Red Fort Blast Casts a Long Shadow Over the Medical Community

It’s strange how certain stories arrive at your desk. Some drift in quietly; others shove their way through with the sort of noise that settles heavily in the chest. This one—about four young doctors whose medical registrations were abruptly scrapped by the National Medical Council (NMC) after their alleged involvement in the Red Fort blast—comes in with the weight of that second kind. And honestly, even after two decades of scribbling through the messiness of India’s public life, you don’t quite get used to it.

On 10 November, a chilly evening in Delhi when festival lights were still blinking on half the streets and traffic was doing its usual honking dance, a car exploded near the Red Fort Metro Station. Twelve people died. Dozens more were left staring at a future they hadn’t imagined when they left home that morning. A blast in the heart of the capital doesn’t just injure bodies; it rattles something deeper—something about the illusion of everyday normalcy.

A month later, the ripples of that tragedy have washed up far beyond Delhi. They’ve reached the desks of medical regulators sitting in air-conditioned offices, sifting through accusations no one ever expects to see in the same file as four medical registration numbers.

NMC Cancels Registrations of Four Doctors After UAPA FIR

The NMC, after reviewing an FIR registered under the UAPA (that intimidating acronym we hear too often these days), ordered the cancellations of the registrations of Dr Muzaffar Ahmad (14680/2017), Dr Adeel Ahmad Rather (15892/2019), Dr Muzamil Shakeel (15130/2018), and Dr Shaheen Saeed (45961/2022). The directive uses that bureaucratic phrase—“until further notice”—which always sounds far more final than people admit.

Out of the four, three—Muzamil, Adeel, and Shaheen—are currently in the custody of the Jammu & Kashmir Police. Muzaffar, however, appears to have slipped out of the country sometime in August, a detail that investigators drop into conversation almost casually, like someone mentioning a misplaced set of keys. The four are believed to be connected to what officials have described as the “Faridabad terror module,” a phrase that has already found its way into headlines across the country.

Now, if you look at the formal order issued by Rajiv Sharma, the NMC Secretary (in-charge), you’ll notice something almost unsettling in its tone—not emotional, not dramatic, just a cold recitation of process. Sharma refers to an FIR filed in Srinagar on October 19, explaining that materials collected by investigating agencies “indicated” the doctors’ involvement in the Red Fort blast. The word “indicated” does a lot of heavy lifting here; it’s not a conviction, not a judgment, but enough of a shadow to prompt the medical authority to act.

Investigators Link Doctors to the “Faridabad Terror Module”

What stands out, though, is another line tucked in the middle of the order:

“Such association or conduct is prima facie inconsistent with the standards of ethical propriety, integrity, and public trust expected of members of the medical profession…”

It’s the kind of sentence that makes you pause, maybe reread, maybe look out the window for a moment. Because doctors are people we instinctively place in a category of their own—somewhere between trust and reverence. We hand them our bodies, our fears, our parents’ prescriptions, our children with fevers that spike at 2 a.m. To even imagine someone with that responsibility entangled in violent extremism shakes a cultural pillar.

And yet, journalism teaches you something uncomfortable early on: people are complicated. Professions don’t inoculate anyone from ideology or desperation or anger. Even so, reading an official declaration that four registered physicians are barred from practising medicine feels like the story took a sharp turn that the script wasn’t prepared for.

Official Orders Cite Breach of Medical Ethics and Public Trust

The Jammu & Kashmir Medical Council, after conducting its own review, exercised its authority to cancel the registrations. No ambiguity there. They ordered that the names of the four doctors be struck off the Register of Medical Practitioners. The phrasing in the order—“shall cease to be entitled to practise medicine or to hold any appointment as medical practitioners till further orders”—is as blunt as a hammer.

There’s something incredibly final about watching a career vanish in a single line of text. Years of study, training, late-night rounds, the exhaustion of internships, the pride of earning an MBBS degree—packed and sealed away behind one administrative instruction.

Then, on November 13, 2025, formal notifications went out. Their names were erased from both the Indian Medical Register (IMR) and the National Medical Register (NMR). Poof. Gone. Just like that. No ceremony, no farewell, no footnote. Bureaucracy rarely offers closure; it offers only updates.

Now, let’s take a step aside—not a detour, more of a reflective pause. If you wander into a café in Delhi today, or Srinagar, or even Faridabad, and casually bring up this story, you’ll notice something interesting: people aren’t discussing the nuances of regulatory authority or the ethics code of the IMC. They’re talking about how four doctors—a profession already strapped thin across the country—could end up here. Some ask cautiously; others vent loudly, mixing anger with bewilderment.

Registrations Erased From National Medical Registers: A Career Ends Overnight

A few question the pace of the cancellation—“too early,” they say—while others argue the opposite, insisting the medical community must be held to the highest standards. And somewhere in those conversations, the human response surfaces: a kind of disbelief punctuated with sadness. The blast was already horrific. The alleged involvement of medical professionals feels like the emotional version of reopening a wound.

But returning to the main thread—this cancellation is not merely disciplinary; it’s symbolic. Regulators, perhaps for the first time in a long time, are making a statement that the medical profession is not a cloak that shields someone from scrutiny in matters of national security. In truth, the cancellation is provisional—“till further notice” leaves room for the long, winding journey of investigation, trial, and judgment. But the signal is unmistakable.

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