The Sky Has Fallen: Doctors Die Young
By Dr. Shishir Srivastav
But for that mysteriously crooked one minute between soaring dreams and the Dreamliner’s dive, they would have been stitching wounds, fixing broken bones, performing CPR — and pouring hope into tragedy-stricken souls.
But for that crooked minute between takeoff and the doomsday tumble, Dr. Komi Vyas and her husband would have been breathing life into victims — not becoming victims themselves.
Yesterday, the sky fell.
Yesterday, the sky truly fell—not in poetic imagery, but in a harsh reality marked by steel, flames, and a cacophony of anguish. A plane crash near Ahmedabad claimed the lives of over 200 individuals, among them countless doctors—our healers, educators, mentors, and friends. They are gone, leaving behind a profound void.
A Silent Toll No One’s Counting
Imagine the pain experienced by the families and friends of the many doctors—perhaps forty or fifty—who lost their lives due to a cruel twist of fate or, possibly, the result of negligence. Official reports have minimized these numbers, and mainstream media seems hesitant to share their stories. To think that only a few would perish is to underestimate the extent of the tragedy, and to expect a bigger miracle than the miraculous escape of the lone survivor. It was peak lunch time the mess would have been almost full and look at the post-crash photos of the building, crumbled cruelly.
I write these words not as an observer, but as one of them—a doctor. While I wasn’t aboard that flight, I could have easily been. Many of us have travelled on similar planes, attended vital conferences, and committed ourselves to healing.
Today, our community is engulfed in sorrow.
Hospitals Become War Zones
When disaster strikes, hospitals are remarkable in their resilience. They shift gears rapidly—corridors convert into trauma bays, waiting areas transform into triage zones, and administrative staff become essential support systems. Protocols are activated almost instinctively. Yet, no amount of training can prepare you for the moment when your own colleagues arrive on stretchers.
Yesterday, in Ahmedabad, a separate corridor was created in Civil Hospital. Not for VIPs — for victims.
A line of bodies. Some breathing. Some not.
Nurses whispered names under their breath, praying not to recognize any.In Ahmedabad, a separate corridor was established in Civil Hospital—not for dignitaries, but for the victims. A procession of bodies, some still clinging to life, others not. Nurses exchanged hushed whispers of names, holding their breath and hoping not to recognize anyone they cared for.
Triage: The Coldest Compassion
Triage embodies a difficult balance—a methodical assessment of priority. Red tags. Yellow. Green. Black. We’re conditioned to be clinical, to act with efficiency, and to remain unruffled. But what happens when the person tagged red is someone who taught you? When the black-tagged body had just sent you a message from the airport?
In that moment, do you still see labels, or does your heart skip a beat, heavy with emotion? That’s what our colleagues in Ahmedabad confronted—caught between the desperate need to save lives and the unbearable pain of losing their own. They persevered because they had no other choice.
Doctors don’t wait for ambulances; we become ambulances ourselves. I envision many of them spending their last moments trying to save someone else, as is the very essence of who they are.
Doctors Die Young — But Never Empty-Handed
It’s a bitter reality that we do often pass too soon—whether from exhaustion, illness, violence, or, as we witnessed yesterday, the randomness of fate. But would we choose to leave this world without having given our all?
We pour ourselves into our work—through clinics, hospital wards, ICUs, remote camps, and during moments of crisis. We give until there’s nothing left. What we leave behind is not just an empty chair or a lost contact; rather, it is a legacy of knowledge shared, lives rescued, hands held in comfort, and sometimes, a piece of ourselves left on the frontline.
Sometimes, in the realm of medicine, sorrow seeps in after the chaos has settled. It arrives when the work halts, when the adrenaline wanes, and all that remains is silence and the weight of their names.
In memory of those who gave everything — not just their time, but their lives. May we never forget. And may we, the living, carry their light into every patient we touch.
