The West Bengal government has announced a tentative allocation of ₹21,355 crore for the health sector in its latest budget. On the surface, this appears to be a commendable step. Healthcare is undoubtedly one of the most critical sectors for any welfare-oriented government, especially in a state where a large proportion of the population depends almost entirely on government-run hospitals for treatment. However, budgets do not heal patients but systems do. And the condition of West Bengal’s public health system reveals a painful disconnect between financial announcements and lived reality.
Government hospitals in West Bengal are not merely one option among many; for the common people, they are the only refuge. This truth becomes evident the moment one steps inside a public hospital. Patients and their families crowd corridors, staircases, and hospital premises day and night. Many spend nights on pavements outside hospital buildings or huddle in corners of wards, waiting for beds, tests, or doctors’ rounds. This desperation is not born of choice but of compulsion. Private healthcare remains unaffordable for most, pushing millions into a system that is visibly collapsing under its own weight. If such a vast sum is indeed being spent on healthcare, a fundamental question arises: why are the state’s hospitals in such a dismal condition? Why does basic human dignity seem absent from spaces meant to heal?
A visit to Kolkata’s premier government hospitals often showcased as symbols of the state’s medical infrastructure, offers unsettling answers. It is a common sight to see patients’ relatives pushing beds from one ward to another because no orderly is available. Families struggle to navigate overcrowded corridors, broken lifts, and chaotic administration just to ensure their loved one receives basic care. The hospital staff, often overworked and understaffed, appear helpless within a system that refuses to reform itself.
The condition of district and rural hospitals is even more alarming. There, one frequently encounters scenes that border on the inhuman: an elderly woman dragging her sick husband across hospital floors, a frail patient waiting hours for an ambulance, or families pleading for oxygen, saline, or basic diagnostic tests. These are not rare or sensational incidents; they are everyday occurrences across the state. From district headquarters to block-level hospitals, the story remains largely the same; shortage of beds, doctors, nurses, equipment, and accountability. Yet, despite this grim reality, the ruling establishment continues to project an image of progress and development. Grand claims of Egiye Bangla ring hollow when patients are forced to lie on floors or wait days for admission. Development cannot be measured by political slogans or glossy advertisements. It must be measured by the ease with which a poor patient can access timely and humane medical care. By that standard, West Bengal’s health system is failing its people.
The crisis is not merely infrastructural; it is systemic. Over the years, governance in the health sector has suffered due to chronic mismanagement, politicisation, and lack of long-term planning. Recruitment of doctors and nurses has not kept pace with population growth. Existing medical staff are overburdened, leading to burnout and declining quality of care. Corruption allegations related to hospital supplies, construction contracts, and appointments further erode public trust. Instead of strengthening institutions, successive administrations have allowed them to weaken from within.
One of the most troubling aspects of this failure is the state government’s persistent refusal to adopt or cooperate with central healthcare schemes that could significantly alleviate the burden on the poor. The most notable among these is the Ayushman Bharat Pradhan Mantri Jan Arogya Yojana (PM-JAY). While most Indian states, across political lines have implemented this scheme to improve healthcare access, West Bengal has chosen to stay out, citing political disagreements rather than public interest.
This decision is difficult to justify, particularly in light of the ground reality. Ayushman Bharat is designed to provide health insurance coverage to economically vulnerable families, enabling them to access quality healthcare without falling into debt. One of the scheme’s most significant benefits is its provision of cashless treatment. Beneficiaries can receive medical services at empanelled hospitals without making any out-of-pocket payments. For families living hand-to-mouth, this feature can mean the difference between timely treatment and avoidable death.
In a state where medical expenses frequently push families into lifelong debt, or force them to sell land, jewellery, or other assets, the refusal to implement Ayushman Bharat appears not just misguided but morally questionable. Healthcare should not be a casualty of political rivalry. Yet, West Bengal’s leadership seems more concerned with preserving political narratives than with embracing solutions that could save lives.
Supporters of the state government often argue that West Bengal has its own health insurance schemes. Though schemes like Swasthya Sathi exist, one must ask, what real harm would occur if Ayushman Bharat were also implemented? However, these schemes neither match the scale nor the nationwide portability of Ayushman Bharat. Moreover, duplication of efforts wastes resources instead of strengthening healthcare delivery. Cooperative federalism exists precisely to prevent such inefficiencies. Rejecting central support while public hospitals remain overburdened reflects political ego rather than administrative wisdom.
It is important to remember that the victims of this political stubbornness are not abstract statistics. They are daily wage labourers, farmers, elderly pensioners, and struggling families who depend entirely on public healthcare. When a government refuses a scheme that offers cashless treatment, it is effectively telling its poorest citizens to fend for themselves in moments of medical crisis. A truly people-centric government would prioritise outcomes over optics. It would focus less on announcing large budget figures and more on ensuring that hospitals function with dignity, efficiency, and compassion. It would strengthen doctor-patient ratios, modernise infrastructure, ensure transparency in procurement, and embrace all available support, and state or central, to improve public health.
We know that a large number of people from West Bengal work in other states. For these migrant workers, the Ayushman Bharat scheme was extremely important, as it ensured access to cashless healthcare even outside their home state. Moreover, many people from West Bengal travel outside the state—such as to Vellore—for advanced medical treatment. For them too, this scheme played a crucial role in providing financial security and uninterrupted medical care.
West Bengal stands at a crossroads. Continuing on the current path will only deepen public suffering and erode faith in governance. Alternatively, the state can choose reform, cooperation, and accountability. Accepting schemes like Ayushman Bharat, fixing administrative loopholes, and investing genuinely in healthcare delivery; not just on paper—could transform lives.
