It was during a routine ward round in my first week at Sevagram that I first understood how fragile life could be. I had just been admitted to MGIMS as a first year student of the class of 1975 and had spent barely the first week of the two-week long fortnight, our orientation camp. I developed malaria , and was admitted to the medicine general ward when Dr Shyam Babhulkar, the intern and Asha Ramachandran, one of the senior medical students, placed her stethoscope on my chest.

“Wait… wait,” she said, frowning. “Do you hear that?”

I looked at her, puzzled. “Hear what?”

“That murmur—your aortic valve. Have you felt short of breath?”

I shook my head, not fully understanding. Within minutes, Dr. O.P. Gupta confirmed her finding, and then Dr. A.P. Jain examined me with a calm, clinical air. “Yes,” he said finally. “You have a leaking aortic valve. This is serious.”

I remember sitting there, stunned. The words echoed in my mind. My dream of studying medicine, of becoming a doctor to serve people, seemed to crumble before it had even begun. My heart—the very organ I had wanted to heal in others—was faulty in my own body. For a moment, I feared my journey in medicine was over.

But life, I would soon learn, has a strange way of testing and rewarding resilience.

Roots in Punjab

I was born in Chamunda Devi, a small village about twenty-five kilometers from Amritsar. My father had migrated from Karachi, my mother from Sialkot, both uprooted by the Partition. My mother married at fifteen, and I arrived when she was eighteen. My father worked in the electricity department, and money was always scarce. Our three brothers shared a single room, yet my parents never compromised on education.

I remember my mother counting pennies and stitching clothes until late at night, just so we could attend the best schools. “Education is our only treasure,” she would say, her voice soft but firm. That treasure proved its worth: all three of us won national scholarships, easing our parents’ anxieties.

In our town, medical care was mostly in the hands of quacks. Once, during my school days, my knees swelled painfully, and my mother took me to a local healer. I suffered for weeks before the swelling subsided, only later learning it was rheumatic fever. That early brush with illness left a permanent mark on me: I wanted to provide proper medical care to towns like mine, where knowledge and skill were scarce.

Though most bright students in our generation leaned toward engineering, I felt an unshakable pull toward medicine. It was not a glamorous choice, nor a safe one for a poor boy like me—but it was mine.

Sevagram Beckons

My first attempt at a medical entrance had failed. But fate intervened when a friend who got admission at Aligarh suggested I try MGIMS. We were brahmins, pure vegetarians, and would not even touch an egg. Let alone eat it. Religion ran deep in the  family and my parents believed in selfless service. My father, a man who believed deeply in tradition and discipline, was impressed by Sevagram’s strict code of conduct. “This is the right place for you,” he said.

We traveled from Ropad to Old Delhi Station and boarded the GT Express to Wardha. Money was tight—five thousand rupees for tuition, hostel, and mess. My father hid it under the sole of his shoe for safekeeping. The third-class compartment was packed; I sat atop our iron trunk while he stood beside me. At Bhopal, unaware that we were in a reserved coach with an unreserved ticket, the conductor demanded we leave. Panic rose. But luck, in the form of Dinesh Sharma from the 1971 batch, came to our aid. He arranged our seating, advised my father on a small bribe—his first ever—and thus, we reached Sevagram.

At the Annapurna Hotel, along with other parents and students, I waited for my interview with Dr. Sushila Nayar. She asked, “Why do you want to be a doctor, and why MGIMS?”

I stammered, words tumbling out: “I… I come from a Brahmin family… purity in thought, deed, and food… and I find that here in Sevagram.”

She looked surprised at the awkward seventeen-year-old before her but allotted me a seat. The journey had begun.

Orientation at Gandhiji’s Ashram was meant to be a week of inspiration, reflection, and bonding with my new peers. Instead, it became the beginning of one of the most challenging periods of my life. Within days, I fell ill with malaria. The fever drained me of strength, and soon I was admitted to the medicine ward. It was there, amid the quiet hum of fans and the soft murmur of patients, that something unexpected happened—a murmur was detected on my chest.

A leaking aortic valve.

I remember the moment with startling clarity: the stethoscope pressed lightly on my chest, the pause, the concerned glance exchanged between the young medical student and the resident doctor. Soon, the matter escalated to the medical board. I was asked to secure a fitness certificate from PGI Chandigarh before I could continue my medical education.

I had been to Chandigarh before, and that familiarity gave me courage. Carrying a letter from Dr. M.L. Sharma, our principal—who happened to be a classmate of Dr. P.S. Bidwai at GMC Nagpur in the early 1950s—I sought the professor’s advice. Dr. Bidwai, by then a towering figure in cardiology, welcomed me with a warmth I had not expected from someone of his stature.

He listened attentively, eyes kind but focused, fingers lightly pressing to feel the pulse. “You have a leaking valve,” he said finally, the weight of his words tempered by calm reassurance. “But I see determination in your eyes. You can continue.”

