𝗠𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘀, 𝗠𝗲𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗶𝗲𝘀, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗠𝗲𝗱𝗶𝗰𝗶𝗻𝗲: 𝗠𝘆 𝗝𝗼𝘂𝗿𝗻𝗲𝘆 𝗧𝗵𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵 𝗠𝗚𝗜𝗠𝗦

In November 1981, I earned my MD in Medicine from the Government Medical College, Nagpur. Guided by Dr. BS Chaubey, known for his razor-sharp mind, clinical acumen, and rapid-fire diagnoses, I underwent rigorous training. His witty and incisive remarks during ward rounds were a hallmark of his teaching style.

Spending two-and-half years in Ward 23 of the GMC hospital, I faced the challenges of residency head-on. Dr. Chaubey’s uncompromising standards allowed no margin for error; he seldom suffered fools gladly and didn’t hesitate to send erring residents packing with sharp remarks.

He left a lasting impression on all who trained under him.

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A month after earning my MD and feeling uncertain about my next steps, I met Dr. Ulhas Jajoo, a close acquaintance from childhood. His younger brother, Suhas, and I had studied together from school through MBBS and postgraduation. Both Ulhas and I were mentored by Dr. BS Chaubey at GMC Nagpur for our medical education, and our families had been closely connected in Wardha for five decades.

Ulhas was then a lecturer in Medicine.

“What are your plans?” he asked. “I’m not sure. My father wants me to start a practice in Wardha, but I’m not keen.”

“Why not join the Department of Medicine at MGIMS? Sevagram has an opening for a senior registrar and can accommodate you,” Ulhas suggested.

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I nodded and the next day rode my Vespa to Kasturba Hospital. There, I met Dr. KK Trivedi, the surgical professor and hospital superintendent.He wore a pristine white Khadi shirt and trousers. His large, stoic frame and spectacles framed a face radiating intelligence and dedication. Despite his mild and courteous demeanor, he evoked awe.

After a brief exchange of questions, he welcomed me to join the department.

On May 5, 1982, a hot afternoon, I entered the medicine ward of MGIMS Sevagram hospital. Unlike the bustling corridors of Government Medical College, Nagpur, where I trained, this hospital exuded calmness. There, I encountered an unkempt resident performing a procedure at a patient’s bedside, stethoscope always around his neck—a constant companion.

He looked at me with a puzzled expression and asked who I was and why I was there. Feeling self-conscious under his gaze, I explained that I was the new senior resident in the medicine department, hoping to meet Dr. OP Gupta, the department head. A sweet smile lit up his face as he took off his glove, shook my hand, and introduced himself as Krishan, adding, “You can call me Kissu,” his face beaming with sheepish grin and childlike innocence.

This was KK Aggerwal.

A week later, I understood why his reputation as an enfant terrible and prodigy was well deserved. His residency was a flurry of action: by 7:30 am, he had already finished rounds, ordered tests, and written discharge summaries. By 8:00 am, he was ready for case presentations and journal clubs. His energy and efficiency were remarkable.

During his days as a medical student at MGIMS in the early 1980s, he consistently made accurate diagnoses, relying solely on clinical acumen without the aid of modern imaging or advanced biochemistry. His diagnostic prowess was truly exceptional.

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The Medicine wards were situated in the old hospital building, now occupied by the Community Medicine department. The makeshift ICU lacked essential equipment like ventilators, multipara monitors, and infusion pumps. There were no echo or ultrasound machines, nor a computerized hospital information system. The wards had towering Kavelu roofs, stone tiles, and walls whitewashed over the years, with aging wooden doors and leaking taps.

Our PG activity room, possibly a converted former operating theatre with simple white porcelain tiles, served as our cerebral center. Here, we discussed clinical cases, made ECG diagnoses, and reviewed chest X-rays. For outpatient consultations, Dr. AP Jain and I would climb the hill to the newly constructed building on Tuesdays and Fridays. In those three-hour clinics, we typically saw only 40-50 patients. With plenty of time to pass, we discussed everything under the sun, including the sun.

When I joined Dr. AP Jain’s unit as a senior registrar, the department was led by three unit heads: Dr. OP Gupta, Dr. AP Jain, and Dr. Ulhas Jajoo. My co-registrars were Kamal Pervez and JP Sharma, the latter from the MGIMS 1972 batch. As for residents, there were just two: Ashok Birbal, who didn’t use the suffix Jain at that time, and Hari Om, who had dropped Arora as his last name.

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The department’s roster featured a series of P-named physicians: OP, AP, KP, JP, and myself, SP. VP (Vivek Poflee) was set to join soon.

The early 80s heralded a golden era for the Medicine department at MGIMS, driven by the “P’s” – KP, JP, SP, OP, and AP. Dynamic young lecturers like Dr. Kamal Pervez and Dr. JP Sharma were deeply attuned to patient care. I, SP Kalantri, joined as a senior registrar during this time.

Like the “P” waves in the ECG, the “P” professors—Dr. SP Nigam, Dr. OP Gupta, and Dr. AP Jain—were revered figures whose influence resonated throughout the institute. They took the department to new heights.

Dr. Pervez was elegant and sophisticated, with a charm that captivated everyone. Dr. JP Sharma, known for his practical approach and use of UP-Hindi, was loved for his simple lifestyle.

Despite having limited resources—each unit had only one consultant, one lecturer, and one house officer—the department operated efficiently. We handled OPDs, ward admissions, consultations, PG activities, and even mortality meetings without any issues.

As one of the “P’s,” I (SP) feel proud and honored to have been part of such a talented and dedicated team. The legacy of the “P’s” lives on, continuing to profoundly impact the department.

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The first MD exam in our department just finished, but the lone candidate didn’t meet the teacher’s expectations. Drs. Gupta and Jain, who had mentored her closely, felt let down. Despite doing well in her long and short cases, she became tongue-tied in the viva voce. Nervousness got the better of her.. However, she managed to impress the examiners in the end.

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“This year’s PG didn’t perform well at the bedside,” Dr. Gupta lamented.

“Indeed,” Dr. Jain agreed, shaking his head. “I don’t know what happened with this batch. We teach them thoroughly, train them for the exams, give them ample practice, and conduct PG activities regularly. Yet, when it matters, they just don’t deliver.”

And so the story went, year after year, for four decades. Every batch seemed to fall short of the previous ones, in the eyes of the venerable professors.

I couldn’t help but be amused to hear the same lament year after year. When I eventually became an examiner, I found myself joining in the chorus, telling the same story about how the previous batches were always better than the current ones.

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Disappointed by their MD student’s performance, Dr. Gupta, who was leading the department at the time, mandated twice-daily PG activities. It didn’t matter that it was a vacation month for the faculty, or that it was sweltering May with only a ceiling fan in the PG room and no cooler or air conditioner.

Only four days into my new role, I found myself leading a journal club. Caught off guard, I hastily prepared my presentation using handwritten notes in blue, black, and red ink—there were no computers or PowerPoint slides to rely on. Despite the makeshift setup, I discussed research papers from the BMJ and the Lancet, and managed to handle probing questions from three different professors, each with a unique style.

Coming from GMC Nagpur with Dr. BS Chaubey as my mentor, I was keenly aware of the high expectations placed on me. It was a sweltering May afternoon, around 2 pm, and the tension and heat had parched my tongue, quickened my heartbeat, and added a slight tremor to my voice.

I breathed a sigh of relief as the journal club concluded and quickly sought out a glass of not-so-cool water.

For the next forty years, I continued to work with Drs Gupta, Jain and Jajoo.

As for these teachers and their unique teaching styles, that’s a story for another time.