The Seed of a Rural Doctor

I was the younger sibling in my family. Both my parents were government servants, and in our household, there was no room for idleness. My elder brother and I had to share many chores, taking turns with everything from cleaning to errands. More often than not, he found clever ways to pass his duties on to me. Perhaps that early training in self-help and resilience proved useful later in Sevagram, where self-reliance was not just a suggestion, but a way of life.

I studied at Modern High School in Pune, one of the city’s top institutions, and completed my Interscience from M.E.S. College. I was determined to pursue medicine, but the competition in Pune was staggering—only 200 seats were available for the entire city. When I heard that MGIMS offered 60 seats through its own entrance test, I resolved to give it my best shot. For the compulsory paper on Gandhian thoughts, I purchased a small rapid reader meant for SSC students. After all, the subject was not unfamiliar to me—or to any Indian. Munnabhai may have discovered Gandhiji’s philosophy later in the movie sequel, but I read about it before starting my MBBS—and for the sake of my MBBS.

Luckily, I was called for the interview. I was among the first few candidates, and I remember answering without any pretension. My rural background was genuine; my grandmother lived in a village where she was both a farmer and a social worker. She had established a rural hospital, which she later handed over to the government. During my childhood, I stayed with her, and in later years I visited her during every vacation. That hospital, and her tireless example, may well have been the seed that grew into my desire to become a doctor.

The Interview with a Future President

During the interview, Mrs. Pratibha Patil—who later became the Honorable President of India—asked me about the problems in my village. I mentioned two: “country liquor” and “moneylenders’ clutches.” She asked if these moneylenders were licensed. I replied in the negative and explained how, in return for small loans, farmers were forced to give away grain worth ten times the borrowed amount. She next asked about the commonest disease in my area. I replied, “Naru… sorry, I don’t remember its English name.” Immediately, Badi Behenji intervened and supplied the answer: “Guinea worm.”

The next question was to name another waterborne disease, and I replied, “Cholera.” After that, I was asked about the Green Revolution. My interview went on longer than usual. As I left the room, I overheard someone remark that they needed to hurry up, which confirmed my impression that my session had been unusually long. Two or three nail-biting days later, I received the much-awaited telegram announcing my admission. The next couple of days passed in a haze of packing, rushing to the bank for a demand draft, and preparing to leave for Sevagram.

The Ashram and the Anatomy of Wisdom

We began with a month-long orientation camp in the Ashram. Prayers, shramdaan, sitting cross-legged on the ground for food, and self-help in every aspect became our way of life. Cleaning toilets as part of shramdaan was the least popular task, but I accepted it without complaint. Ironically, when our batch reunited after 25 years, everyone was deeply absorbed in the Ashram prayers and atmosphere. Nostalgia, perhaps!

Throughout our four years, we were fortunate to be guided by dedicated teachers. Of the basic sciences, I liked Physiology the most. It was a subject of body functions, with a logical sequence of events. Anatomy, in contrast, was rigid and difficult for me to grasp. Yet it was our anatomy teacher, Dr. Indurkar, who left a lasting impression. Once, when he came to know that I had made a lighthearted remark to his junior colleague, he called me aside and advised me firmly: “In medical life, it doesn’t matter if you aren’t in someone’s good books. But remember, never be in someone’s bad books.”

Years later, when he visited my home, he told my wife, “Life is like a flowing river. You see many pebbles and stones in the flow, but very few gems and pearls—and your husband is one of them.” Hearing this filled me with a sense of deep fulfillment.

Sevagram Days

Hostel life formed another unforgettable chapter. It is impossible to capture all its memories here—one would need a separate book. The friendships forged then still endure, and I am fortunate that these friends remain just a phone call away. Festivals were celebrated with enthusiasm. Holi, in particular, was eagerly awaited and brought staff and students together in joyous abandon. Dr. Sharma, with his endless jokes, always stole the show at Madras Hotel after the festivities. Ganesh Utsav was celebrated with equal fervor.

The annual gatherings were a highlight, full of performances and appreciation. Every year featured a Marathi play, a Hindi play, and our own orchestra. The Marathi play was my domain. Acting before a packed house gave me immense satisfaction, while the backstage management was equally exciting. As cultural secretary, alongside Dilip Gode as General Secretary, I once managed to organize carpenters to build a folding stage set in record time—a most rewarding experience.

Recreational outings also had their charm. With only a handful of theatres in Wardha, every movie trip had to be planned carefully, complete with college-hired transport. The Cine Club provided welcome relief, with reels arriving by train and the title of the film revealed only at the last moment. I still remember the thrill when it turned out to be Teesri Manzil. Being a diehard Shammi Kapoor fan, I had already seen it twenty times, courtesy of my friend Dilip Ksheersagar, whose family owned theatres in Rajnandgaon. I knew every line by heart and even helped our technician Jaipal Yelwatkar with interval timings, describing scenes in detail.

