In the scorching summer of 1975, my elder sister, then in her 30s, fell seriously ill. Dissatisfied with the medical care she was receiving in Bhopal, we quickly moved her to Wardha, where my parents lived.

Kasturba Hospital in Sevagram was still in its early stages back then. ๐——๐—ฟ. (๐— ๐˜€) ๐—ฃ. ๐—ก๐—ฎ๐˜†๐—ฎ๐—ฟ, an Obstetrics and Gynaecology professor at MGIMS, became our beacon of hope. She diagnosed a severe post-operative infection, and admitted my sister to the hospital.

This wasn’t the modern hospital we know today. It was the building that now houses the community department, originally gifted by G.D. Birla to Mahatma Gandhi and later passed to Dr. Sushila Nayar. Its old walls, filled with countless stories, were where my sister found herself in a private room.

She remained in the hospital for a month, receiving intravenous penicillinโ€”then the most potent antibiotic for sepsisโ€”along with “saline and glucose”, painkillers, and vitamins for her infection. Dr. P. Nayar visited her twice a day. She spoke in her deep voice, reassuring her with, “This too shall pass.” Her calmness, confidence, and comforting words eased my sister’s pain and helped her endure the fevers.

In 1975, I was a medical student at GMC Nagpur. Fresh from passing my first MBBS exams, I headed home for summer break. I took it upon myself to care for my sister, bringing her meals and keeping her company throughout the night in her private room. Having just mastered riding a two-wheeler, I eagerly anticipated riding from Wardha to Sevagram on the new Vespa my father bought, regardless of the time of day.

As dusk fell over Sevagram, the hospital campus was eerily quiet, with few people around. There were no auto-rickshaws, only a handful of cycle rickshaws and a tonga. Cars were rare in Wardha, and the Sevagram square had just a Madras hotel and Babulaljiโ€™s tea shop.

I spent my entire summer break there, keeping to myself, quiet and shy. Despite passing by MGIMS medical students every day, I never exchanged a word with them. Little did they know, I was also a medical student from a nearby college. It’s amusing how, a few years later, I found myself working alongside those very students as a senior resident in medicine during the summer of 1982.

I never imagined I’d spend my entire 43-year professional career in Sevagram. It seems destiny had plans for me all along.

Back then, there were no modern equipment, operating rooms, ICUs, advanced diagnostic tests, or powerful drugs. What stayed with me, then and now, was the care provided to my sister by the nurses, many of whom were from Kerala. Dr. P. Nayar affectionately called my sister “Gudia”โ€”she was small and thinโ€”even though she was a mother of three. The Kerala nurses also used this endearing name. They brushed her hair, bathed her daily, and hand-fed her. Their soft words encouraged her to relax and aided in her recovery.

I can’t recall the names of the Ob Gyn doctors and nurses at that time. But I found out from the 1975 MGIMS annual report that ๐——๐—ฟ. (๐— ๐˜€) ๐—”๐—ฟ๐—ฐ๐—ต๐—ฎ๐—ป๐—ฎ ๐—”๐—ฐ๐—ต๐—ฎ๐—ฟ๐˜†๐—ฎ and ๐——๐—ฟ. (๐— ๐˜€) ๐—–๐—ต๐—ฒ๐—น๐—น๐—ฎ ๐—›๐—ฎ๐—ฟ๐—ถ๐—ต๐—ฎ๐—ฟ๐—ฎ๐—ป were part of the faculty. Were my sister admitted a month later, she might have seen ๐——๐—ฟ. (๐— ๐˜€) ๐—ฆ๐—ต๐—ฎ๐—ธ๐˜‚๐—ป๐˜๐—ฎ๐—น๐—ฎ ๐—–๐—ต๐—ต๐—ฎ๐—ฏ๐—ฟ๐—ฎ, who started her MGIMS tenure in July 1975. I never spoke to the Obstetrics and Gynecology faculty. I simply nodded when they entered the room, feeling awestruck in their presence.

A month later, my sister was well enough to be discharged from the hospital. My other sister and I went to settle her bill. To our surprise, the cashier was located right by the hospital door, where a security guard from the “54” now stands. We couldn’t believe our eyesโ€”or earsโ€”when we heard the total: just Rs 610 for a month’s stay in a private room, including two weeks of round-the-clock penicillin, IV fluids, blood tests, x-rays and daily dressings.

We paid the bill in cashโ€”using Rs 100, 50, 10, 5, 2, and 1 rupee notes, along with fifty paise coins. Back then, there were no UPI, debit, or credit cards. And I wasn’t old enough to write a cheque.

My sister, who is now in her early 80s and still lives in Bhopal, remembers those days clearly. Even though fifty years have passed since her admission to Kasturba Hospital and twenty-seven years since Dr. P. Nayar’s passing, my sister still cherishes her memory, as well as those of the compassionate Kerala nurses who cared for her.

Those days were truly special. Hospitals were havens of healing, where patients could rely on their caregivers. Everyone felt love and kindness all around, and and worrying about money didn’t often get in the way of getting better.