As a second-generation pathologist, pathology has run through my blood since childhood. It was not a career imposed on me, but an inheritance I grew into, one microscope slide at a time.
My earliest memories are of peering into a German-made Olympus monocular microscope, purchased in 1980. I learned to identify blood cells and watched the slow, deliberate movement of Entamoeba histolytica cysts and trophozoites on stool smears. I understood little of the science then, but I understood the wonder of it. With my father’s patient and affectionate guidance, I learned to adjust convex and plane mirrors, angle the light, and coax an image into focus. Dr Narender Kumar Gupta remains my teacher to this day.
That early fascination followed me through school. In sixth grade, I performed my first blood grouping. By grade ten, I had chosen a project on Tridot ELISA for HIV. It introduced me to the role of horseradish peroxidase, a method that then marked a genuine turning point in diagnostics. Each experience deepened a singular love: for the microscope and for pathology itself.
During my graduation years, I set up a small routine laboratory in a pediatric ward. There, I ran blood grouping, urine microscopy, and stool microscopy for young patients. By then, my desire to become a pathologist was no longer a passing interest; it was settled. In 2008, I joined Luzhou Medical University in Sichuan Province, China, as international faculty. I taught microbiology and pathology and contributed to semester training and examinations for foreign medical graduates. I later completed my MD in Pathology at JNMC Belgaum, Karnataka, home to one of the country’s finest pathology departments and Asia’s largest pathology museum.
That legacy has never stopped pushing me to ask harder questions. We may cremate the body, along with its diseases and suffering. Yet genetic mutations can persist beyond that final act. The question is not how we “burn away” mutation, but why some mutations remain unerased at all.
Genetic mutations are part of human biology. Many diseases can be treated, and some can even be eliminated. Yet certain inherited mutations remain embedded in our DNA, passing silently from one generation to the next. Our responsibility is to understand, manage, and, where possible, prevent the transmission of unwanted genetic variation. This is especially important when apoptosis, the body’s mechanism of programmed cell death, malfunctions.
Cells face constant threats: chemicals, viruses, and ionizing radiation. Sometimes the damage is catastrophic, leading to cancer, in which groups of cells grow without regulation. Most cancers trace back to genetic mutations that compromise protein production and DNA repair. Two gene categories lie at the heart of this process: oncogenes, which are altered forms of normal genes that drive abnormal growth, and tumor suppressor genes, which govern the cell cycle, division, and apoptosis.
Protecting the integrity of the human genome is equally vital. We can do this by reducing exposure to environmental mutagens, adopting healthier lifestyles, and detecting genetic risk early. Every effort must be guided by ethics, with safety, equity, and respect for human diversity at its core.
As a responsible society, we owe it to the future to protect coming generations from inheriting defective genomes. We must also strengthen our collective genetic resilience for the challenges that lie ahead on our shared journey on Earth.
And perhaps that is the quiet irony at the center of it all: that change, through mutation, is also the very engine of growth and evolution.
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