The ceiling fan clicked rhythmically in the IMA Vijayawada office, stirring the humid air of a Coastal Andhra afternoon. Dr. Schinda adjusted his Rimless spectacles and looked at the three young doctors seated before him—Dr. Anjali, fresh from her pediatric residency in Guntur; Dr. Hari, an oncologist from Visakhapatnam; and Dr. Priya, a general practitioner whose husband practiced cardiology in Tirupati.
"You think you're invincible because you wear white coats," Dr.Schinda said, his voice gentle but grave. "You think death is something that happens to your patients, not to you. But last Tuesday, when Dr. Sudhakar's car hit that lorry on the Chennai highway, the reality came knocking."
He opened a leather ledger. Not an insurance policy document—something older, more sacred (Family security scheme).
"Sudhakar was 42. His daughter is twelve, his son nine. His wife hasn't worked in fifteen years. In our culture, a doctor's family is left with honor but often without bread. But Sudhakar's family—they will receive ₹20 lakh. Not from an insurance company's cold calculations. From us."
The Covenant Explained
Dr.Schinda slid a registration form across the table. "This isn't insurance, my dears. Insurance is a transaction with a corporation. This is samhati—solidarity. A doctor-to-doctor support system that only works if we treat it as sacred duty."
"Only IMA life members can enter," he continued. "Up to age 56. And if you're married—like you, Dr. Priya—husband and wife must enroll separately. The white coat doesn't recognize marital unity when tragedy strikes; it recognizes individual commitment."
Anjali leaned forward. "How does the money work exactly?"
"There's an entry fee—₹5,000 if you're young like you, up to ₹20,000 as you approach the age limit. Think of it as buying your seat at the table. But the real engine is the regular contribution." Dr.Schinda's finger traced a pattern on the paper. "Every six months—two bill cycles a year—we receive a bill. When any member passes, every living member pays ₹600 toward that family's support, plus ₹100 that builds a corpus, plus a ₹500/- (every bill) administrative fee."
Hari calculated quickly. "So if ten doctors die in a cycle..."
"Then we pay more. Simple mathematics. More deaths, higher bill. Less deaths, lighter burden. The payout is simply this: total collected divided by number of deaths. Usually, it works out to approximately ₹20 lakh per family, but it depends entirely on how many of us remain disciplined and pay the bills in time."
The Window of Trust
"But there's something crucial," Dr.Schinda's expression darkened slightly. "The Window Period. When you join—whether at 30 or 50—you enter a waiting period of one to three years depending on your age. During this window, if death comes by illness, the full benefit doesn't flow. Only accidental deaths are covered immediately."
"That's harsh," Priya whispered.
"It's protection," Rao corrected. "Without this window, every doctor with a terminal diagnosis would rush to join last minute, draining the pool for those who stood guard longer. It prevents misuse. It ensures that only those who commit early, while healthy, receive the full embrace of the brotherhood."
He told them about a doctor from Nellore, who had tried to hide his diabetes diagnosis to join quickly. "We need strict health declarations now. Random audits. Because one dishonest doctor betrays the trust of thousands."
The Discipline of Love
Dr.Schinda opened another file. "This is where we separate doctors from dilettantes. You have heard that we give only two notices for non-payment. After that—termination. No mercy. No appeals."
The young doctors shifted uncomfortably.
"Last year," Schinda continued, "Dr. Vajresh from Guntur missed his payment. Daughter's wedding expenses, he said. We sent the first notice. Then the second. His colleagues had to practically drag him to the IMA office to pay. Because if he had died the next week, his family would have received nothing. Zero. This is not cruelty; it is the price of a community-driven system with no reserve fund."
"No reserve?" Hari asked.
"We have no war chest sitting in a bank," Schinda explained. "This scheme lives and breathes with our monthly contributions. If we default, the system starves. If we remain disciplined, it thrives. That is why we need every member—whether in Rajahmundry or Anantapur—to pay twice yearly without fail."
The Three Nominations
Schinda pulled out a nomination form. "You can name three people. If you're married, your spouse and children—even grandchildren—are your natural heirs. If unmarried, your parents or legally adopted children. But you must nominate. The money doesn't come automatically; it flows through your IMA branch, but only if your dues are clear and your window period complete."
He described the process: the quick intimation of death, the forms submitted to the Management Committee, the verification by the Governing Council, and finally, the relief—money reaching the grieving family within weeks, not months like insurance companies.
"There's no profit margin here," Schinda said with pride. "No corporate office taking 40% in processing fees. Just doctors funding doctors. When Sudhakar's wife received that bank notification, she didn't see an insurance company's name. She saw the names of 4,000 colleagues who had said: We stand with you."
The Risks We Face Together
"But it's fragile," Schinda admitted, his honesty cutting through the optimism. "If too many doctors default, the payouts shrink. If too many die in one cycle, the burden grows heavy. There are delays possible. It's not legally 'insurance,' so the regulatory protections don't apply. The Management Committee and Governing Council run this on trust alone."
He suggested improvements—ideas whispered in meetings but not yet implemented. "We need actuarial backing, scientific premium calculations based on Andhra mortality data. We need a small reserve—perhaps ₹2 crore—in case of a catastrophic cycle. We need semi-fixed payouts: maybe ₹15 lakh guaranteed, with bonuses when collections are strong."
"But even imperfect," he pressed on, "it works. Because we make it work."
The Call to the Coast and the Rayalseema Hills
Dr.Schinda stood and walked to the window, looking out at the Krishna River flowing past. "In Andhra Pradesh, we have a tradition. When a farmer dies, the village ploughs his field. When a doctor dies, who heals his family?"
He turned to face them. "This is your chance to secure not just money, but dignity. Your spouse won't have to beg relatives for school fees. Your parents won't face their old age in penury. Your children will remember that their father's profession was a brotherhood, not a business."
"Join separately if married. Pay the entry fee according to your age. Endure the window period with patience. Never miss a bill cycle. Nominate your loved ones clearly. And when—not if—death visits one of us, open your wallet without grumbling, knowing that when your time comes, 4,000 doctors across Amaravati, Vizag, and Kadapa will open theirs for your family."
Anjali picked up the form. Hari reached for his pen. Priya texted her husband: We enroll today, separately, as the rules demand.
Dr.Schinda smiled. "The white coat isn't just for healing patients. It's a covenant that says: While I live, I contribute. When I fall, you catch my family. This is how we practice medicine in Andhra Pradesh. Not alone. Together."
Outside, the sun set over the Eastern Ghats, painting the sky the color of hope. Somewhere in Vizianagaram, a bill was being paid. Somewhere in Nellore, a window period was ending. And somewhere in Vijayawada, three young doctors signed their names to a legacy older than insurance—a promise that in the fraternity of physicians, no family walks alone into the dark.
Secure your family. Secure the future. Join today.
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