Afghanistan

“Leaves get yellow. The tree puts out fresh roots and makes them green. Why are you so content with a love that turns you yellow?”
– Jelaluddin Rumi

Afghanistan, the birthplace of the Sufi mystic poet Rumi has always fascinated me with its history and intrigued me with its decades of mayhem and catastrophe. So when Zia, the Afghan-American husband of our resident, Erica, invited me to join him in starting the Pandora Foundation for Health and Education in Afghanistan, I readily complied.

With plans to make an onsite assessment, I arrived in Kabul on December 9th. The airport bus dropped me at the main security gate where I was relieved to find myself in the welcoming arms of Zia and his two brother-in-laws, Sharif and Hamdulah. They both work  for International NGOs and share a rented house with their families.

We arrived at the house around midday, the air was already turning gray from fog and smoke. I shared the room upstairs with 3 other adults, sleeping on pads arranged along the walls. There was a wood burning stove in the middle and quilts to fight the bitter cold.

Dinner placed on a vinyl sheet on the floor. The meal was made up of flat breads, several plates of rice with meat, some vegetable dishes and salad. We ate together, with everybody dipping and picking up food from the dishes. To drink, a dilute concoction of tea, which is also served throughout the day.

The food was carefully prepared by the women and brought up by the boys. I heard the whispered questioning behind the curtains and felt their sisterly concern for my food habits… but, I never saw the face of an adult woman throughout our stay. This was extremely distressing for me.

Sharif took me downstairs to the small courtyard with gutters to urinate in. On one corner there was a doorless room with a squatting hole. The stench was overwhelming. Because there is no running water in most of the country, it is difficult to clean floors and you have to be careful not to step in any stray deposits. I decided to consume minimal food and drink to avoid the urge to need the facilites.

Early next morning, before dawn, we left for the six hour drive north to Zia’s village of Baghlan. Even with three layers of cotton, wool and velour I was terribly unprepared for the bitter cold. Sharif took the coat off his back and saved my trip with his Afghan gesture of kind hospitality.

The paved road was constructed by the Russians in the 80s. It ultimately forks off to Kazakhstan and Tajikistan. On both sides I could see the beautiful snow covered peaks of the Hindu Kush range. At 8,000 feet we passed through the Salang tunnel and started our descent towards Baghlan.

We went straight to the house of Zia’s cousin. He is the village community leader, a five-year term. Amidst the warmth radiating from the wood burning stove we had more tea followed by lunch, similar to the previous day. Once again there were no womenfolk to be seen and the toilet was a squatting hole in an adjacent room, a gunny sack curtain for privacy. I was told that people, including women, mostly go in the open fields.

Later in the afternoon, the village elders arrived for a discussion about our project. Sharif did a wonderful job of translating and conducting the meeting. I found the elders quite animated and involved in their discussions and questions to me.

But, again, you did not find any women, even in their head to toe Burkha, joining us with their suggestions. Especially, when these problems are mostly theirs to deal with and suffer through. Instead it was the men making all the decisions… the ones who have dominated and created this backwardness for half a century.

It was like deciding on diagnosis and treatment without any input from the patient. To me, very frustrating and upsetting.

The elders continued their discussion and came back with suggestions on construction sites. There was a suitable piece of land belonging to Zia’s family, but his patriarch Uncle felt that such a central location would cause indecent exposure for the girls. He would rather have the girls walk three miles to another school site than offer the convenience of a nearby school.

That night I was to stay at the lovely house of Basir, another brother-in-law of Zia. As we were walking for about a mile I was boiling with rage about the lack of women’s rights. I told my companions:

“… gentlemen, you talk about women’s emancipation, education and empowerment, but it is sheer hypocrisy that you don’t consider giving them the decency of an in-house toilet.”

In the evening I sat down for dinner. Basir’s children brought the dishes from their mother, who was whispering instructions to them from behind the curtain. Perhaps because I had been nurtured by the love of my three elder sisters, I found it distressing to be unable to offer a simple gesture of gratitude to my Afghan sister.

Next morning we went to assess the proposed construction site. The local elders were enthusiastic and sympathetic about the plight of the girls and promised to provide assistance in construction.

We then went to visit the local hospital. I roamed around the immunization clinic, outpatient department, operating room, radiology, pediatric wards and other departments. It was a reasonable structure, though the relatively empty beds were disconcerting. We then met the surgeon and had a formal meeting with the hierarchy of medical staff who were excited about our commitment to improve their healthcare delivery. We made a list of items to be brought in to enhance the service.

