Rain, Red Tape, and the Jalandhar Roots

I was born on 12th July 1956 in Jalandhar. My father, Mitrapal Gupta, was a man of industry who supplied atta to the Indian Army, stretching from the plains of Ambala to the peaks of Srinagar. Our home was a revolving door of military personnel, and I grew up captivated by their discipline and the rhythm of their stories. While my father built his business, he harbored a deeper dream for me: he wanted me to escape the reckless college culture of 1970s Punjab and grow into a “decent human being” shaped by values.

He was a man who scoured four newspapers daily. One morning, he spotted a small advertisement for the MGIMS pre-medical test. Following his nudge, I sent for the prospectus. I remember reading the Gandhian Thought paper casually during the train ride to Delhi, only to find that the very topics I glanced at appeared on the exam that afternoon.

When the telegram arrived announcing my selection, we set off for Sevagram. I will never forget the morning of my interview. It rained with a ferocity that caught us off guard. We had no umbrella, and my father, ever the resourceful Punjabi, wrapped my precious certificates in one of his spare shirts and secured them with a towel. We arrived at the principal’s office drenched to the skin, sitting quietly in a corner, dripping water onto the floor while we waited for our turn to face Bari Behenji and the panel.

The Orientation: Ironing with Trunks

My journey began in Gandhiji’s Ashram. The orientation camp was a baptism in simplicity. I quickly formed a circle of friends—Pardeep Handa, K.S. Bawa, and later, the brilliant Krishan Aggarwal, who would become my closest companion. We were a diverse group: polished students from Bombay and “rustic” boys from the North.

Khadi was our uniform, and keeping it crisp was an engineering challenge. Our secret weapon was Rajesh Mishra, the thinnest boy in our batch. We would fold our khadi shirts neatly under our heavy steel trunks and ask Rajesh to sit on them for hours. By morning, they were as crease-free as any iron could manage. This era was defined by such resourcefulness—and by the “slap ritual” of ragging, where seniors would send us to girls with a one-rupee coin to say “Jai Mata Di,” receiving a ceremonial slap in return.

The Surgical Dream and the Gospel of Dr. Das

I entered medical school with a singular ambition: to be a surgeon. I was inspired by my grandfather’s struggles and found a mentor in Dr. K.K. Trivedi, whose lectures on the mysteries of the body held me spellbound. I spent my nights devouring Love and Bailey, often rising in class to add points to his lectures—a habit he indulged with a patient smile.

However, destiny had a sharp lesson in store during my 1979 Surgery practical. My external examiner was Dr. K. Das, the legendary author of Clinical Methods in Surgery. I was confident, even quoting his own classification of ulcers back to him. But Dr. Das, weary and perhaps prideful, disagreed. When his own book proved me right, his pride flared into a cold fury. He awarded me zero out of twenty-five for the case. Had it not been for the quiet, tactical intervention of Dr. Trivedi, my career might have ended there. I cleared the exam, but I folded away my surgical dreams that day, turning instead to Internal Medicine.

ECGs on a Vijay Scooter: The Jajoo Era

Postgraduate life was a marathon of self-financed entrepreneurship. Under Dr. U.N. Jajoo, a demanding but visionary taskmaster, I was sent into the surrounding villages to study hypertension. Along with Kiran Munjewar, our ECG technician, I would balance a heavy ECG machine on my Vijay scooter, navigating mud paths and sleeping on village floors.

I recall one evening in June 1983, while revising my thesis with Dr. Jajoo and S.P. Kalantri, when the world stood still. Dr. Kalantri, listening to a transistor, suddenly roared with joy—Balwinder Singh Sandhu had bowled Gordon Greenidge! The thesis was abandoned as we raced on scooters to Wardha to find a television. That moment taught me that even the most serious academic pursuits must occasionally yield to the collective heartbeat of the nation. From Dr. Jajoo, I learned that medicine is not just about biochemistry; it is about how money, culture, and community intertwine.

Jalandhar: The Blank Cheque and the Bundle of Cash

I returned to Jalandhar in the winter of 1984, a time of curfew and unease following the assassination of Indira Gandhi. I began my career at Gulab Devi Memorial Hospital, treating every imaginable complication of tuberculosis. But I felt the urge to build something of my own.

My father offered me a blank cheque, but I could never bring myself to use it. Instead, my friends stepped in. Five of them arrived at my home one evening and placed a bundle of cash before my wife, Sushma. “He will never take it from us,” they said, “but he cannot refuse you.” That act of generosity was the foundation of my 30-bed facility. By 2010, this had grown into a 125-bed multispecialty hospital, a landmark of care in Jalandhar.

Looking back, I see a life shaped by the discipline of Jalandhar, the “doodles of wisdom” from Krishan Aggarwal, and the relentless rigor of Sevagram. I entered as a boy who didn’t know how to iron khadi; I left as a physician who understood that healing begins with humility.