The Southern Express pulled into Wardha on a wet July afternoon in 1975. The monsoon had washed the fields a lush green, and Anna Sagar was brimming with water. My parents and I, weary from the long journey, found ourselves climbing a narrow staircase above a modest eatery on the market road, where Mr. Champalal Bamb had arranged a small room for us. Apna Ghar, as his lodge was called, was buzzing with anxious faces—medical aspirants like me, clutching files, revising notes, whispering tips for interviews. That night, as I lay on a thin mattress listening to the patter of rain on the tin roof, I had no inkling that Sevagram would become the place where my life’s journey truly began.

The Legacy of My Father

But my story begins much earlier, long before I arrived in Sevagram. I was born on 14th February in Faridabad, a small but growing industrial town near Delhi. My father, Shri Kanhaiya Lal Mehta, popularly known as K. L. Mehta, was no ordinary man. He had been a freedom fighter, a man who had lived in Mailsi, in Multan, in South Pakistan before Partition tore our land apart. He witnessed the agony of migration, the chaos of trains, the despair of broken families. Yet, instead of surrendering to bitterness, he turned his grief into action.

After the Partition, he returned to Pakistan with police—not for property or wealth, but to rescue young girls left stranded, vulnerable, and forgotten. He brought them back to India, ensured their safety, gave them food, shelter, returned them to their families. In late sixties and seventies he started his zest for educating children, mostly girls, he opened Dayanand public secondary schools in Faridabad—fifteen in all—for children from refugee families and the lower strata of society. Many of them studied free of cost. He was a devout Arya Samaj follower, and his faith in education as a tool of dignity and independence never wavered.

My Mother’s Tenacity

My mother, Dr. Vimal Mehta, was no less remarkable. When she married my father, she had studied only till Class X. But she had a hunger for learning. While raising us and tutoring migrant children free of charge, she studied at night. Slowly, steadily, she worked her way up to a Ph.D. in Hindi and, by the 1970s, was teaching at Delhi University. Watching her was like watching a flame that never flickered despite the storms around it.

Between the two of them, my parents built an atmosphere where service and learning were not mere words but daily practice. My elder brother Anand became an engineer and worked with Escorts Tractors. My sister Suman, who pursued a Ph.D. in Chemistry at Delhi University, was the one who gently, and sometimes forcefully, guided me toward medicine.

School Days and a Pact

As a child, I studied at St. Joseph’s Convent in Faridabad. It was a convent run with strict discipline, and though it gave me a good grounding, it did not offer science beyond Class VIII. So I shifted to Kendriya Vidyalaya for my higher classes. Those years were full of teenage dilemmas.

I loved sketching and drawing. I dreamt of pursuing art. But my sister Suman had other plans for me. She made a pact: “If you score in the 70s, you must go for medicine.” I laughed then, certain that marks of that level were beyond me. But fate had other ideas—I scored in the 70s, and the pact became destiny.

For a year, I studied B.Sc. at Miranda House, Delhi University, because MBBS admission required Part I Science subjects. I commuted to the campus for extra Physics classes. The medical dream was slowly solidifying, though it was still my sister’s dream more than mine.

Arrival at Sevagram

In 1975, I appeared for the MGIMS entrance examination from Delhi. I still remember little of the center—its location is lost in the fog of memory—but I do remember the excitement when the results came. I had secured the second rank. I also qualified for PGI Rohtak and BHU Varanasi, but their admission letters arrived two weeks too late. By then, Sevagram had already stolen my heart.

My parents and I traveled to Wardha by the Southern Express in the last week of July. It was raining when we arrived. The fields around Sevagram shimmered in green. Anna Sagar was brimming with water. The hostels and college buildings looked new and inviting. We stayed in Apna Ghar, a lodging house run by Mr. Champalal Bamb, who became a guardian for many of us. He would arrange cycle-rickshaws to the college, advise us on interviews, and even direct us to the khadi shops.

At the interview, I was asked where I intended to work after my studies. Without hesitation, I said, “Faridabad.” When pressed about in-laws, I said I would buy a house near my parents and look after both families. Life, strangely, unfolded exactly in that manner.