At night Sharif and Basir joined me for dinner. We had a long discussion about politics, social culture, women’s rights and religion. The local TV channel was broadcasting the human rights group’s complaint about rampant torture of women with acid attacks and beatings. Sharif told me about his aunt who had both wrists fractured and deformed from repeated beatings by her husband. My eyes welled up when he told me about a girl in Kabul with an undiagnosed psychiatric ailment, she remains in shackled, in chains, without evaluation or treatment.

I told them about the fertility index of Afghan women being the worst in the World along with the deplorable literacy statistics and human rights record. I noticed a look of concern when I mentioned my liberal views in support of gay rights and my opposition to capital punishment. They were quite vocal about the Islamic teachings and how the Taliban had distorted their views influenced by Mullah Omar and Al Qaeda.

I carefully concluded saying that my religion is Love and my religious rites consist of service to humanity: “I serve therefore I am”. They were very amused.

The next morning, amidst rain and snow we started our drive back to Kabul. As we reached Salang tunnel it started to snow heavily, so we had to put chains on the tires. We stopped at a large eating house for lunch, where I was relieved to find a reasonably clean toilet.

We reached Kabul in the early evening and after dinner I decided to turn in with half an Ambien. 

Very early in the morning I woke with the call of Azan from the neighboring mosque. I noticed a mild pain in my upper chest, that persisted even after rest, and some shallow breathing. My chest wall was not tender and I was overwhelmed by the ominous thought of a coronary attack. I stood up to go to bathroom but sudden dizziness made me hold on to the walls and sit down.

All morning I stayed reclined on a bolster and played gently with Humdulla’s daughter and Sharif’s son. I decided not to tell anybody about my predicament.

At midday Zia and my new friends took me to the airport. I was still dizzy with some chest discomfort. I knew that I couldn’t tell anybody because I wouldn’t be allowed to board the flight. I was not afraid of death, but certainly was scared about the process of dying. I also knew, that if anything were to happen, the Afghan process would be very convoluted and disastrous. I had to reach India soon.

I slowly inched to my seat. Shortly after take off the stewardess came to serve lunch. Airline food has never been my favorite, but I noticed that I finished the salad, the yogurt and the vegetarian dishes, scraping up every last grain of rice. Within a few minutes I was totally rejuvenated with no more chest pain and no dizziness. I fell into a blissful siesta for half an hour.

At Delhi airport my childhood best friend, Abhijit, met me. He was appalled by my appearance. I told him that with no shave, no bath and very little food for six days he couldn’t expect much better. Later Abhijit cooked as I took the most refreshing steamy hot shower of my life.

I devoured the feast of fried fish, tandoori chicken, mattar paneer and steamed vegetables. I was ravenous and I ate with reckless abandon. We chatted till late about our life, our pursuits and our friendship. He presented me his latest book, talked about his other literary works and about the school that has blossomed under his nurturing for 30 years.

We both agreed that we have found meaning and purpose in life. We have achieved much and failed in as many, but the journey has been enchanting. And now, if the curtain drops, I will only hear the applause, with no regrets nor resentments.

“On this day of my departure, let me utter this; All that I have seen and all that I have received, is beyond comparison.”
Rabindranath Tagore

My niece Sonali picked me up the next morning. We went to ‘Oh Calcutta’, my favorite avantgarde restaurant in New Delhi. As I gulped down several delectable Bengali fish dishes, Sonali opened her heart to me. As usual, we parted in tears at the airport. I love my niece so much, it hurts. And now…

“I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep”.

This school for 700 girls will be a formidable project. But I cannot give up, as this would be the stepping stone for the emancipation of those Afghan girls from the tyranny of illiteracy, ignorance and gender discrimination.

I seek your blessings so that I don’t give up.

Fukuoka より愛をこめて

Fukuoka kara ai wo komete – With love from Fukuoka

September 29th

After a 16-hour redeye flight I reached Fukuoka to attend the 32nd Congress of the Société Internationale d’Urologie. This is our largest international urology society with representatives from 29 countries around the World. 

I was tired and ravenous but excited about my Albert Schweitzer Teaching Award from the SIU – this would be the fourth time the SIU had selected someone for the award. 

After managing to rest for a couple of hours after a Japanese pizza lunch, that evening we boarded our chartered buses for the Museum venue hosting the award ceremony. 

I was very happy to meet my friends from Kenya, Ghana, India, South Africa, UK, USA, France, Germany and around the World. I regaled in their congratulations. It was a glitzy and spectacular event. 

In my acceptance speech I thanked the SIU for their consideration and acknowledged the fact there are many friends equally deserving of this honor.

September 30th

Watashi no kokoro ha ima mo Nagasaki ni arimasu – I left my heart in Nagasaki

I decided to make a trip to Nagasaki. Several years ago I had visited Hiroshima and the haunting memory of that visit was still vivid.

I took the train from the Fukuoka’s beautiful Hakata Station for the two-hour ride to Nagasaki, where I boarded the sight-seeing bus. We visited the Atomic Bomb Museum with photographic exhibits and mementos including a replica of Fat Man, the atomic bomb that devastated the city. 

It was quite a somber experience.

We continued to the Peace Memorial Park adorned with many beautiful sculptures, donated by different countries. A peace temple reminding us of the atomic bomb dropped by the US with its wanton killing of Japanese citizens and long standing injuries from nuclear exposure

It was saddening to think that Humanity has not learnt its lesson from war, and its sequels still raging in Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Syria, Libya etc. 

The clash of imperial hegemony with orthodox extremism continues to stifle the hope for a peaceful world for our children. 

Shall we ever learn that love can heal and transcend all sectarianism?

October 1st

The remaining days were spent attending the spectacular academic meeting, running from hall to hall listening to, and participating in, presentations and discussions. 

On SIU Night the famous Nakasu Kawabata Shopping Arcade was adorned with welcome messages for the SIU. There were entertainers performing Japanese music, dance and colorful marches all accompanied by unlimited food served from faux street stalls and flowing libations for the delegates.

We all agreed that the Japanese were the quintessential hosts.

October 3rd

On Wednesday morning I delivered my Albert Schweitzer oration on “Global Disparities in Access to Surgery – A Humanitarian Crisis”.

My friends were complimentary about my lecture.

His highness, the Crown Prince attended our Congress and the security arrangements were mind boggling. But the overall ambience of Japan, the wonderfully amiable people, the civic discipline and generosity was unforgettable. 

Our Congress ended with a spectacular gala banquet. The dinner items were out of this world, but I had to control myself to avoid the delectable Kobe steak.

After 5 days of academia, camaraderie and Japanese bonhomie, I was happy to return home. But I said :

Watashi ha mata nihon he modori mass
Japan, I shall return…

Sarajevo, Ljubavi Moja

Sarajevo – My Love

June 17th

My tour guide Skender, CEO and sole employee of Sarajevo Funky Tours, picked me up from the hotel lobby in Dubrovnik, for the next three days we toured through Croatia and Bosnia.

First stop was at beautiful Mostar with its famous Stari Most stone bridge. Destroyed in 1993 during the Bosnia and Herzegovina war, the bridge was rebuilt after the war and is now a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

We walked through the stone paved streets lined by unique shops, chatted with the local Muslim girls at the book store and I bought gifts to bring back home.

June 18th

Next day we drove through central Bosnia along the river Neretva. On the way visiting the  the caves of Pecina Vjetrenica adorned with stalactites.

We saw the exquisite Stećci tombstones from the 11th century in Radimlja, and lunched at the Zdrava Voda restaurant, famous for its spit-roasted lamb.

Skender, with his masters in corporate finance, was an intelligent and jovial company. At every stop he educated me about the local history.

We had many an enchanting exchange of opinions about Islam and Humanism. At some point he quoted a sura from the Koran,

“The rewards of deeds depend upon the intentions, and every person will get the reward according to what he has intended.”

I responded with Albus Dumbledore’s advice to Harry Potter,

“Remember Harry, it is our intentions rather than our abilities that tell us who we really are.”

We arrived in Sarajevo at my hotel Safir, which was near the fountain that led to the old town. We toured Sarajevo, the only city with a Catholic church, an Orthodox church, a synagogue and a mosque within stone’s throw that have coexisted for centuries.

I saw craters resulting from Serbian bombings that has been artistically filled up with red cement and named ‘Sarajevo Roses’. We went in the outskirts to see the Kravice waterfalls and I had a relaxing swim.

June 19th

Skender’s father, Salem, took me on the Siege Tour where I saw the ‘Freedom’ tunnel that Bosnians created to go underneath the airstrip to carry their wounded and provisions to Sarajevo seized by Serbian bombings. Just 5ft high, 3ft wide and 3150ft in length, through which 20 million tons of food entered the city, and 1 million people were transported.

