The oriental habit of imposing on an eye surgeon is in fact a very ancient one. It is related that a tenth century Arab eye surgeon was approached by a patient with cataract, who offered him a minute sum, pretending it was his whole fortune. Unfortunately the patient's girdle broke and the ground was strewn with gold pieces. It is recorded that the surgeon, Ibn Wasif, 'drove the liar from his house'. 

The surgery building was small, with a single verandah which was always crowded. Two Santal orderlies acted as door-keepers and two more took down rough medical histories in advance. Owing to the large number of Indian languages, these had sometimes to be obtained through a chain of several interpreters. A fifth tested the soundness of rupee coins, an almost universal custom in India as counterfeits were common. 

A frequent cause of confusion among women patients was that they often gave different names each time they reported. The first time it might be 'Wife of Moti', the second time 'Mother of Ram', and after that 'Mother of ... ' any child that came to mind, which made card-indexing impossible. Symptoms were often oddly described. 'My stomach speaks' (with a wealth of mimicry) indicated a stomach complaint. 'I can see only four annas', meant poor sight (there being sixteen annas to a rupee). Appetite was accurately indicated by flexing the right thumb and placing it on the right palm in varying positions to show the amount of rice they were capable of eating (eaten by hand). 
Prescribing of medicines too was adapted to local conditions. Doses were marked on bottles with gummed-on strips of notched paper, and doses of dangerous drugs were kept small as patients might decide to quaff off the lot in one gulp to accelerate the cure. Advice like 'three times daily after meals' was useless, as they probably had one meal daily and no watch, so recommended times were often indicated by probable positions of the sun. It always intrigued me to watch an Indian peasant drink his medicine from a brass vessel without letting the vessel touch his lips - he tilted his head back and it was over in a moment. It was both an art and a cleanly habit, where it might be the only drinking vessel in the family. 
When half-way through this evening Durbar, and having at last convinced the eunuch of the impossibility of spare parts, I heard a sudden commotion outside. Clearly something unusual had occurred, and when I went out to the verandah to investigate, found a bullock cart loaded with some half-dozen young women in bright saris, but with faces carefully veiled, and all chattering excitedly. They appeared to be in charge of an elderly woman, her teeth stained red with pan, whose masterful demeanour made me think of Chaucer's Wife of Bath. She explained that each girl had a disfiguring white scar over the pupil of one eye, which was proving an obstacle to their marriage, and that the exorbitant dowries were being demanded by the prospective bridegrooms' families on account of this 'defect'. She had heard that an operation could remove it and, although she did not say so, it might be cheaper in the long run. On examination it was found that the eye scars were the result of healed ulcers and could indeed be 'painted out'. The condition was one which today could have been treated by a corneal graft. After excision of the offending scar, a clear section of cornea (the front window of the eye) taken from the eye of a recently deceased person, would have been grafted in its place. But at that time the operation had not been devised, nor would it have been possible to do it in the jungle hospital. In the present cases, the white scars were first carefully scarified under a local anaesthetic and painted out with gold chloride, which soon changed to a black oxide, thus making the scars invisible. Whereupon the chattering prospective brides returned to their homes to resume their matrimonial angling with new zest, increased confidence and enhanced value. 

Only the failing daylight brought the 'Doctor's Durbar' to a close. As I prepared to leave, an Indian troubadour - an itinerant professional storyteller - asked permission to tell his tale against a back-cloth of rose red tropical sunset. It was an epilogue on the old topic of the vanity of worldly riches. A certain king of India, who had vast wealth and a beautiful palace, was one day visited by a Hindu ascetic who bade him turn from earthly vanities to spiritual things. Now the king was in fact a wise and good ruler, caring for the poorest of his subjects, so he replied: 'Have you seen the wonders of my palace?' When the ascetic said 'No', the king ordered that he be shown them, but he first put into the ascetic's hand a gold cup filled with sacred Ganges water, charging him to carry it with him, and if he spilled one drop, he would be executed. When the ascetic returned, the king asked, him if he had seen the wonders of the palace. 'No, my Lord', replied the ascetic, 'for I gave all my attention to watching the sacred water.' 'Even so it is with me', rejoined the king, 'I see not all those earthly vanities, my whole mind being given to higher thoughts.'