By Anonymous*

A baby girl starved to death in a South Indian hospital. No one was held accountable.

I first heard about her during a forensic medicine lecture on starvation. The regular faculty were away, so a professor from a different specialty stepped in. As she listed various types of starvation, she paused to reflect on a case she witnessed years earlier as a young resident. A mother, dismayed at having delivered a second daughter, grew resentful when she learned that the newborn had a minor, yet easily operable, foot deformity. She pretended to breastfeed during rounds. The doctors missed the signs. When the mother disappeared, the baby died.

“What happened to the parents?” I asked once the class ended.

“Nothing,” the professor replied.

“What do you mean—they got away with murder?”

She nodded sadly. “Ideally, the doctor-in-charge should have filed a FIR (First Information Report) with the police. But this is India. Who has time for court when you’re working in a government hospital? There are just too many patients.”

So no case was reported. A little baby girl, quietly forgotten. Where was justice for her?

This is not the story of just one baby. Thousands of girls are discarded in India—aborted, abandoned, or ignored—simply for being female. To combat the cultural devaluation of girls, the government enacted the PCPNDT Act in 1994, which outlaws prenatal sex determination to prevent female feticide.

But to my shock, the mindset of misogyny is not limited to laypeople. I see it even among my medical school classmates.

One evening, before a mock exam, I was casually speaking with a male peer. We were both relieved to hear that a mean-spirited professor would not be proctoring, as she was heavily pregnant. When I mentioned that she must be nearing her due date, he smirked.

“She’s already delivered,” he said. “A girl. Serves her right.”

My stomach churned. For a moment, I hesitated. Should I say something? He was already old enough to know better… But I couldn’t let it slide.

“What do you mean?” I asked gently. “Even the birth of a girl is precious.”

“Sure,” he said, brushing it off. “They’re just harder to raise.”

Whatever that meant.

If anything, young men were not being raised properly. A male friend once confided in me about a conversation he overheard in the hostel. Another student—someone training to be a doctor—joked that if a girl on campus didn’t “watch her tongue,” his friends would sexually assault her. “And when they do,” he reportedly said, “I’ll join in too.”

My friend was horrified. So was I.

The protection of women in Indian culture is often performative rather than genuine. For example, there is a metal picket fence surrounding the girls’ hostel on my medical campus, but this is noticeably absent for the boys. What does this mean? Was this really “protection” or a symbol of our oppression?

What happens when curfews can no longer be imposed as we enter the hospital workforce? Last year, a female medical resident was raped and murdered while on night duty at a Kolkata government hospital. This tragedy underscores the risks women face when a system meant to “protect” them fails.

It is painfully clear—the problem is not just isolated events, but the very structure of India’s medical system. Reform must begin at the roots.

• Gender Sensitivity Training:
  Incorporating gender sensitivity training into the MBBS curriculum is essential. Many medical students grow up in patriarchal environments that normalize misogyny. Training would encourage future doctors to recognize and confront harmful biases, promoting a culture that values all genders equally—both in professional settings and in wider society.
• Expanding AETCOM:

While the National Medical Commission’s AETCOM module (Attitudes, Ethics, and Communication) is a step in the right direction, it focuses almost exclusively on the doctor-patient dynamic. But what about how we treat each other? Misogyny is often modeled by senior faculty. A professor once mocked a female student for answering incorrectly, saying, “You should have gotten married instead.” If we want future doctors to uphold ethics, we must ensure they learn in environments free from humiliation, discrimination, and abuse of power.

• Preventing Burnout:

Physician burnout not only affects mental health but also erodes empathy and ethical clarity. At the student level, one meaningful change would be to make attendance in theory classes optional, while keeping practical sessions mandatory. Many students report that lectures are unengaging or redundant. Giving students more autonomy over their learning would help reduce unnecessary stress and resentment—pressures that often calcify into burnout by the time they become practicing physicians.

True protection cannot be built with fences. It must be woven into the very fabric of medical education through empathy, accountability, and the courage to confront the misogyny within.

*The author is a third-year medical student from India; anonymity was granted due to the topic’s sensitive nature and the potential for professional repercussions. They had no conflicts of interest to declare.