It’s 1943 and with WWII raging on, in a small British outpost village 80 km west of Delhi, India, a little girl along with her father watch in horror as his 2-year-old son, blue in the face, struggles to breathe from an unknown illness. With death upon the helpless little boy’s doorstep, like a lion about to stake its claim on its prey, the father scoops up his son’s limp body and madly races to a nearby American missionary-type hospital. It was a humble white-washed plaster structure, laden with mud and dirt creeping up and splashed on its side, with rusted cylindrical steel bars for windows and a wooden door which bore the slash marks from the constant whipping of rain, humidity and high heat. With a great amount of urgency and panic, the father let out a desperate cry for help. A man came valiantly forth, and calmly took the little boy and laid him on a cot bed. Upon examining, he diagnosed a serious infection known as diphtheria. With no supply of vaccines or oxygen available in the village, the doctor using a common needle-like medical device quickly established an airway directly into the boy’s windpipe through his neck so that air could reach his lungs. The serum arrived at the village by horseback some 48 hours later. Quick thinking and skill of the doctor saved the little boy that day.

Dr. Edmundson did his duty (“dharma”). The rest is fate (“karma”). The little boy who was saved grew up to be Air Marshal of the Indian Air Force, married and had a family. Dr. Edmundson’s kindness, service and duty left an indelible mark on the little girl, Dr. Madhuri Singh, the founder of the clinic. She built the clinic to serve the “village” and embody and pay forward what Dr. Edmundson did that day.

Her promise is: All who walk through the doors deserve the care and respect that her brother received that day so they too can enjoy what life has to offer.