The fortnight-long orientation in Gandhi Ashram was magical. We prayed, spun khadi on the charkha, worked in the fields, and sang together. I still keep the small handkerchief we were given, a token for the hours we spent learning the Gandhian way.

Hostel Life and Friendships

Hostel life was simple but full of camaraderie. For the first month, a friend and I would rush for a bath after dissection, the smell of formalin clinging to our hands. Ragging was mild—singing songs, making tea for seniors. Friendships grew naturally. Out of a class of sixty, there were barely a dozen girls—the smallest number in MGIMS history. Yet that smallness became our strength.

Poonam Verma became my lifelong friend. With her, and with others like Nafisa Kapadia, Nikita Bedi, Reeta Mayor, and Meena Shah, I shared the joys and anxieties of youth. Among the boys, we were friends with Madhu Kant, Surendranath Shastri, Akhil Saxena, Akhil Saxena, Krishan Agarwal and D.P. Singh. The community medicine department assigned us to Karanji Bhoge, a village three kms from Sevagram for fieldwork. In those days, the department picked a boy and a girl from a batch by asking them to pick up paper chits. My partner was Madhu Kant, and in those visits to Karanji Bhoge, just three kilometers away, our friendship blossomed into love. We married in 1982, while still residents at MGIMS.

Studies and Medals

I was a front-bencher, the kind who always wanted to catch every word from the teacher’s lips. Beside me, often with his neat notes and unflappable calm, sat Krishan Aggarwal. He was the undisputed topper of our batch—brilliant, tireless, and unfailingly generous. The teachers teased me often: “Anita, if you work just a little harder, you may overtake him.” But I never studied for ranks; I studied for the sheer joy of understanding. The medals came along the way—ten of them in all during my MBBS years. In Pathology, I stood first in Nagpur University and received the Daga Gold Medal. Yet what shines brighter in my memory than any medal is the camaraderie of those days, the way competition was always softened by kindness.

One evening, on the eve of our PSM examination, I sat with my books open and a head as blank as the pages before me. Three entire chapters had slipped out of my memory, leaving me in tears. Krishan walked over, pulled out a sheet of paper, and began to sketch little diagrams and doodles. With each line and arrow he drew, the concepts flowed back into my mind. By the time he folded the paper and handed it to me, my despair had melted. The next day I wrote with such clarity that I ended up scoring ahead of him. Krishan only smiled; there was never the slightest trace of envy in him.

I, too, discovered the joy of teaching in those years. My roll number was 3, and because roll number 2 had failed earlier, I was often the first to face the viva voce in practical exams. Each time I came out, I would gather my batchmates, narrating what the examiners asked, clarifying doubts, and sharing last-minute tips. Soon it became a habit—I began teaching whoever asked me to help. Teaching was not a duty; it was second nature.

Krishan’s brilliance went beyond academics; he had a knack for foresight. Our final MBBS results that year were declared unusually late, on 11 January. Without losing a day, Krishan sent telegrams to each one of us, urging us to join the internship immediately. He explained that unless we completed it by 1 February the following year, we could lose our chance at postgraduate admissions. He calculated our leave, our sick days, and worked out a plan so meticulous that not a single one of us missed the deadline. Thanks to him, our entire batch secured its rightful place in postgraduate studies.

That was Krishan—scholar, guide, and friend, all in one. When Covid claimed him in May 2021, it felt as though a lamp had been suddenly extinguished. I still miss not only his brilliance but also the quiet steadiness of his presence, the way he made life at Sevagram gentler and more secure for all of us. Even after those years, many of us continued to turn to him—not just for our medical illnesses but also for countless other problems—knowing he would always respond with wisdom and kindness.

