The Sarpanch’s Son and the Jesuit Fathers

I was born on 29 May 1956 in a small village in the Araria district of north-eastern Bihar. My father, Ramchandra Gupta, was a local zamindar and the village Sarpanch, a man deeply entrenched in the grassroots politics of the Congress party. We were a house full of brothers—eight of us in total—but I was the only one whose path led toward the white coat.

My education began in the humble surroundings of the village school, but a chance visit from a civil hospital doctor changed my trajectory. He looked at me and told my father that I was wasting my potential in the village. On his recommendation, I was sent to St. Xavier’s at Sahibganj, a prestigious Jesuit institution. Because my Hindi-medium background made my English weak, the fathers placed me a year behind, in class five. It was a struggle at first, but by the time I completed my Senior Cambridge in 1971, I had found my academic footing.

Vacations in those days were an odyssey. My village was only 125 kilometers from the school, but the poor roads and the mandatory steamer journey across the Ganges turned it into a 12-hour trek. Those long hours on the river and the dusty roads taught me early on that the most important destinations require the greatest endurance.

The Decision at Patna and the Choice of 1974

I had a dual love for mathematics and biology, leading me to BITS Pilani and an IIT entrance attempt. However, as a boy from rural Bihar, I lacked the “tricks” of competitive exams. After failing to secure a medical seat in my first combined attempt for AIIMS and BHU, I enrolled in the Science College at Patna. It was a time of great political unrest in Bihar; Jayaprakash Narayan had launched his agitation, and the universities were in a state of paralysis.

When MGIMS announced its independent entrance exam in 1974, I spent months immersed in the four prescribed books on Gandhian philosophy. When the interview call came, I traveled alone to Wardha. My father’s parting words were a lesson in autonomy: “You must learn to carve your own path. Unless you make mistakes, you will never learn.”

During the interview, the panel—sensing my background—asked for my views on the JP movement. I spoke with a blunt honesty that probably surprised them. I told them that while the cause might be noble, the sabotage of our careers and the closure of colleges was a price students shouldn’t have to pay. I was placed at number five on the waitlist. Unwilling to risk the vagaries of the Bihar postal system, I stayed at “Apna Ghar” in Wardha, watching as the list slowly shifted. Miraculously, the names above me moved, and I was admitted.

The Crucible: Medicine Wards and “Mass of Protoplasm”

My arrival at Sevagram was a baptism by fire. I joined the orientation camp five days late, missing the initial bonding, but I soon found my circle: Abhoy Sinha, Jitendra Tiwari, and the “Dirty Dozen” gang. We lived in B-Block, room B-34, navigating the mild ragging of seniors who made us walk in reverse as a display of seniority.

However, the real testing ground was the Medicine ward. Dr. S.P. Nigam was a figure of absolute clinical terror. His English was impeccable, his gaze was piercing, and he had no patience for mediocrity. One afternoon, I volunteered to present a case before him—a task most of my batchmates avoided like the plague. Within minutes, he cut me down.

“You seem to be a confused mass of protoplasm,” he said, his voice echoing in the silent ward.

My ears burned with a shame that felt physical. But as I stood there, stripped of my ego, I realized something profound: I was no longer afraid. Once you have survived a public humiliation by a master like Dr. Nigam, the rest of life’s challenges seem manageable. He didn’t just teach me medicine; he gave me a skin thick enough to survive the trials of a surgical career.

The Anatomy of Loss and the Rhythm of the Pitch

While I was finding my clinical voice, my personal life was struck by a devastating blow. During my second MBBS, my elder brother died suddenly. I returned to Bihar for a month, lost in a cloud of depression and grief. My academic performance plummeted.

It was the community of Sevagram that pulled me back. The football field became my sanctuary. Having been the captain at St. Xavier’s, I took to the dusty ground of MGIMS with a desperate energy. Alongside Abhoy Sinha and Wakar Hasan, I represented the college in university tournaments. Those evenings, running barefoot on the sun-baked earth, were the only time my mind was quiet. The rhythm of the game and the loyalty of my friends were the real medicines that healed my grief.

Dattapur and the Lesson of Dignity

My internship was defined by a month at Dattapur, a leprosy rehabilitation center run by Dr. Ravi Shankar Sharma. On my first day, he asked a question that tested the very core of my humanity: “The food here is cooked by leprosy patients. Will you eat it?”

Without hesitation, I said yes. That month taught me more about the “Social Service” ethos of MGIMS than any lecture. I learned that medicine is not just about the eradication of disease, but the restoration of dignity. We saw patients not as cases of Mycobacterium leprae, but as human beings who deserved a seat at the table.

Building a Life in Palghar and Boisar

My path to Orthopaedics was another climb. I missed the single seat at Sevagram by a few marks—the result of missing Friday prayers which carried weight in those days. I moved to Bombay, working at the Parsi General Hospital and Jagjivan Ram Railway Hospital, honing my surgical hands under the city’s finest. I eventually earned my MS in Orthopaedics from Patna and returned to the Konkan coast.

In 1987, I joined a multi-specialty hospital in Palghar, eventually starting my own 12-bed orthopaedic nursing home in Boisar. I married Sapna Nair, a schoolteacher, and we built a stable, busy, and fulfilling life. Our son’s success—moving to the US for a PhD—was the crowning achievement of our years of hard work.

The Final Battle: Metastatic Cancer

In 2016, I faced a diagnosis that no doctor ever wants to receive: metastatic cancer. My colleagues gave me two years at most. I went through the grueling cycles of surgery, radiation, and chemotherapy, preparing myself for the end.

But perhaps the resilience I learned in the medicine wards under Dr. Nigam and the endurance I built on the football fields of Wardha had prepared me for this. Nearly a decade later, I am still here. I am still seeing patients, still practicing the art of healing, though I have traded the intensity of major surgery for a gentler pace.

Looking back, I am no longer that “confused mass of protoplasm.” Sevagram took a boy from a Bihar village and forged a doctor who could withstand both professional humiliation and terminal illness. If I were to stand under those neem trees again, I wouldn’t change a single step of the journey.