The Dilip Department of 1971

There were no fewer than four Dilips in the class of 1971—Dilip Gode, Dilip Jobanputra, Dilip Kshirsagar, and Dilip Raichura. It wasn’t a mere coincidence; it was a cinematic conspiracy. Back then, Dilip Kumar reigned supreme as the undisputed king of Hindi cinema, and judging by the attendance register at MGIMS, he clearly ruled the baby-naming charts too. With hits like Jogan, Babul, Deedar, and Aan playing in theaters across the country, Dilip Kumar didn’t just break hearts—he inspired a whole generation of parents to christen their sons after him. While other classes might have a single Ramesh or a Rajesh, the MGIMS 1971 batch had a full-blown Dilip Department. Rumor has it, if you yelled “Dilip!” in the hostel corridor, at least three heads would turn, and at least one of them would inevitably ask, “Which one?” Bollywood wasn’t just entertainment back then; it was a cultural compass that guided parents right down to the naming of their future doctors.

My own journey to Sevagram began far from the silver screens of Mumbai, in a small village named Talala, nestled near the legendary Gir Forest in what is now the Gir Somnath district of Gujarat. I joined MGIMS in 1971 after clearing my Inter-Science examination from Bombay University, but the roots of that achievement were planted in the dusty soil of my village school. My schooling began in a government primary school where lessons were taught entirely in Gujarati. Until the eighth standard, I had never studied English. When it finally entered my life, it did so hesitantly, as if it were a stranger—strange words, strange sounds, and unfamiliar spellings. But I welcomed it, sensing even then that this foreign tongue was the key to wider worlds that my village could not yet offer.

The Banyan Tree and a Boy’s Promise

Our village did not even have a high school when I completed the seventh standard in 1965. I still remember the elders of the Gram Panchayat gathering in the deep shade of a banyan tree, debating the fate of our children’s education with an intensity usually reserved for the harvest. Finally, they decided to rent a small house and start classes themselves. The first year it was only eighth standard, the next year ninth, then tenth, and eventually the eleventh. The classrooms were cramped and the blackboards were chipped and grey, but for us, they were doorways to possibilities we had never imagined.

The aspiration to study medicine had been planted in me much earlier by my father, who spoke of doctors with a mixture of admiration and hope. By the time I was ten years old, in the fifth standard, I began to see myself as a future physician. On the labels of my notebooks, after writing my name, I would add in clumsy, determined handwriting: “MBBS, FRCS.” My classmates found it amusing and sometimes teased me about my lofty titles, but to me, it was a quiet, private declaration of intent—a boy’s promise to himself. That promise carried me through the dusty classrooms of Talala and through the cramped hostel rooms of Mumbai, and finally, in 1971, it brought me to Sevagram where the dream began to take on real flesh and bone.

From the Gir Forest to the Mumbai Trams

I passed my SSC examination in 1969 from that small village school in Talala. Leaving home at that age was a wrenching experience, but I knew that if I wanted to chase my dream, I had to step out of the familiar. With a small metal trunk, a few sets of clothes, and a heart filled with a volatile mix of nervousness and excitement, I moved to Mumbai. I stayed in a hostel and joined Khalsa College in Matunga. Mumbai was a different world altogether. The suffocating crowds, the clattering trams, and the endless, frantic rush of people felt overwhelming to a village boy. Yet, within that chaos, I found a rhythm.

The hostel became my anchor, and Khalsa College my training ground. I studied hard, often burning the midnight oil under a dim bulb, determined not to waste the opportunity my parents had struggled so significantly to give me. When the Inter-Science results were declared and I saw I had secured a first class, it felt like the gates of the world had flung open. I sat for several medical entrance examinations with my hopes high but my heart anxious. When the selection letter finally arrived from MGIMS Sevagram in 1971, the relief was palpable. It was the first true step toward fulfilling the dream I had scribbled on my fifth-standard notebooks.

The Struggle with the Tongue of the Land

The transition to Sevagram was not without its own unique set of struggles. If English had been a stranger in my childhood, Marathi was a mystery when I first arrived in Wardha. I knew not a single word of the local language, and most of the patients and villagers spoke nothing else. I remember standing helplessly during my first clinical postings, listening to a patient pour out his suffering in rapid, rhythmic Marathi. I could only catch a few stray words and had to guess the rest from the expression on his face.

At times, I felt embarrassed, even small, unable to communicate with the very people I was there to help. But Sevagram teaches you patience. Slowly, through observation and the kindness of my batchmates, I began to learn. Gestures, smiles, and a genuine eagerness to understand eventually carried me through until the words themselves became my allies. By the time I completed my MBBS in 1975 and began my internship, the language barrier had been replaced by a profound sense of purpose.

Medals as a Reassurance of Identity

To my own surprise and immense joy, my time at MGIMS was marked by significant academic success. I was awarded a bronze medal for standing second in Physiology, silver medals for topping Pathology, Pharmacology, Forensic Medicine, and Preventive and Social Medicine, and eventually the gold medal for standing first in merit in the Final MBBS. These medals were precious, but what they gave me in return was far more enduring than the metal they were cast from: they gave me a quiet, unshakable confidence.

