I spent the entire morning at the hospital for my half yearly eye check-up. Since it happens to be the hospital where my wife works as a doctor, I make a modest effort to look respectable. Not power suit respectable. Not international summit respectable. Just respectable enough that her colleagues don’t look at me and wonder if she found me wandering near the casualty ward and took pity.
So I carefully chose a shirt that had no obvious stains, trousers that still remembered their original colour, and shoes that suggested I had once held a job. No cowboy boots. No fashion experiments. I even considered ironing, but decided that would be showing off.
It was all quite pointless.
The eye specialist did not glance at my clothes. He did not admire my overall appearance. He did not say, “Ah, you look well-dressed today, your retina must be healthy.” Instead, he studied my reports, shone a torch into my eyes with the enthusiasm of a man searching for buried treasure, and murmured things like “hmm” and “okay.” My outfit, I realised, had absolutely no bearing on my condition.
And that, sitting there blinking under a medical torch, is when enlightenment struck.
Our great leaders are the exact opposite. They travel across the country and the globe with wardrobes large enough to house a small village. Each appearance comes with a fresh outfit, carefully curated. Crisp folds. Strategic colours. Endless photo ops. One suspects more time is spent on makeup, than with policy files.
But how does one really judge a leader?
Not by the cut of his jacket. Not by how confidently he hugs. Not by how many costume changes he manages in a single week. A leader is judged the way my eyes were judged. By outcomes. By evidence. By how the weakest citizen is treated. By whether fairness exists beyond slogans. By how power is spoken, used, and restrained.
On that test, the report is not encouraging.
When leaders fail to acknowledge minorities, ignore dissent, mock the opposition, and rule with arrogance, no amount of cosmetic brilliance can save the diagnosis. The torchlight reveals everything. And the report, sadly, reads poorly.
Which brings me back to the doctor. After peering into my eyes, he nodded with professional satisfaction. Had things gone badly, he would not have said, “At least your shirt was nice.” He would have focused on the problem. Treatment. Repair. Or in extreme cases, deciding whether intervention was even worth it.
One shudders to imagine what a competent doctor might say after examining the moral vision of some in power today.
The verdict could be simple, clinical, and devastating.
‘Not worth resuscitating…!
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