters certainly shaped me, I want to explore how entire books transformed my perspective, particularly three works that guided my path into medicine. With the reader’s indulgence, I shall speak of myself in relation to these literary figures.
The Citadel and the Idealism of Medicine
Although my father never urged me to become a doctor, he influenced my choice more than he may have realised. He was not a physician himself—he had pursued law—but he was a voracious reader, his library filled with dusty cloth-bound volumes and paperbacks suited to a mature mind. Yet, driven by curiosity, I began reading his books when I was eleven or twelve.
One that left an indelible mark on me was The Citadel by A.J. Cronin. I first read it at twelve, revisiting it as a medical student, doctor, and psychiatrist. The protagonist, Dr. Andrew Manson, begins his career as an idealistic young physician in a Welsh mining town. His initial passion led him to research silicosis, earning him recognition. Success, however, tempts him into private practice in London, where he treats the wealthy, the “worried well.” Eventually, an encounter with a patient forces him to confront his lost ideals, leading him back to his original calling.
The book became extremely popular, allowing Cronin to discard medicine as a career and pursue writing as a vocation. The book is purported to have stimulated the beginnings of the NHS. A.J. Cronin worked with the Tredegar Medical Aid Society in South Wales in the 1920s. The Citadel is loosely based on his experience of working in Wales. The Tredegar Medical Aid Society was the model on which Aneurin Bevan organised the NHS when he was Minister of Health in the Clement Attlee government. The book was adapted as a film and inspired several TV adaptations in the UK and abroad. The 1971 Dev Anand film Tere Mere Sapne was based on this book. I must admit I had not read Tarashankar Bandhopadhya’s Arogyaniketan till I became a doctor.
Manson’s struggle—the tension between idealism and pragmatism—resonated profoundly. As a medical student, I became acutely aware of societal disparities. The working-class patients I encountered shaped my belief that medicine should be accessible to all, reinforcing my decision to practice in Kerala’s medical college system. With its delicate balance of engagement and transformation, psychiatry emerged as my chosen path.
Sherlock Holmes and the Art of Observation
In contrast to Dr. Manson’s moral dilemmas, the character of Sherlock Holmes—modelled on Dr. Joseph Bell—fascinated me with his cool rationalism. I read The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes at twelve or thirteen, long before I understood the medical connection. Later, my dermatology professor assigned us a paper about Bell, revealing how Doyle had crafted Holmes from his teacher’s keen observational skills.
Holmes never merely looked—he deduced. He could identify a former soldier based on the suntan ending at a precise point on his arms, his posture, and his reluctance to remove his hat. Inspired, I began observing people more closely, guessing their professions, histories, and unspoken narratives. This fascination with human behaviour aligned seamlessly with my childhood curiosity about stories—why people did what they did. It deepened my resolve to specialise in psychiatry.
Much later, I realised that medicine involves a specific form of thinking called abduction, slightly different from deduction and induction. All three connected observations with a theoretical framework or the most likely model. The world of literature opened up the rationality of science. When I turned extremely rational, narratives, stories and literature grounded me in the lived experience of people around me.
More than mere curiosity, this practice became a pathway to understanding myself. At twelve, I was not consciously exploring philosophy, but the seeds had been planted. Over time, reading, observing, and reflecting solidified my conviction that self-awareness grows through understanding others.
John Berger and the Weight of Empathy
John Berger remains one of my favourite authors. His Ways of Seeing offers invaluable insights, but I had yet to discover it at twelve. Instead, my father owned A Fortunate Man, Berger’s account of Dr. Sassall, a country doctor photographed by Jean Mohr. Initially, I focused on the images, their quiet intensity. Later, the book revealed itself in layers, growing more profound with each reading.
Sassall possessed an insatiable hunger for human experience, entering the minds of his patients with an imaginative sensitivity I admired. Yet this gift came at a cost—immense psychological pressure, episodes of depression, and an overwhelming sense of inadequacy. His relentless dedication eventually led to his tragic end.
Berger asks:
“What is the social value of a pain eased? What is the value of a life saved? How does the cure of a serious illness compare in value with one of the better poems of a minor poet? How does making a correct but difficult diagnosis compare with painting a great canvas?”
These questions highlight the difficulty in quantifying care and what it means to ease suffering. They also underscore the omnipotence that doctors often assume, a necessary and destructive mindset. Failure feels personal, a weight carried beyond the clinic walls. Sassall’s fate shaped my determination to support doctors in distress, ensuring that their journey will not be faced alone, even if I help only one professional.
This book has an interesting story behind its writing and publication. Berger was working in London when he received a manuscript titled “An English Christmas” from an Indian writer called Victor Anant. The return address said, “Left luggage office, Paddington Station”. The writing was excellent, and the address intriguing. Berger set off on his bicycle to meet the writer. The two men became friends and, several years later, when Berger was living in rural Gloucestershire, Anant and his Pakistani wife were drawn to live nearby. Sassall was the general practitioner who attended to the two men then. The story was reported in The Guardian 10 years ago. The writer states, “The two writers recognised in Sassall an outstanding physician as well as an enthusiast for an unfashionable ideal – the Renaissance dream of aspiring to universal knowledge and experience. As a doctor who sought daily to empathise with people of very different backgrounds and perspectives, Sassall, they perceived, came closer to attaining this ideal than most men or women ever could.
Ten years later, at Anant’s suggestion, Berger revisited their old friend and doctor, along with Mohr, a photographer. The two spent time observing Sassal’s practice as participant observers. Mohr took photographs, and Berger made notes. The two collaborated to write this excellent book.
Later, when I read Berger’s “Ways of Seeing” and watched the TV series, I realised his key message. Perception, especially what we see, is not a passive process or a one-way process. We influence what we see and how we see the world and objects. We view the world through a lens coloured by our learning, culture, experience, and, most importantly, our expectations.
Reading, Reflection, and Relationship
Books taught me that self-understanding is intertwined with understanding others. The Citadel nurtured my idealism. Sherlock Holmes honed my ability to observe. A Fortunate Man deepened my empathy. These lessons shaped my journey as a psychiatrist and a human being seeking meaning in connection and care.
My journey through science as a doctor, imbuing a purely scientific and observational eye on patients, a need to distance myself from the object viewed changed. As a psychiatrist, I developed a more profound empathy and connection with them when I realised that I could influence what I observed in my patients.
I have come to believe that change is never solitary. It happens through relationships, through stories shared and rewritten. And so, the project of understanding—of reading, reflecting, and healing—continues. The journey is the destination.
Dr Arun Kishore is a Psychiatrist working with the NHS , in the UK, for the past 20 years. Kozhikode Medical College, MD from NIMHANS, Bengaluru worked at Thrissur Medical College as Professor before emigrating to UK. Avid stage performer, director at local Kerala Association in London. Lives and practices at Little Hampton, Surrey.