They were a reassurance that a boy from a tiny village near the Gir Forest, who had only learned English in the eighth standard and had struggled to understand his first patients in Marathi, could stand tall in the demanding, elite world of medicine. Yet, as I quickly learned, academics were only one part of the gift Sevagram gave to its students. The other, perhaps more lasting gift, was the moral compass it installed within us. Sevagram was not merely a medical college; it was a school for the soul. In its corridors, we learned the dignity of labor, the beauty of simplicity, and the absolute duty to serve those who had nothing.

Lessons in the Dust of Bhidi

Between 1972 and 1975, during our PSM postings and rural internships, I visited villages that were heartbreakingly poor. I still remember walking through the lanes of Bhidi, where most families survived on a diet of coarse rotis and salt. One afternoon, a frail farmer with eyes full of weariness folded his hands before me and whispered, “Doctor saab, paisa nahin hai.” His voice carried no shame—only a flat, devastating helplessness.

I looked at him and replied gently, “Don’t worry about the money. Just take the medicines and get well.” That simple exchange stayed with me through every decade of my career. It humbled me and solidified a resolve that I would carry into my private practice in Mumbai: I would never charge postmen, schoolteachers, policemen, soldiers, or the poor. It was a vow born in the red dust of a Wardha village, and it is a vow I continue to honor even today in the heart of a commercial metropolis.

Surgical Rigor and the Choice for Family

After completing my internship, I returned to the bustle of Mumbai in 1977. I joined Nanavati Hospital as a junior resident in Pediatric Surgery under Dr. Subhash Dalal, earning a meager salary of ₹250 a month. It was barely enough to cover rent and basic food, but the experience was invaluable. I learned patience in the long, quiet night shifts and resilience in the face of pediatric emergencies. I eventually secured a seat for my MS in General Surgery at LTMG Hospital, Sion. Those years were intense—endless hours in the operation theater where fatigue felt heavier than my surgical apron.

In December 1980, I married Shobha, whose companionship would shape my life in ways I could never have imagined. At the time, I was a senior resident at Jaslok Hospital, a prestigious institution. However, Jaslok did not provide quarters for married residents. I was faced with a choice between the prestige of a high-profile hospital and the need to begin a life with my wife. Reluctantly, but without a single regret, I resigned. It was a decisive step that reaffirmed my belief that life is not a race for positions, but a journey where values, dignity, and family must always come first.

Building a Sanctuary in Kandivali

Together, Shobha and I found our footing at a private nursing home in Kalyan before opening our own facility in Kandivali in May 1982. At that time, Kandivali was a rapidly expanding suburb with a desperate need for quality healthcare. We started with modest means but an abundance of faith. We soon realized the critical absence of intensive care in the region; families were forced to rush across the city in the middle of the night to seek life-saving treatment.

With whatever resources we could gather, we established the first Intensive Care Unit (ICU) in the north-western suburbs. It was deeply satisfying to fill that vital gap. Later, we added a dedicated maternity home, ensuring that young mothers from humble backgrounds had a safe and dignified space for delivery. For decades, our patients in Kandivali became more than just names on a medical register; they became families whose lives were inextricably intertwined with our own.

The Heritage of the 1971 Batch

Amidst these responsibilities, our family grew too. We were blessed with two children—a daughter and a son. Our daughter, Shruti, followed the path of medicine with quiet determination. She completed her MBBS, went on to earn a diploma in gynaecology and obstetrics, and later married Dr. Ketan Nikam, an ophthalmologist. Together, they chose to practice in Mangaon, a small town in Raigad district. It fills me with pride that they decided to serve in a place where doctors are scarce, where the doctor–patient ratio remains woefully poor. In choosing Mangaon, they chose service over glamour, much like the ideals I had absorbed during my formative years in Sevagram.

Our son, Nirav, too walked into medicine, but with a different calling. After his MBBS, he trained in ophthalmology and completed his DNB. His pursuit of excellence took him to Sankara Nethralaya, Chennai, where he did a fellowship in orbit and oculoplasty. He married Dr. Drushti, also an ophthalmologist and retina surgeon trained at Sankara Nethralaya. Together, they embody not only professional skill but also the humility and service that I have always held dear. In 2023, Nirav and Drushti fulfilled another milestone for our family: the opening of a multi-speciality ophthalmology clinic in Kandivali. For me and Shobha, it was a deeply emotional moment—to see the next generation carry forward not only our profession but also the values that had guided us all our lives.

Looking back, I realize that the ethics of Sevagram—the simplicity, the dignity of labor, and the compassion for the vulnerable—did not end with my graduation. They became the heritage of my entire family. Success in medicine is not measured in the silver and gold medals that once lined my shelves. It lies in the quiet satisfaction of knowing that you served with honesty and never denied care to someone in need. As I see the next generation carrying this light forward, I am content. The values of the 1971 batch live on, and the promise I once scribbled on a notebook in a village school has been fulfilled a thousand times over.

Looking back, I realise that what Sevagram had instilled in me—the ethics of medicine, the simplicity of living, the dignity of labour, and above all, compassion—has stayed with me throughout. These values did not end with me; they became the heritage of my family. We have tried, in our own way, to live up to those ideals and to pass them on to our children.

Success in medicine, I have learnt, is not measured in medals, awards, or titles. It lies in the quiet satisfaction of knowing that you served with honesty, that you never denied care to the needy, and that you stood by your values even when circumstances made it hard. Shobha and I have walked this path together, and as I see Shruti, Nirav, Ketan, and Drushti carrying the torch forward, I feel content that the values of Sevagram live on—not just in me, but in those who come after me.