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A fixture on Bentinck Street, this health worker is more than a mere technician

For over three decades, 63-year-old Tapan Das has offered low-cost vital check-ups from a street corner in central Kolkata

Tapan Das at his stall on Bentinck Street Photos: Soumyajit Dey

Debrup Chaudhuri
Published 07.06.25, 04:29 PM

Every morning, just as the shops on Bentinck Street begin rolling up their shutters, Tapan Das unfolds a small table, lines up his weighing scale, blood sugar-testing kit, weighing scale and oximeter, and quietly begins his day. For over three decades, 63-year-old Tapan Das has offered low-cost check-ups from a street corner on Bentinck Street. In a city of rushing crowds and rising healthcare costs, he stays rooted — measuring sugar, pressure and other vitals with care.

For passersby, he might look like just another fixture on a busy Kolkata pavement — but to those who know him, Das is more than a technician. He is a guardian of health, a comforting presence, and a man whose life has been shaped by an unshakeable sense of quiet service.

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Das checks a man’s blood pressure

“I’ve been sitting here since 1990,” says Das, who hails from Howrah, with a mix of pride and calm. “I didn’t plan it this way. The doctor I worked with passed away, and I had nowhere to go. So I sat here. And I just kept sitting.”

Earlier, when blood pressure machines and oximeters weren’t present in every household, Das would move around from place to place measuring pressure. There weren’t many options then, and even fewer people doing what he did. He kept learning — by watching, by listening, and by practising. He doesn’t claim to be a doctor, but he knows when something isn’t right. “If there’s a problem, I tell them to go to a doctor. I just do the basic check-ups,” he says.

Das’s services cost as little as Rs 20 to Rs 40, payable in cash or online

Before he planted himself on Bentinck Street, Das moved through the city’s paras — visiting offices in central Kolkata, and even places in Patuli. “Wherever people needed checking, I went. I carried my machines, sometimes in a bag, sometimes under my arm.”

Then came the pandemic. “Before Covid, many people came every day. After the lockdown, machines became cheaper, and people stopped coming. Only 20 or 25 come now,” he says. It hurt his income, but he didn’t leave. “I had less money, but I stayed. Some things you don’t do for money.”

His services cost as little as Rs 20 to Rs 40, payable in cash or online. There’s no advertising board, no flashy posters — just Das and his well-worn kits. And yet, people still come. Elderly residents, office workers, and the occasional curious passers-by.

When asked what keeps him going, he shrugs: “I like helping people. I know some of their routines better than their families. If someone doesn’t show up for a few days, I wonder where they’ve gone.”

In a city that moves fast and forgets faster, Tapan Das remains still. Not out of habit, but out of quiet conviction. His is a small service, but it pulses with something deeply human — regularity, care, and the kind of dignity that doesn’t ask for applause.

“I just sit,” he says again, smiling faintly. “And people come.”

Health Workers Bentinck Street
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