The Legal and Musical Roots of Nagpur

I was born and raised in Nagpur, a city of oranges and deep intellectual traditions. My father was a man of fierce convictions—a labor lawyer who didn’t just practice law but lived it as a founding member of the Indian Labor Organisation. He worked shoulder-to-shoulder with the legendary trade union leader, Dattopant Thengdi, often taking up the cases of destitute laborers without charging a single paisa. My mother, a senior translator and interpreter at the Nagpur bench of the Mumbai High Court, provided the linguistic precision that balanced my father’s revolutionary fire.

I studied at Hadas High School and Mohata Science College, where I initially felt the sting of overconfidence. In 1971, I was certain that the gates of GMC or IGMC Nagpur would swing open for me. When they didn’t, the disappointment was a sharp wake-up call. The following year, I turned my sights toward a different kind of institution: the Mahatma Gandhi Institute of Medical Sciences. At that time, it was a combined entrance with AIIMS Delhi, and the focus was purely on science—there was no “Gandhi Thought” paper yet to act as a buffer. I cleared the hurdle and found myself in the top 60 candidates in India.

The Interview and the Family Connection

Coming from a non-medical background, I arrived at the Sevagram interview with no “street-smarts” or rehearsed answers. The panel was a gallery of the institute’s founders: Dr. Sushila Nayar, Manimala Chaudhary, Dr. Jivraj Mehta, and Principal I.D. Singh. I already had a tenuous connection to Manimala Chaudhary through my aunt, Nalinitai, the wife of Dr. Anant Ranade. But family ties were no shield against the panel’s probing.

Because of my father’s profession, they grilled me on the ethics of labor exploitation. Then, the conversation shifted to my own passions. Dr. Khapre, who had heard me sing in inter-collegiate competitions, mentioned my voice to the panel. Before the interview, I had already spent time at the Sevagram Ashram, singing Sudhir Phadke’s Geet Ramayan during evening gatherings. I often wonder: was it my views on labor law that secured my seat, or was it the resonance of my voice? Regardless, I was selected for the Class of 1972.

The Orientation and the D-Block Days

We began with the mandatory month in the Gandhi Ashram, a period of cultural osmosis where we interacted with elders like L.R. Pandit and Pandey Guruji. From the ashram, we moved into the newly constructed D-Block hostel. In those days, “ragging” was a gentle affair; for me, it usually meant being cornered in a corridor and asked to sing a song. It was a time of intense camaraderie, supported by a faculty that felt more like a collection of mentors than mere lecturers.

We were taught by the giants of the era—Drs. Kane, Indurkar, and M.L. Sharma. Their dedication was absolute, but the atmosphere was also one of strict moral boundaries. In Sevagram, the “Code of Conduct” wasn’t just a document; it was the air we breathed. This was the backdrop for the night that would become a legend in MGIMS history—the night I chose the wrong song.

The Qawwali That Shook MGIMS

It was the annual gathering, and the campus was alive with the glow of lanterns and the hum of anticipation. I had performed many times—Hindustani classical, ghazals, even the Friday morning bhajans. But that night, I wanted something electric. I stood before the microphone, the harmonium soaring and the tabla thundering behind me, and let out the first line of a legendary qawwali:

“Jhoom barabar jhoom sharabi…”

The audience was hooked, clapping and swaying to the rhythm. But in the front row, Badi Behenji—Dr. Sushila Nayar—sat like a statue. To us, it was a metaphor for spiritual intoxication; to her, it was a direct eulogy to alcohol, a substance she considered a moral poison. Suddenly, she stood up, her voice cutting through the music like a blade: “Ask this student to leave my college! How dare he eulogize alcohol before me?”

The music died instantly. The hall was plunged into a terrifying silence. Panic erupted backstage. For a week, my future hung by a thread. Faculty members like Dr. M.L. Sharma and Manimala Chaudhary went on a “rescue mission,” pleading with her, reminding her that I was a bhajan singer and a top student. She did not yield easily. For her, angur ki beti (the daughter of the grape) had no place on a Gandhian campus. It took countless apologies and the intervention of the entire senior faculty before the ice finally cracked.

From Expulsion to the Highest Honor

I resumed my classes a week later, a much quieter and more careful student. The incident, however, refused to die. It was retold in every mess hall and whispered in every corridor, often growing more exaggerated with each telling. I continued my studies, eventually focusing on Ophthalmology, which led me to B.J. Medical College in Pune for my specialization.

But the story had a final, unexpected twist. Years later, I stood on that same MGIMS stage. This time, there was no qawwali. I was there to receive a special award that had never been given to a student from the previous four batches: “The Most Disciplined Student of MGIMS.” And the person handing me the certificate? Dr. Sushila Nayar herself. She smiled—a warm, graceful smile that held no trace of the fury of that night. She didn’t say a word about the qawwali. In that silence, I realized that she had taught me the ultimate lesson in discipline: it isn’t about never making a mistake; it’s about how you carry yourself afterward.

The Legacy of the Voice

Looking back, Sevagram was the forge that tempered my voice and my character. The discipline I learned there—sometimes through painful lessons—stayed with me throughout my career in Pune and beyond. The “qawwali incident” is now a piece of heritage, a reminder of a time when values were held so dearly that a song could start a revolution.

Today, as I think of the lantern-lit stage of 1972, I realize that Dr. Sushila Nayar wasn’t just a founder; she was a guardian. She pushed us to be our best selves, even when it meant standing against the music. For the degree, for the music, and for the discipline that continues to guide me, I remain forever grateful to MGIMS.