He issued the certificate, his manner as gentle as a teacher’s rather than the formal stiffness I had braced myself for. He even insisted I join him for a simple meal—bread, butter, and tea—sharing a quiet conversation about perseverance and purpose. By the time I returned to Sevagram, my admission was secured. Whispers of the wait-listed candidates faded into the background. That brief, seemingly minor encounter cemented a lifelong belief: the strength of the heart was as much mental as it was physical.

Friendships formed quickly at Sevagram, forged in long walks across dusty courtyards, late-night study sessions, and shared struggles with ragging and exams. Narendra Kapahtia, Rajesh Chauhan, Krishan Aggerwal, and Kapil Gupta became my pillars, companions who understood the peculiar pressures of medical life. Arvind Garg and Hari Oam, senior students from the 1974 batch, offered guidance that would prove invaluable.

I remember one evening vividly: it was the time of the traditional “ragging” for new students. As part of the ritual, I had to complete Arvind Garg’s practical books—a challenge he set with a mischievous glint in his eye. In return, he gifted me his meticulously handwritten class notes on Anatomy, Physiology, and Biochemistry, and later on clinical subjects. Each page was a work of art: neat diagrams, precise annotations, and notes distilled from countless hours of study. Those notes became my lifeline. Through their guidance, I navigated the rigors of medical school and ultimately secured a place among the first five in my class.

Even today, I remember the quiet lessons embedded in those early trials: the power of kindness, the value of mentorship, and the unshakeable strength that arises from determination. Sevagram, with its simple hostels, dusty corridors, and echoes of Gandhi’s ideals, had already begun shaping not just my career, but my very character.

Sevagram Lessons

During our second MBBS, our batch was sent to Nagpur by bus for postings at the mental hospital and the TB hospital. The long rides were supposed to be about observation and learning, but for half the students, including me, they became a chance to explore the city. Many of my classmates simply vanished once we reached Nagpur, spending their days wandering, eating lavish lunches, and watching films instead of attending the clinics. I followed suit, at least on the surface.

One afternoon, we found ourselves at Liberty Theatre in Sadar Nagpur. The movie that day was a documentary on the life and work of Dr. Michael DeBakey, the legendary cardiac surgeon. I remember sitting in the dimly lit hall, mesmerized. The precise, fearless hands performing surgeries, the innovations that changed hearts and lives—it all seemed almost mythical. For a boy nursing his own aortic valve leak, it was electrifying. I leaned closer to the screen, my heart beating faster—not with fever this time, but with possibility.

Back in Sevagram, my fascination grew. I began devouring every book I could find on cardiac surgeons and their work. The college library became my sanctuary. I would sit for hours, leafing through texts, scribbling notes, absorbing techniques and case studies as if my own life depended on it—which, in a sense, it did.

It was in one of those books that I discovered Dr. DeBakey’s address. With a mixture of trepidation and hope, I penned a letter: “I am a medical student in India. My aortic valve is leaking and needs replacement by a mechanical valve, but I do not have the means to afford surgery. I seek your guidance and help.”

Weeks later, a reply arrived. My hands trembled as I read it: Dr. DeBakey would waive his professional charges and minimize hospital costs. He was willing to operate on me. I sat there, stunned and grateful. It was a gesture of generosity I had never imagined. But the practicalities of life were harsh. I did not have a passport, a visa, or the funds to cover travel and accommodation. I had never boarded a plane. Despite the positive response and the tantalizing possibility of life-saving surgery abroad, I had no choice but to abandon the plan.

Even so, that exchange left a lasting impression. It was proof that the world could be generous, that doors could open if one dared to knock, and that determination could attract unlikely allies. It strengthened a resolve I had already begun nurturing: one day, I would master cardiac surgery—not only for my own heart but for the hearts of countless others.

During my house job in Medicine and Surgery, I was torn between the two paths. Medicine fascinated me—the intellectual challenge, the careful observation, the detective work of diagnosing patients. At that time, Dr. K. L. Khatri led the Department of Medicine. His discipline was legendary: six o’clock morning classes, late evening bedside teaching, and a relentless attention to detail. Watching him, I understood that excellence demanded both rigor and devotion. Yet, I felt an irresistible pull toward surgery—the precision, the immediacy, the chance to intervene directly and change lives.

At a crossroads, I returned to PGI Chandigarh and sought counsel from Dr. P.S. Bidwai, who had already seen me through my early cardiac challenges. “Vijay,” he said gently, reading my hesitation, “you have the skill, the temperament, and the courage. Cardiac surgery is where you belong.” Those words sank deep into my heart, and I resolved to pursue an MS in Surgery.

I began my postgraduate journey in the surgical department, spending three formative years under the exacting yet inspiring guidance of Dr. Karunakar Trivedi. My thesis focused on common surgical illnesses in the villages around Sevagram—hydroceles, hernias, perforated peptic ulcers, inflamed appendix, breast cancers, and thyroid disorders. Alongside me were several remarkable postgraduate students, whose dedication and camaraderie enriched those years: Khushu (1974), Jafri, Prabhu and Mittal (1976), Mandapaka, Naik and Akulwar (1977). Working together under Dr. