How My Life Steered Me to the Path of Medicine

The most difficult question anyone has ever asked me is "Why did you become a doctor?" A new patient recently asked me that and I was dumbfounded. Like a movie on a projector, my pre-teen years flashed before my eyes. I held back my tears and responded, "let us talk about it another time."

She respected my wishes and agreed that we would defer the discussion. I wish the answer were as simple as, "My father bought me a Red Riding Hood doll when I was little, and instead of playing dress up, I gave her injections and tried to heal her imaginary ailments." I knew I wanted to be a physician; in fifth grade my conviction was reaffirmed.

A dark haze lowers over my memories when I think about October 31st, 1984. We were let out of school early, around noon, and it was announced that the Indian Prime Minister had been assassinated by her Sikh bodyguards. When I reached home, my mother hurried us to the market to stock up on food, as a curfew was anticipated. While mom was picking out essentials, the shopkeepers hastily pulled down the shutters. Thud, thud, thud, and the shops were locked up. The shop keepers folded their hands in request that we leave the plaza right away, for our own safety, as things were about to get ugly.

My father was away on business in Gurgaon, a town near New Delhi. He was in the process of relocating his business, which has been in our family for several generations. We lived in an industrial area without any other homes on the block. Workers, helpers at home, the gardener and the cleaning lady were all let out early, and there was an eerie quiet in the middle of the day as people retreated to their homes. Within hours, news traveled that there organized mobs, supported by police and government, armed with iron rods and kerosene oil, on a mission to finish off the Sikhs. They had access to the voters' lists, and Sikh homes were being targeted and marked by an "X" for easy identification.

The Sikh Code of Conduct mandates that all initiated Sikhs wear each of the articles of faith known as the 5 K's. (Sikhs who are not initiated may carry some or all of the articles of faith). The five articles are the Kara (an iron bracelet), the Kanga (a small comb), Kachera (a special, longer type of underpants), Kirpan (a small sword) and Kesh (uncut hair). Sikh men and some women wear a turban with uncut hair. The visible K's-the Kara and the turban with uncut hair-make it easy to identify a Sikh. On the main street a little further from the inroads of our home, any visible Sikhs on the street were pulled from their vehicle and beaten, doused in Kerosene and burned alive. I was not meant to hear this, but it couldn't be helped. At night, mom said we had to turn down the lights and not make any noise. No one should know that we live here.

I remember sitting curled up in a corner of our veranda, where I had decided to be on watch. A myriad of emotions took over me. I didn't know at the time, but what I was feeling was sorrow, pain and anger. Naively, I was not afraid. I felt helpless for the victims and wanted to do something. I couldn't expose myself and go to the streets, defenseless. In the sleepless night, my ears were perked for any rustling footsteps or noise indicating that the mob was headed our way.

The next morning, I saw plumes of smoke at a distance. Did I imagine it, or was it the smell of human corpses burning? Two very large trucks stopped in front of our house. Two turbaned men stepped out and stood by our iron gate, seeking shelter. I could see apprehension in my mother's eyes, as there was the risk of 19-22 foot long commercial trucks being followed to our home. My grandfather, an eco-enthusiast, had planted around 200 eucalyptus trees in the back of the house. The trees were now tall and lush. Mom allowed the trucks to be hidden in back and the trees made for an ideal camouflage. For the few days the truckers were given shelter, food and water in our home, news of crimes against Sikhs was pouring in from New Delhi and many other cities in India where Sikhs were being targeted by organized mobs.

Days went by and we didn't have any news of my dad's whereabouts. We had heard about villages where women had been raped and tortured and left with the bones and ashes of their sons, husbands and fathers. In one such town in Delhi, Tilak Vihar, the entire population of Sikh males were murdered. It is now known as "Widow Colony." For who escaped being burnt alive were beaten to a pulp. I wept alone as I didn't want mother to see me like this. In my corner, every night, I thought about what I would do if the mob came to our home. We had a shotgun, which was my only solace.

A week went by and there was no news of Dad. When people were visible on the streets again, we went to visit my history teacher, who had been forced to jump from her balcony when the mob approached her home. As a result, she fractured both her legs and pelvis. She was in bed, a full cast up to her waist, lying in bed when she shared her experience.

A friend of my mother's from Canada, visiting her family in India at the time, had also perished. My blind music teacher, a deeply spiritual man, was also murdered amongst all the other Sikhs who were being targeted on trains traveling from Amritsar to Delhi. The accounts of pain were too numerous to count. I stopped listening at some point. I knew I couldn't do anything to help. It was too late. Thousands of homes and businesses were plundered, people perished and my father was missing. We feared the worst.

About a week after the October genocide was instigated, a car pulled up in the driveway with four or five men in it. Mom approached them and they accompanied her into the house and sat in the living room, speaking quietly for several hours. Once they left, one man remained behind.