Where My Silence Found a Voice: My Story with SEARCH

Nurtured by NIRMAN, Shaped by SEARCH: A Life of Purpose

Two years late, but here’s the blog I meant to post back then.

The morning sun filters through Gadchiroli’s dense forests as I step out of my quarters at SEARCH. I can see villagers/tribals gathering outside our clinic—mothers comforting feverish children, elders with chronic pains, and young adults injured from working in the fields. The sight no longer overwhelms me. Instead, it fills me with purpose.

Long before I heard of Gadchiroli, my journey had already begun.

A Broken Childhood

I was ten when a woman I knew committed suicide. The domestic violence she endured became unbearable, pushing her to choose death over suffering. I couldn't comprehend how someone could inflict such pain on another. That year, I experienced sexual abuse by an unknown person before I even understood what was happening.

The trauma changed me. I became withdrawn, distrustful of people, especially men, and perpetually afraid. Throughout school and college, I avoided interaction, seeking refuge only with my closest girlfriends.

For years, I directed my anger outward, blaming society, and inward, blaming myself. I never imagined I could change anything. The world seemed unchangeable in its cruelty, and I was a victim of its design.

The Turning Point

Everything changed when I visited SEARCH through the NIRMAN workshop, an NGO founded by Drs. Abhay and Rani Bang in 1986. When I first spoke with Dr. Abhay, I was still weighed down by my past.

"No one benefits from hate or fear," he told me gently. "The problem hasn't been addressed by just feeling these emotions. Try channelling your energy into doing something good."

His words struck me deeply. What if I could transform my pain into purpose? What if I could convert my anger into energy to help women like my aunt, who had no voice or advocate?

That conversation changed my life. I decided to work in women's health, completing my MBBS with a determination to make a difference.

Welcome to Reality

Fresh out of medical school, I joined SEARCH and travelled from Latur to Gadchiroli, filled with idealistic notions of healing the underprivileged. I believed I was fulfilling my duties as a doctor by being there. Patients had responsibilities too—they should follow up, take their medicine, and care about their health as much as I did.

Reality shattered my expectations. Patients would skip follow-ups, ignore treatment plans, and arrive only when their conditions were life-threatening. When we recommended better-equipped facilities, many would refuse.

"If you go home without treatment, you will die. 100%," certain this reality would change their minds.

"They would respond, with a resignation I found difficult to understand."

How could anyone give up on their health so easily? A patient explained her difficult choice: "I will have to spend 1,500 to 2,000 rupees for treatment. My daily income is 200. I'd rather spend that money on my children's education or food for two days than try to save one life with no guarantee of a cure, and let the whole family suffer."

Suddenly, I saw healthcare through their eyes—a luxury beyond reach, a calculation of impossible trade-offs. Their decisions weren't about valuing life less; they were about surviving within harsh constraints

Learning from Dr. Rani Bang

In those early months, I struggled with motivation. Seeing patients make choices that seemed counter to their health interests left me feeling ineffective. One day, feeling defeated, I approached Dr. Rani Bang.

"What motivates you to come every day," I asked her, "even when people don't show up or follow your advice?"

Her answer was simple yet impactful: "My duty is my purpose, and these patients are very important."

Dr. Rani's standards were exacting. Once or twice, when I made minor mistakes, she became visibly angry. I was taken aback—had I done something wrong?

"If you're a doctor," she explained firmly, "you should give your utmost to the patient. Serving the underprivileged doesn't mean providing substandard service."

Her words have stayed with me. The Gadchiroli tribal people deserved the same quality of care as patients in Mumbai's elite hospitals—perhaps even more, given the lack of alternatives.

Into the Field

After six months in the hospital, I was transferred to the Medical Mobile Unit, where my real education began. Travelling through Gadchiroli's remote villages, I witnessed unimaginable suffering, but also resilience and community bonds that overcame the hardships.

In Kurma village, I met with menstruating women, addressing taboos and health issues. I set up open-air clinics, checking patients in fields and village squares.

During an outpatient clinic in Rondavai, we heard about a boy having an "attack." We rushed to see him and found him unconscious. When he briefly regained consciousness, he had a seizure before falling again.

His medical history revealed he had been experiencing these seizures for 2-3 years, multiple times daily. When I asked his mother why she hadn't sought treatment, her answer stunned me: "I didn't know if it was treatable."

I understood the knowledge gap we were trying to bridge. While the family had taken him to a local traditional healer who performed rituals to "awaken" him, I provided anti-seizure medication and explained its use. A week later, I learned he hadn't had a seizure in five days.

This was the first time I felt I could make a difference. My medical degree wasn't just a credential—it was power. My emotions—including those from my childhood trauma—weren't weaknesses but the foundation of empathy connecting me to these communities.

Finding My Purpose

When people ask, "Why work in a tribal area?" I pose a scenario: "Imagine being here with a sick baby, no doctor at the primary health centre for your wife's delivery, and your father having a heart attack. Would you still question my choice?"

When they ask, "Why focus on women?" the answer lies in my past. I work mainly with them because I understand their vulnerabilities in a society that silences and subjugates them. That ten-year-old girl who endured trauma inspired me to ensure no one else suffers as she did.

My personal history has forged a strong emotional connection to women's health issues. What began as a response to childhood trauma has evolved into a commitment to social justice and healthcare equity.

The SEARCH Way

I now understand what makes SEARCH special. It isn't just a healthcare provider; it's a revolution. Dr. Abhay and Dr. Rani Bang didn't impose urban healthcare models on rural communities. Instead, they built solutions from the ground up, with full community participation.

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The four pillars Dr. Abhay sketched for health workers guide my work every day: SERVICE as our foundation,

EDUCATION to share knowledge,

RESEARCH to discover new solutions, and

POLICY advocacy to spread what works.

I've seen SEARCH's "community laboratory" transform 134 villages. Their tribal-friendly hospital treats over 50,000 patients and performs over 600 surgeries annually. But numbers can't capture the significant change in community confidence and capability.

In women's health committee meetings, I see the transformation. These aren't passive recipients of medical care but active participants in their community's well-being. They discuss child nutrition data, plan health education sessions, and debate strategies to address rising health concerns, all in tribal dialects without a written script decades ago.

The Continuing Journey

As evening falls on Shodhgram, the SEARCH campus buzzes with activity—young NIRMANees (youth leaders) debating social issues, health workers preparing for village visits, researchers analysing new data, and patients receiving care that respects both science and local wisdom.

Sometimes, I see the Bangs, now in their seventies, reviewing the day's work as they have for nearly four decades. Outside their window, the Shodhgram lights shine against the dark forest—each representing a touched life, a healed family, an empowered community.

I think about how far I've come from that frightened ten-year-old girl. The trauma hasn't disappeared, but it has transformed. What was once a source of shame and withdrawal has become the foundation of my determination to help others.

Every day when I treat patients, I remember Dr. Rani's words: serving the underprivileged doesn't mean providing inferior service. And I remember my realisation: my MBBS is my power, my emotions are my infrastructure, and everything else is an additional tool.

I found my purpose, making every day beautiful, even the difficult ones. My journey from a helpless girl to a responsible doctor at SEARCH shows the strength of human determination and the impact of advocacy in creating a compassionate society.

The story continues to unfold for SEARCH as an organisation, and for me as a testament to what becomes possible when compassion meets innovation, when science serves humanity, and when healing is in people's hands through Arogya Swaraj.

I owe it all to that ten-year-old girl who, despite her trauma, never lost hope for a better world.

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