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Dr Asna wasn’t in a doctor’s scrubs or with a stethoscope around her neck when South First reached out to her. She was at her new home, surrounded by new faces, still wearing glittering ornaments and with hands full of deep red mehandi. It was the day after her wedding.
Like every bride, Asna was glowing—happy, excited, and full of dreams. Her wedding photos had already flooded social media, with wishes pouring in from political leaders and strangers alike. But Asna isn’t a celebrity, an influencer, or the daughter of any political bigwig. She comes from a modest, middle-class family in Cheruvanchery, Kannur.
And yet, Asna is Kerala’s favourite — a burning sensation in the state’s collective conscience — to one the state would never stop apologising. Twenty-five years ago, Kerala, for the first time, said sorry with a bowed head to her, then a six-year-old girl who had lost her right leg in Kannur’s brutal bomb politics, a deep-rooted (anti)social problem.
Today, that little girl is a doctor, a bride, and an enduring symbol of survival.
Raised where election day pulsed through the walls
Asna
“I come from a home that feels like an election booth itself. Located right next to Poovathur New LP School, our local polling station, our house has always been a resting spot for many.
From elderly voters, pregnant women, and new mothers to party workers looking for a quick break from the heat of the campaign, everyone found water, shade, and welcome at Asna’s home. Even election officers on duty often stopped by to rest.
“Since our house is right by the roadside, it’s easily accessible, and we offer help to all, regardless of party lines. Even today, our home carries the pulse of election day,” she told South First.
As a six-year-old, Asna never imagined that the warmth of her home and its closeness to the election booth, once a source of joy and community, would one day be linked to tragedy.
On 27 September 2000, while local body elections were underway, she and her three-year-old brother Appu (Anand) were playing in their courtyard. Tensions were high between rival political factions, and violence was brewing.
Suddenly, chaos erupted near the polling booth. People began running toward their home compound. Alarmed by the uproar, their mother, Santha, rushed out to grab her children. But in those few moments, disaster struck. A bomb—allegedly hurled by RSS activists at a political target—exploded. The blast left Asna severely injured, and her right leg had to be amputated.
And it became Kerala’s pain.
”They were trying to attack the CPI(M) area secretary, but that bomb ended up taking a part of my life,” Asna said nonchalantly, even as South First remained silent, all ears.
The magic leg
Asna
”The magic leg,” Asna smiled, recalling the turning point in her life. ”Like every kid, I once casually said I wanted to be a doctor. But after losing my leg in the blast, things changed.”
She was just a child when the bomb blast took away her leg. But what followed in the hospital shaped her future.
”I don’t clearly remember the pain, but I remember the doctors and nurses who took care of me,” she said. The surgery was done at a private hospital in Ernakulam, and it was there that the thought of an artificial limb was first discussed at home—even before her wound had healed.
It was during those days that fate brought Dr Sundaram into her life. He, too, had lost a leg, his in a car crash.
”To me, he was magical,” Asna said. ”He had removed his limb, put it back, and walked with ease—it amazed me.”
One day, he leaned in and told her, ”Others walk on normal legs. You have a magic leg, you can take it off and wear it when you want.” That sentence changed how she saw herself.
From then on, Asna saw her prosthetic not as a weakness but as something special. Doctors began taking her to meet other amputees to lift their spirits.
Coming from a middle-class family, the road to medical college wasn’t easy. ”Merit was my only option. But my family stood by me like a rock.” That love, and the care she received in the hospital, planted the dream of becoming a doctor, for real this time.
Kerala did not forget her. It proudly watched her growing up, the girl, unknowingly, cocking a snook at the state’s bloody history of political violence.
A father’s sacrifice
Asna with Parents
It was not just Asna who fought to keep going, their heads held high.
Even today, Dr. Asna says her only enduring pain is the loss of her father, Nanu. Without his unwavering dedication, she believes her life might have turned out very differently.
”My father passed away a year and a half ago,” Asna said. ”He brought me up, stood by my dreams, and carried me to school so I wouldn’t feel the pain of my amputated leg.”
After her injury, Nanu shut down his shop permanently to care for his daughter full-time. Every day, until her prosthetic leg was fitted, he carried her to school. When Asna moved to East Valiyayi UP School in Class 5, he would lift her onto the school bus, while a school staff member helped her get off at the destination.
The prosthetic limb had to be changed frequently to match her growing body — initially every six months, and later once a year.
”Summer vacation was joyful for every child, but for me, it was time for hospital visits,” Asna recalled.
Her family’s support never wavered. ”Amma still gives shelter and water to anyone who comes to our home. And my younger brother Anand is now working as a marine engineer in Saudi Arabia,” she added with a glint of pride in her eyes.
A drop of ink, a lifetime of fight
Asna (Photo supplied by P Sudhakaran)
Dr Asna completed her schooling and college education through immense struggle and pain. Her relentless hard work and determination finally earned her an MBBS seat at Kozhikode Medical College. But even there, challenges followed—her classroom was on the fourth floor, making access difficult with her prosthetic leg.
When the issue came to the attention of KSU leader Robert Vellamvelly, he took it up with then-Chief Minister Oommen Chandy. A lift was eventually installed in the college building at a cost of ₹38 lakh, removing a major hurdle from her academic journey.
Back in her native village, the community stood firmly by her side. Locals came together and raised ₹15 lakh to support her medical education and treatment. The Kannur District Congress Committee later built a house for her family—another step in rebuilding what life had taken away.
”I completed my MS in ophthalmology last September,” Asna said with pride.
Dr Asna’s was an arranged marriage. ”My family had registered my profile on a matrimonial website where I included every detail about myself. So, Nikhil and his family already knew everything. I didn’t want to explain more.” She has married Nikhil Narayanan, an engineer based in Sharjah.
Today, Asna — Dr Asna, to be precise, she is not that little girl anymore — finds joy not just in her milestones but in the political transformation of Kannur, a region once shadowed by violence and division.
”Many, like me, have made sacrifices for that change,” she said. Yet she never misses casting her vote. For Dr Asna, that small patch of blue ink on her fingertip is more than a democratic ritual — it is her politics, her pride, and her protest.