Friendship extended beyond campus life too. Dilip Ksheersagar and Dnyaneshwar Deotare often welcomed us into their homes in Nagpur and Selu, where we celebrated weekends and festivals. The bonds created then continue to this day. And who can forget Babulalji and his canteen? His aloo bondas sustained us for years, while his generous lending hand made him an unofficial ATM for many of us.

Grassroots Medicine and the Protein Triad

Dr. R.V. Agarwal, Professor of Pathology, was another memorable teacher. My friend Ksheersagar and I often slipped away to Nagpur, until Dr. Agarwal made us sign an undertaking not to do so without permission. Later, when I planned a trip to Nepal, he even postponed a pathology exam so I could go. Dr. M.D. Khapre, our Pharmacology professor, was a maestro of both medicine and music. Despite his lenient attitude, he commanded immense respect.

Our PSM professor, Dr. B.K. Mahajan, had his own unique style. He had written a textbook dedicated to his late son Lalit, who perished in an Air India crash that also claimed the life of Dr. Homi Bhabha. Dr. Mahajan emphasized the agent–host–environment triad and often remarked: “The principal source of proteins in the Indian diet is cereals, cereals, cereals!”

He insisted that we work at the grassroots level, follow up OPD cases, and keep careful journals. I proudly showed my journals to the external examiner during my final viva, which eventually led to my winning the Nagpur University gold medal in PSM.

He pushed us to work at the grassroots, making home visits and keeping meticulous journals. It was this rigor that eventually led me to win the Nagpur University gold medal in PSM. Our Surgery professor, Dr. R. Narang, also left a lasting mark. When our batch won a cricket match, I was one of the players and managed to keep my wicket intact. The next day, Dr. Narang praised my batting, which marked the start of a warm bond. In the final surgery exam, however, I blundered badly in a viva with the external examiner. When I came to Dr. Narang, still tense and fumbling, he asked the reason. After hearing me out, he reassured me, urged me to focus on the rest of the exam, and restored my confidence. The remainder of my viva went smoothly thanks to his kindness.

The Magic of Kaka Kishyacha

The annual gatherings were a highlight, featuring Marathi and Hindi plays. The Marathi play was my domain. Acting before a packed house gave me immense satisfaction. In 1974, we staged Kaka Kishyacha. I played “Kaka” myself. The responsibility weighed on me. The play opened with my long dialogue, a philosophical yet playful reflection on life. Even today, I can recite those lines by heart:

The cultural life of Sevagram was centered around the Adhyayan Mandir, a multipurpose hall that hosted everyone from visiting dignitaries like Indira Gandhi to our own student plays. As Cultural Secretary, the stage became my second home. In 1974, we staged the Marathi play Kaka Kishyacha. I played “Kaka,” and I still remember the long, philosophical opening dialogues that I had to explain to my non-Marathi speaking batchmates on the hostel steps.

When I first rehearsed it, the juniors would stare at me wide-eyed. Many didn’t know Marathi, and soon I found myself explaining the meaning—to curious boys and girls from all over India. Professor Sudhakar Deshpande from Nagpur was our lifeline. Once, during rehearsal, an irritating echo bounced from the walls. Deshpande Sir calmly walked up to the speakers, turned them 180 degrees to face the audience, and said, “Now let the sound waves get absorbed where they should.” Instantly the echo vanished.

Remembering Narayan Daware and Bappa

My 1971 batchmate, Narayan Daware, was “Joshi.” He could never pronounce the Marathi “ळ” sound and would often exclaim “Oh my God!” with mock despair. He was a master of mimicry, keeping us in splits with imitations of our professors. But one evening, he stunned us by reciting a poem with seasoned grace:

Our cast was a tapestry of the college’s soul. Shirish Gode played “Suman Mungi” with incredible subtlety, while Narayan Daware, with his quicksilver wit and “Oh my God!” catchphrase, became a campus star.

Sudhir Deshmukh from the class of 1970 carried a different charm. In one scene during the Ganpati festival, he stood on stage with an aarti plate—plump and dignified. Someone whispered, “बाप्पाच्या समोर बाप्पा!” From that day, he was “Bappa.” He went on to become a cardiac surgeon, serving Latur with skill. Narayan passed away in 2018, and Sudhir Bappa Deshmukh a few years later. They live on in our hearts as friends who filled Sevagram with laughter. In my mind, the curtains are still up, and the applause for their performances is still ringing through the Sevagram night.

A Sudden Departure and a Second Calling

My departure from Sevagram was sudden. Just before completing my internship, I lost my father. His loss changed my priorities. I decided not to pursue postgraduate studies and entered general practice 48 years ago. However, when my daughter was in her second year of MBBS, I was drawn to law. Under my wife Alka’s guidance, I earned my LLB.

The Mark of Khadi

Sevagram left a lifelong mark on me: self-help, simplicity, and equality. Khadi placed everyone—principal and peon—on the same level. These values proved invaluable during the COVID-19 lockdown, when the absence of helping hands did not matter. Life may take us out of Sevagram, but it can never take Sevagram out of us.