Salem was quite emotional and animated talking about his experiences as a young soldier fighting in the Bosnian army.

June 20th

On my final day, Salem showed me the Sarajevo History Museum.

When Salem dropped me at the airport for my flight to London, he asked,

“So Sakti, why did you want to come to Sarajevo?”

and I answered,

“Salem, the plight of Sarajevo haunted me in the 90s when I saw the photos of inhuman Serbian atrocities on this beautiful multicultural city of exemplary coexistence.

I had to see how Sarajevo has stood up, survived and now blossomed into this citadel of cultural tolerance. I am so glad that I came.

My flight from Sarajevo, via Munich, to London was delayed but I was relieved by the cool appearance of Rakesh at the gate. We spent an enchanting evening at Chez Nimi, three of us chatting till 1am in the morning. 

June 21st

Rakesh dropped me at Heathrow for my flight to San Francisco. We parted with his bear hug. I never seem to get enough of his loving company.

If you are planning a trip to Sarajevo, or anywhere in the region, please get in touch with Skender at Sarajevo Funky Tours – you will not be disappointed!

Joan Baez singing “Sarajevo, Ljubavi Moja”

There is Injustice and Indignity in Medicine.

UPDATED: View the online version of the exhibit at the William P. Didusch Center for Urology History Museum website. Download the PDF brochure (10mb) and the impressive full exhibition panels (246mb!).

I just returned from our annual American Urological Association Conference in Atlanta, an exhilarating event promoting research and academic exchanges in urology. 

The week long conference was attended by nearly twenty thousand participants from around the World. 

I was honored to receive a Presidential Citation Award acknowledging my humanitarian services. Though I am sure there are friends equally, or more, deserving of such an accolade, I selfishly enjoyed the recognition.

My main involvement in the meeting concerned urologic history.

This year, on my behest, the Urologic History Committee agreed to have “Injustice and Inequities in Medicine” as the main theme. 

We had a wonderfully artistic and aesthetic exhibit with multiple large panels depicting the injustice and indignities in medicine chronicled from the pre-Christian era through centuries to the Nazi atrocities and the relatively modern human experimentations conducted by US Public Health Service and other elite institutions.

The exhibit was hailed as our best ever.

The committee also published an anthology titled “Skeletons in the closet – the injustice and indignities in Medicine”.

It contained papers written by international authors detailing the themes in the panels of the exhibit. It was a hot seller.

I also gave my talk on the the syphilitic experiments conducted in Guatemala by the US Public Health Service (PHS):

Syphilitic experiments on Guatemalan citizens – another skeleton in the closets of US Public Health Service

Syphilitic experiments conducted on the prisoners, mental patients and children of Guatemala by US Public Health Service (PHS), constitute a sinister chapter in the history of medicine manifesting gross violation of code of ethics and blatant neglect of autonomy. It is important for mankind to be aware of such reprehensible practice in the name of research, so that similar heinous acts may not be repeated.

Our moral judgement and human decency behooves upon us to remain vigilant in upholding the code of medical ethics so that the disadvantaged and disenfranchised human beings are not deprived of their autonomy even in the interest of science.

Overall it was an enchanting conference evoking many deep personal and emotional feelings.

— Sakti Das, May 2012.

Haiti Mon Amour

Haiti envelops me, embraces me, engulfs me in her unconditional love. And so little I can give back in return.

This was my second trip since the devastating earthquake. Sadly nothing much seems to have changed; people living in the same tents, perilously tilting buildings and broken roadways strewn with garbage and rubble.

I arrived with my dear friend Paul Schellhammer to work on filariasis eradication as part of the University of Notre Dame Haiti program

TamaraAs I slowly tugged my suitcase through the airport, I heard the happy tinkling of laughter calling my name. It was my Haitian daughter Tamara, she embraced me in her arms. We chatted about her academic performance as she had just finished her second semester at the University of Haiti, studying finance and administration. 

My friend Paul was impressed by Tamara’s beauty, poise and personality. We listened to her incessant chat as she hitched a ride on our journey to Leogane.

By the time we reached Leogane’s Residence Filariose, I was tired and sleepy from my redeye flight. We met the staff and received a briefing from Father Tom Streit, a highly erudite academician who has been running the Notre Dame Haiti Program for 16 years

D Isma

Our next five days at the Sainte Croix Hospital were spent in all–day surgeries. I loved working with Dr Isma, a young Haitian urologist. Some of the surgeries were complex but we sailed through. 

