A memorable patient: Bridging medicine
Authors: K. Choudhari
Journal: BMJ (2002)

In the early 1990s, as a registrar at J J Hospitals in Mumbai (Bombay), I had the experience of a lifetime. J J Hospitals was situated in a Muslim area of the city, and most of its catchment population were Muslim community whereas most of the doctors were Hindu. With trust between patients and doctors paramount, the different religious beliefs had never vitiated the congenial atmosphere at the hospital.

Then, on 6 December 1992, some Hindu radicals demolished the Babari mosque at Ayodhya, igniting widespread riots. Fundamentalists in both communities set on each other—destroying shops, burning vehicles, and attacking individuals of the opposite faith. Hundreds were killed and thousands injured. The normally busy, vibrant city of Bombay, an epitome of religious harmony, was transformed into a virtual war zone, with seething hatred and distrust. Faced with the stupendous task of managing the countless casualties pouring in, every resident was working relentlessly.

In the casualty department I saw a young Muslim teenager brought by his elder brother. His three fingers were partially cut, but when I rushed to offer first aid I was suddenly rebuffed by the patient's brother, who held me back vehemently with an angry and suspicious stare. Clearly he wasn't prepared to risk his brother being treated by a Hindu doctor. A lot of persuasion was in vain. Ultimately, I had to request one of my Muslim colleagues to take the patient to the operation theatre for further management and tried to forget this as an unpleasant event.

Six hours later, the elder brother himself was wheeled into casualty bleeding profusely from a stab in the groin. Without immediate surgical intervention, he would bleed to death. He looked very angry as I approached and obviously still didn't trust me but realised that his life was at stake. Taking his silence as tacit approval, I rushed him to the operating theatre, controlled the bleeding, and cleaned and sutured the wound. Luckily, no major neurovascular structures were injured. Assuming him to be another religious fanatic, I ignored him once he was settled postoperatively. I had the next patient to look after, and the next, and the next.

Two days later, the atmosphere was still tense. I was working in my own ward when I saw my reluctant patient walking towards me holding a plastic bag with something suspicious within. I also noticed his brother with the injured fingers standing at the end of the ward guarding the door. The ward was a cul-de-sac with no place to run or hide. Panicked, I looked around for a security guard, but none was there. As the man came closer, I knew my life was in danger. Not knowing what was ahead of me, I shut my eyes tightly preparing for any eventuality. He lifted my hand and placed the plastic bag on it, then hugged me tightly and whispered in my ear, “Shukria Bhaijan” (“Thank you, big brother”).

I can't remember how long we stood like this, but I could feel tears running down his cheeks. The plastic bag contained a present—chicken biryani his mother had prepared specially for us, the Hindu doctors. I was completely overwhelmed by his gesture, and tears ran down my cheeks. The whole ward was at a standstill, in a state of a shock, watching a Hindu and a Muslim hugging each other in the midst of a city burning in Hindu-Muslim riots.

Until then, I had considered medicine as merely a science used to heal human bodies. But that day I realised medicine can also touch hearts, unite minds, bridge religious divides, and provide memories to cherish life long.