When I look back on my days at MGIMS, one memory that stands out is from 1982, when a few of us residents were adjudged the best speakers in the Academy of Medical Sciences. Along with Aruna A. B. Jain, Vijay Sharma, the late Mamta Jawlekar, Kapil Gupta, and Sanjay Khot, I too had the privilege of presenting before none other than Dr. Sushila Nayar, who listened with keen attention and expressed her pride in how articulate and well-prepared her students were. Aruna Mutha and Vijay Sharma showcased the many faces of rheumatic heart disease, Mamta and Kapil spoke on malnutrition, while Sanjay Khot and I explained hypertension. None of these achievements came by chance—they were the outcome of long nights preparing our overhead slides while many of our classmates slept.

Life at Sevagram was as rich outside the lecture halls as it was within them. I still recall walking to Wardha East station when no transport was available, watching movies in the small Wardha theatres, the occasional trips to Nagpur for food and fun, or the many journeys home in unreserved compartments, always surrounded by the warmth of close batchmates. There were nights spent in the library, hours of gossip, sudden calls to rush patients from the Ob-Gyn wards to the OT, and countless moments of shared struggle and laughter. What made those years truly formative was the way our teachers in the seventies knew each one of us personally—our strengths and weaknesses—and nurtured us relentlessly. It was in that environment that the roots of knowledge grew deep and strong, shaping the doctor I became.

Choosing Obstetrics and Gynaecology

When the time came to choose a postgraduate specialty, I found myself leaning toward Medicine. There were only two seats. Krishan, ever the mentor, spoke with disarming clarity: “I will take one. I will be in the wards and the ICU round the clock, and the other candidate will always be measured against me—it won’t be fair, and it will be hard. Choose Obstetrics and Gynaecology. Take Paediatrics as your second job. You’ll care for both mother and child.” I trusted him without a flicker of doubt. I walked away from Medicine and into Ob-Gyn—never once looking back.

A Regret

Not all memories are sweet. In 1983, as students, we went on strike against the hospital and directed our anger at Dr. K. K. Trivedi, the medical superintendent. We pitched tents, shouted slogans, burnt his effigy, scrawled insults on the walls, and waged a bitter campaign. Saddened and disillusioned, he soon left the institute. I do not remember whether we won or lost; even if we did, it was a pyrrhic victory. When he and his family boarded the train from Wardha East station, no fewer than a hundred students gathered to bid him farewell, many with tearful eyes. In that moment, we realized our folly. I cried in shame. Even today, I carry that regret—a stark reminder of how easily mob psychology clouds judgment.

Beyond Sevagram

After completing my MD, Madhu and I returned to Faridabad. I worked at Escorts Hospital until 2010 and then joined Asian Hospital, where I continue to serve. Obstetrics and Gynaecology have been my calling, but I never stopped learning—Ultrasound, laparoscopy, robotic surgery—I embraced new skills (which arrived after our graduation) as they came.

Our daughters, Nidhi and Divya, grew up in the same spirit of learning. Nidhi did postgraduation in Psychology and works with a MNC, and Divya a radiologist. Madhu, my husband, continues to practice orthopaedics. Together, we built the life I once promised in my MGIMS interview—rooted in Faridabad, close to family, serving our people. K. L. Mehta Dayanand College for Women, started in 1970, has always been close to my family and to the city of Faridabad. It was founded by my father, Sh. K.L. Mehta, a dedicated social activist and Arya Samajist. For us, the college has always been more than just a school—it became a place of opportunity for young women at a time when education for them was not easy.

Through the Maharishi Dayanand Educational Society, the college grew and inspired generations of girls to learn and follow their ambitions. Seeing it thrive over the years has been a source of pride for my brother Anand and me, and for all of us involved in its management, carrying forward our father’s legacy.

The Rhythm of Memory

Looking back, I see my life as a rhythm that began in my father’s courage, carried through my mother’s resilience, shaped in the rain-soaked fields of Sevagram, and continues today in the operating theatres of Faridabad. The friendships, the laughter, the tears, the medals, the regrets—all merge into one melody. If given another chance I would like to be in Sewagram MGIMS again but in the same seventies!

It is true what they say: you can take a person out of Sevagram, but you cannot take Sevagram out of the person. The soil of MGIMS clings to me still—green in the rains, dusty in the summer, eternal in memory.

Shared Journeys & Connections