The Man Who Fought Venom, Silenced by the System

For nearly two decades, a quiet war was being fought from a modest hospital in Demow, Assam. It wasn’t fought with sirens or salutes, but with vials of antivenom, trembling hands, and midnight phone calls. On the frontlines of that battle stood a man who never sought the spotlight — Dr Surajit Giri, anaesthesiologist by training, lifesaver by instinct.

He never made headlines, though he could have. He never chased transfers to the city, though many did. What he chose, instead, was to stay where it mattered — in the lush, flood-prone, snakebitten heart of Assam, where medical help often arrives too late, or not at all.

And it was there, in that very hospital where he had saved over 3,000 snakebite victims, assisted in more than 7,000 childbirth surgeries, and trained 2,000 doctors in the art of keeping death at bay, that he was recently made to stand like a guilty man, accused of negligence — not by patients, not by his peers, but by a visiting magistrate with no medical background and, evidently, little understanding of respect.

There were no complaints on his record. No warnings. Just a blunt, accusatory question:

“Why aren’t you doing your duty properly?”

And just like that, without ceremony or shame, Assam lost one of its finest healers.

A Phone That Never Went Silent

In rural Assam, a snakebite is often a death sentence. But for thousands, there has long been one hope — Dr Giri’s number. People knew it by heart. Doctors from other districts called him for guidance. Villagers dialed him in panic, sometimes in the dead of night, and he’d pick up, every time.

He didn’t draw lines between duty and compassion. He didn’t say, “I’m off today.” He didn’t charge consultation fees to those who had nothing to give. He just helped.

That’s why, in Demow and beyond, people didn’t just trust him — they believed in him. Not just as a doctor, but as a presence. A quiet certainty that someone, somewhere, still cared.

Humiliation in White Coat

On July 11, while on duty, Dr Giri was summoned to a room by the magistrate and questioned in the presence of others. Not as a colleague. Not even as a professional. But as someone on trial. Made to stand, made to answer, and worst of all — left undefended.

No senior from the hospital spoke up. No one interrupted to say, “He has saved more lives than all of us combined.” Not one hand was raised in protest. Silence can be loud. That day, it screamed betrayal.

Dr Giri didn't raise his voice. He didn’t create a scene. He walked away with dignity — and the next day, he submitted his resignation letter. A single line in that letter stands out:

“I accept moral responsibility and resign due to mental distress.”

That line should haunt us.

A State’s Shame, A Society’s Question

Let us ask: why was a man with a sterling 18-year record still working as a contractual doctor under the NHM? Why did his popularity and effectiveness not earn him a permanent post, or at the very least, protection? Was he too humble to play politics? Too dedicated to build networks?

Or perhaps his real mistake was being better than the system allowed him to be.

His humiliation was not a one-off incident. It was a warning — that even the best among us are disposable if they don’t fit the mold. And when systems fail their finest, they don’t just lose a worker. They lose trust. They lose people’s faith in fairness, in service, in justice.

What We’ve Truly Lost

With Dr Giri’s resignation, Assam has not just lost a doctor. It has lost a reflex of hope. The man who had become the first call in a snakebite emergency, the go-to in complicated deliveries, the teacher to hundreds of young doctors — will now clock out for the final time on August 11.

He didn’t demand a send-off. He didn’t ask for a plaque. He only asked for dignity. And even that, somehow, was too much.

His departure should not just sadden us. It should shake us.

Because the question that now lingers in every corridor, in every village where he once rushed in, is this:
What kind of society humiliates the hands that heal it?

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