When I first scanned the list of centres offered through the travel fellowship, one name leapt out at me: Shaheed Hospital—a Martyrs’ Hospital. There was something powerful in that name alone. Without a second thought, I chose it as my first centre. I later learned I was the first among four batches of fellows to pick Shaheed. It felt like a calling.
Shaheed Hospital is a 150-bedded, secondary-care facility located in Dalli Rajhara, Chhattisgarh. But it’s not just a hospital. It’s a symbol—a people’s institution born from the collective struggle of iron-ore mine workers in the 1970s, under the guidance of the Chhattisgarh Mukti Morcha (CMM) and the visionary organiser Shankar Guha Niyogi. I had done my homework—reading articles, watching documentaries about the movement—but no amount of study could prepare me for what I experienced there.
Unlike many institutions, Shaheed truly understood what the travel fellowship was meant to be. There were no rigid duties or timetables imposed on me. I was given complete freedom to observe, engage, and learn. And learn I did—beyond the boundaries of medicine.
Dalli Rajhara was a land painted in red—quite literally. The soil was red with iron ore, and so was the air. If you travelled on a local train through the area, you’d find your face and clothes coated in red dust by the end of the journey. Amid that dust and heat, I wandered through the narrow streets of mining settlements, trying to absorb the landscape—its people, its stories, and its political soul.
More than a doctor, I felt like a historian. I often walked into the union office of the Chhattisgarh Mines Shramik Sangh, striking up conversations in broken Hindi. I jotted down new words in a small notebook during every meeting I attended, slowly piecing together the language and, with it, the deeper history of the place. Over time, I understood more of the nuanced ideologies that had shaped the region: Niyogi’s principle of “Sangharsh aur Nirman”—struggle and reconstruction—seeped into everything from health care to education to culture.
Yet, not all was romantic. Some of the past intensity had faded, and the movement had fractured in places. The shadows of division and disillusionment were evident, though people still carried their memories with pride. Whether old or young, nearly everyone I met had a personal story tied to Shaheed Hospital—often not about disease, but about resistance, hope, and dignity.
Around the time I arrived, the atmosphere was increasingly saffron. The Ram Mandir inauguration was making headlines, and the chants of “Jai Shri Ram” echoed in the streets. As a girl from Kerala, being outside my home state for the first time, this new environment was unsettling. That same day, in a packed union meeting, a senior worker’s leader addressed the room: “No Ram will come to quench our hunger. For that, we must work and unite.” His words cut through the tension, realigning the mood with clarity and power. At that moment, something inside me shifted.
The union conversations were deeply rooted—not only in worker’s rights but also in what was happening across the country: student protests, tribal resistance in Hasdeo, the ongoing conflict in Bastar. The people here spoke with clarity, confidence, and historical memory. They hadn’t forgotten their struggles—or their purpose.
And then there was Dr. Saibal Jana—the heart of Shaheed Hospital and, for me, the most inspiring human I encountered during my travels. At 73, he carried the energy of a man decades younger, available around the clock for emergencies, union meetings, or simply to chat about everything from the Chinese Cultural Revolution to a Bengali folk song he had heard on YouTube. I remember seeing him after evening rounds, leading nursing students in rehearsals for a street play in the *gotul*—the hospital’s common room. He wasn’t just a doctor; he was a movement in himself. Some called him a superhuman. I saw him simply as someone who had never stopped believing.
What struck me most at Shaheed wasn’t just the ideology or the commitment. It was the unshakable trust between the hospital and the community. There was a sense of ownership—visible in the eyes of patients and workers alike. Shaheed Hospital had been built by mine-workers for mine-workers, and that bond couldn’t be faked or forgotten.
I found friendship, sisterhood, and a strong sense of purpose in those red-soaked streets. I also left with a powerful lesson: ideology matters. It’s not just a set of beliefs; it’s what anchors you when everything else is chaos.
Have you ever seen a hospital constructed and managed by miners?
A place where staff attend union gatherings, where the library shelves hold not only medical journals but also the poetry of Safdar Hashmi?
Where martyrs of global struggles are remembered alongside local comrades?
Where people chant “Inquilab Zindabad” without hesitation—because it’s not rhetoric, it’s memory?
And where, without flinching, someone declares, “No Ram will come to quench our hunger; we must fight.”
That’s Shaheed Hospital—an initiative for the health of labourers, by the labourers. And for me, it was the beginning of understanding what healthcare could truly mean in a just world.
(Shaheed hospital)
(To be continued…)
