Math and I never got along.

That ruled out engineering—a quiet heartbreak for my father, Raojibhai Amin, a railway contractor who had proudly watched two of his sons march into BITS Pilani and REC Rourkela. I was the third son, born on April 13, 1956, to Raojibhai and Shardaben Amin, a gentle homemaker who held our family together. We were four brothers in all—my eldest already an engineer, my younger siblings still in school.

My strength? Biology. Not stellar. Not rank-worthy. But enough to keep a flicker of hope alive.

Medicine wasn’t a dream I dared to chase too loudly.

I passed BSc Part I and applied to the medical colleges in Nagpur. No seat. Nothing. In 1973, I sat for the combined entrance exam for AIIMS, BHU, and MGIMS. Cleared it. Got called for an interview at Sevagram. Waitlisted.

Tried again in 1974. Waitlisted again.

I kept going—I finished my BSc in 1975. Friends moved on, cousins entered medical schools, and I… stayed behind.

My father, though, never gave up.

“Try Sevagram once more,” he urged. “They test your potential—not your past.”

I applied. One last time.

But my mind was elsewhere. I had just cleared an interview for a medical representative’s job at Cadila. Training was about to begin in Ahmedabad. My bag was nearly packed.

Then, a letter arrived.

MGIMS. Interview call.

“Go,” my father said. “Even if it’s your last try.”

I went. I didn’t expect much. I walked into the interview room. Dr. M.L. Sharma looked up.

“You again?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

“Yes, sir,” I smiled. “Third time. I have a job waiting. But I thought I’d give it one last shot.”

He looked at me for a long moment. I still don’t know what he saw—grit, perhaps. Or just stubborn persistence.

That year, 1975, I got in.

No medals. No miracles. Just a boy who didn’t give up.

I studied at St. Francis de Sales School and College in Nagpur. In Class 9, students had to choose—Math or Biology. Geometry had been my downfall, so I landed in Biology. After HSSC, I didn’t score well enough for Science. I joined a commerce college, only to switch back when a last-minute seat opened at SFS College.

That shift flipped a switch in me. From a carefree, laid-back student, I became focused—driven, even. I just missed IGMC Nagpur by a single percentage point. One percent! Had I participated in a university-level sport, I might have made it.

But I hadn’t.

In 1973, with no options left, I applied for the AIIMS-BHU-MGIMS entrance. It was my Plan B. To my surprise, MGIMS called me for an interview. That first trip to Sevagram was unforgettable—my father and I stayed at the PWD rest house in Wardha. The campus, with its pink buildings in the middle of nowhere, felt sacred. Remote. Awe-inspiring.

The 1973 interview brought up a question about Watergate. Nixon’s hearings were dominating headlines, and I had no clue what the scandal meant. Years later, when I saw the Watergate complex in Washington DC, I cringed at the memory.

In 1974, I tried again. Same entrance exam. Same interview. Same result—rejection.

In 1975, to please my father more than anything else, I gave it one final shot.

That August, I arrived at Sevagram for the orientation camp. It was pouring. My father and brother came with me after a small puja at home. I wore the same white khadi shirt and trousers I had donned for all three interviews. A tilak on my forehead.

I must have looked like a complete outsider, a ghati, to the person beside me who noticed me struggling with the pen provided for filling out the form. It wasn’t a regular ballpoint—I couldn’t figure out how to open it. He leaned in gently and said, “Isko aise karte hain,” showing me with a smile. That was Vikas Jain from Dehradun. The sting of that small moment—my ignorance, his grace—has stayed with me. Even now, whenever I meet Dr. Vikas Jain, we both laugh about it.

Camp life was a jolt. Morning prayers, cold water baths, tasteless food, smelly toilets. But the bonds we formed in those harsh weeks—strangers turned brothers and sisters—still hold strong after five decades. What was painful to endure is now sweet to remember.

Room allotment in A Block was thrilling. And terrifying. Ragging loomed. That first day in Anatomy, in white apron and khadi, we were brought down to earth by a stern lecturer. Whatever romantic ideas I had about becoming a doctor were crushed by that single lecture.

Our batch was assigned Karanji Bhoge for community medicine. The week we spent there was another test—makeshift toilets, bad food, waking up before dawn to find a quiet spot along the railway tracks. It was crude, raw, and very real.

The year 1976 was my best. Having survived the most terrifying 1st MBBS exam, I entered the first semester of 2nd MBBS with a newfound lightness. It was the most carefree time of my life. My world expanded beyond medicine—travel, photography, reading. Cinema too became a passion. I must have seen Johnny Mera Naam more than fifteen times, swept away by Dev Anand’s charm. Music, however, remained beyond me; I was tone-deaf and never carried a favorite song.

Years later, when I reflect on what MGIMS gave me, it’s not just the education. It’s the people. The place. The lessons—taught not just in wards and lecture halls, but in the hostel rooms, at the prayer meetings, and in the friendships that stood the test of time.

Back then, I didn’t fully grasp the value of my teachers. Now, I do.

They didn’t just teach us medicine.

They shaped us into doctors—and more importantly, into better human beings.

After finishing my internship at MGIMS, I left for the United States with both excitement and uncertainty. Brooklyn was my first stop, where I trained in Internal Medicine at Kingsbrook Jewish Medical Center. From there I moved to Chicago for a fellowship in Hematology and Medical Oncology at Mount Sinai–Rosalind Franklin. Along the way, I also picked up additional training in transfusion medicine and bleeding disorders—fields that deepened my interest in caring for patients with complex blood conditions.

My journey took me from the lecture halls of the University of North Dakota, where I taught as a Clinical Professor, to busy group practice in Bismarck, ND. Eventually, I found myself drawn to something closer to my heart: serving patients in smaller communities. For the last several years, I have been living in Watertown, South Dakota, where I see patients at the Prairie Lakes Cancer Center.

Even after nearly four decades in oncology, I carry with me the lessons I first learned in Sevagram—that medicine is as much about compassion and teaching as it is about science. When I sit with a patient, I don’t just think of treatments and protocols; I try to bring the same human touch that shaped me in the dusty classrooms and wards of MGIMS.