A girl reacts as a health worker collects her swab sample to test for COVID-19 in Mumbai, India, Tuesday, April 20, 2021. (Rajanish Kakade/AP)
“Are you ok? Did Mesho get vaccinated yet?” I emailed my cousins in India about my uncle with chronic medical issues as I slowly began to understand the growing devastation from surging COVID-19 cases.
For many Indian-Americans, the flickers of hope for normalcy in our lives here in the United States have been washed away by concern for our families in the midst of the crisis in India.
As I wrote, my mind jumped from worry for their safety to memories of my childhood visits to my ancestral home. I remember the first time I walked into a temple off the busy streets of Kolkata and found another boy who pleaded with me for money. Under his tattered clothes, I saw his emaciated body. Under the dirt that covered his face, I saw sad, longing eyes. His body and his being were ravaged by poverty. At 8 years old, I could not understand how our childhoods could be so different, and how the world could let him suffer so much. That haunting image began my journey to pursue medicine and work in global health.