I also met several dedicated young people constructing schools and erecting solar panels in Leogane. The dedication of these young Haitians humbled me.

Soon, it was time to leave, with a promise to return. On our way to Port-au-Prince we noticed the statue of the ‘free black man’, Neg Mawon, still standing in front of the devastated Haitian National Palace. The conch shell in his upturned mouth calling Haiti’s people to gather and fight for freedom and dignity.

I think of the resilience of this first free black nation through centuries of political mayhem in the hands of dictators backed by our Western nations.

Neg Mawon P’ap Jamn Kraze’ – The Freeman Will Never Be Broken.

I Left My Heart in Gaza

March 2011 marked my second trip to Palestine with the Palestine Children’s Relief Fund (PCRF). The first was to Jenin a few years ago.

My dear friend Steve Sosebee, an American and President of PCRF, picked me up from my hotel in Ramallah from where we drove two hours to reach the Israel-Gaza border.

Going through the check point into the kilometre-long wire-fenced walkway, strewn with surveillance cameras, was a surreal experience reminding me of the entrance to the gas chambers in the movie “Schindler’s List”.

On reaching the Gaza side, Suhail, our friend from PCRF picked us up and drove us to Al Aqsa Martyrs Hospital where I immediately started triaging children for our surgery list with Doctor Fayez, a young Gaza urologist who graduated and trained in St. Petersburg, Russia.

Over the next five days, Fayez and I performed often complex surgeries on 25 children. The staff, both male and female, were very accommodating. I was very impressed by Fayez’s surgical skills but more so for his humility. We promised to keep in touch.  

I was often exhausted, having to rest between surgeries while Fayez continued. I always looking forward to our communal lunch at about 4pm.

My hotel was an hour from the hospital. From the hotel Suhail would take me for dinner at exquisite restaurants with delectable fish entrees. One evening Fayez joined us with his beautiful wife and daughter.

Every day at Al Aqsa, after surgery and my rounds, we would meet the children and smiling Gaza mothers in their hijabs and niqabs. A gratifying experience that I will cherish. 

On the last day Suhail drove me around Gaza City and then up to Jabalia, the largest of the Gaza Strip’s eight refugee camps.

Throughout the journey the sight of shell-shattered buildings, devastated, scorched and demolished neighborhoods, rows of cut down olive trees, all bearing the signature of brutal Israeli atrocities, made me feel sad and responsible. I told Suhail,

“I am sorry that my tax payer’s money is responsible for destruction of your country.”

By then I was scared to return through the Israeli check point. Suhail reassured me and accompanied me through the border and up to my hotel in East Jerusalem.

I fell in love with Gaza, its mild mannered, hard working people, the beautiful loving and smiling eyes of the women in their head scarves.

They deserve justice to be free in their own country, to raise their children in their own land with dignity. I truly left my heart in Gaza.

— Sakti Das, 26 March 2011.

If this has inspired you, read more about the Palestine Children’s Relief Fund and:

Other groups supporting PCRF’s work: Medical Aid for PalestiniansPalestine Solidarity Campaign.

A candid quote from Sakti while he was there:

This is my third day here. Really enjoying it, though it is physically taxing, so many children to operate upon and so many complex problems. There were two bombs here today sent by Israeli drones but nobody is concerned.

Don’t forget to leave your comments and questions below.

April in Haiti

Three months after the 7.0-earthquake hit Haiti, our team of 22 volunteers from Sionfonds for Haiti, made up of nurses, doctors, dentists and a midwife, arrived into the mayhem of Port-au-Prince’s newly built airport with boxes of medical supplies and great enthusiasm.

While attempting to sort our baggage I was delighted to meet two Indian nuns from the Missionaries of Charities in their familiar blue bordered sarees – one of them has been serving in Haiti for twenty years.

We soon found our ever smiling Haitian director Guesno, he welcomed us and lead us to the waiting van for our two hour drive to the orphanage we help run.

Fortunately, the orphanage was still standing, unharmed amidst the surrounding rubble of earthquake wrecked buildings, broken roads and piled up garbage. After playing with the orphaned children and checking their status, we started another grueling 4-hour drive to Jacmel:

Jacmel

Our clinic in Jacmel was set up at the local NGO hospital where we saw some 3,000 patients that poured in from neighboring villages for much needed care.

In addition to medical treatment we were able to provide dental care, minor surgery and prenatal care.

