Yesterday, the news reached me: Dr. Vinod Adbe is no more. It was a simple, heavy message that pulled me back forty-six years to the corridors of Ward 13 at GMC Nagpur. I was an MD resident then, and Dr. Adbe was my teacher. I spent a whole year working under his guidance, and though our paths didn’t cross much in the years that followed, my memory of him remains as sharp as a photograph. He was a man who never boasted, preferring to let his work speak for itself while hiding a brilliant mind behind a dry, understated sense of humor.
In those days, the morning began at a sharp eight o’clock. Like the great physicians of his generation, Dr. Adbe would materialize in a long, crisp white apron. His eyes were his most potent diagnostic tools—probing, inquisitive, and restless. We would move swiftly between the beds, a small procession of residents trailing behind him as he conversed in a rhythmic blend of English and Marathi.
This was an era before technology had invaded the bedside. We lived in a world where a physician’s primary instruments were his eyes, his ears, and his hands. Dr. Adbe was a master of the clinical craft; he could coax a diagnosis out of a patient’s history with the patience of a seasoned storyteller. He was the very picture of gravity, maintaining a face so stone-cold serious that when he dropped a sharp one-liner, we would walk several paces in silence before the “Twain-esque” irony finally registered, leaving us suppressed in mid-stride by a delayed realization of his brilliance.
One particular memory lingers, tied to the ink of my very first publication. Dr. Sharad Pendsey—a brilliant diabetologist and my senior who also left us three years ago—had led a case report on Cleidocranial Dysostosis. When the paper appeared in the Indian Journal of Radiology and Imaging in 1986, my name sat there alongside Dr. Adbe’s. To be honest, I had done very little of the writing for that paper, but I felt a quiet surge of pride to be in such distinguished company. Dr. Adbe never made me feel like the junior I was; he simply accepted me as part of the team.
Only two months ago, we spoke. He was in Pune, and it was our first real conversation in decades. It lasted only a few minutes—brief, polite, and nostalgic. He invited me to drop by his house the next time I was in Nagpur. I hung up the phone with a smile, never realizing I was listening to a final goodbye.
Farewell, Dr. Adbe. I suspect that in that other world, you have already gathered a small group around a celestial hospital bed, keeping them in stitches with your quiet wit and your uncanny knack for finding humor in the mundane.
Yes , I too remember him as an excellent teacher, we used to meet at CME and medical conference at Nagpur hotels ,by then he had retired from the medical college. I used to be invited to his Holi Milan nights ,at his Shankar Nagar residency, and all had a whale of time late into night. We miss you Sirji.