After 3 days in Jacmel we drove another four hours towards the hills to set up another clinic at a newly built church. We were joined by two Haitian doctors and scores of young willing Haitian volunteers interpreting and helping in the clinic pharmacy.

Amidst all the chaos it was a gratifying experience making a little difference in the destitute lives of the poor Haitians, especially with the involvement of the local community.

As the Sionfonds team prepared to move onto the next 3-day clinic, I returned with 6 others to Port-au-Prince for our early departure the next day.

As we drove through the ruined capital, the sight of Haitians shacking in thousands of crudely erected tent cities, children running around stinking garbage, women lining up for water, the overall sense of disaster was heart breaking. In the evening it started to rain and the rising stench of sewage was overwhelming.

More than 3 months have gone by and hardly any rebuilding help towards Haiti was evident to us. Our Haitian friends sadly complained how the US army has deserted them in the hands of incompetent UN workers. 

Nobody Seemed to Care for Haiti. But Haiti Will Survive.

The first independent black nation in modern history has proved their resilience through waves of historic calamity. The phoenix of hope and tenacity shall rise from the ashes and rubble of Port-au-Prince.

Meanwhile I shall pray and continue the efforts to rebuild the new Haiti.

– Sakti Das, 2010.

UPDATE…

Sakti was in Haiti 3 months after the quake. Here’s an in-depth report from Al Jazeera’s Fault Lines, “Haiti: Six months on”:

The Boston Globe’s “Big Picture” has done a great job of collating some of the most striking and painful imagery of and after the quake:

6 months on, the coverage drips in… BBC Haiti recovery stalled by aid and land issuesOrphans of Haiti … NYT After Quake, Haitians With Dreams Look for an ExitHaitian Orphans Have Little but One Another … Change.orgA Better Path For Haiti’s RecoveryAJE Haiti’s dilapidated hospitalsBangladesh deploys female UN peacekeepers.

Please consider donating & supporting work in Haiti via Sionfonds for Haiti

We’ll be adding a list of Haitian groups to support shortly, but if you are looking to start now head over to Sean Penn’s J/PHRO

January in India & Bangladesh

Last month was another one of my annual visits to India and Bangladesh to look into our schools, rural development projects and micro credit schemes.

School Visit

Visiting our schools enables us to meet the children, assess their progress and arrange ongoing scholarship support. Above all we emphasize and encourage their focus on the goal of higher studies leading to meaningful self-reliance.

In Bangladesh I visited a non-governmental primary school near the sprawling city of Khulna. Khulna was my ancestral hometown in the 60s before we emigrated to Kolkata.

The school of 202 children, divided amongst five classes, has been run by 3 female teachers and a headmaster since 1986. All with miniscule financial help from the City Municipality.

Teachers receive salaries one-tenth of government school teachers, yet they love the students and show an exemplary dedication to teaching.

I assessed their needs of enhancing teachers’ salaries, hot lunches or snacks and school uniforms. Once the legal logistics of money transfer through another existing NGO are cleared, we’ll start channeling help to them.

Another School and a town City

After taking the the opportunity to visit my old St Joseph’s school with some friends I ventured through a radically changed Khulna.

Gone are those bucolic sparsely populated streets with flowering trees, ponds and playing grounds. Unrelenting development has erased and demolished almost all the old structures, now replaced with high-rises and wide paved streets.

Our House

My geographic sense was totally confused. I was almost on the verge of tears not being able to locate our ancestral home; suddenly I found the house where I was born and spent my childhood.

All the neighboring houses have been replaced leaving only our dilapidated house standing in vigil for my return. The neighbors helped me get in through the back door to the large courtyard where we had papaya and a tall flowering Shefali tree. Our small chicken coup was still standing.

Tears welled up in my eyes as I walked out unnoticed. I whispered,

“Sorry my friend that we deserted you. But we both are the victims of religio-political strifes like millions of others. At least you waited for our final reunion. I love you my beautiful birthplace.”

Unoccupied and falling apart from neglect, I found my long lost Taj Mahal.

– Sakti Das, 2010.


  • The remainder of Dr Das’ trip included surgeries in rural Guajrat where he was also able to add his O+ mark to an 11,111-strong petition battling an industrialist and Government to stop a cement works displacing 55,000 farmers, 15 villages and inflicting untold damage to livelihoods and environment – sadly, not uncommon in our ‘modern’ India…

    He was also able to meet Baber Ali, the young headmaster we blogged about last month – very much impressed by this now-18yo, he’ll be keeping in touch to see how Baber can be helped.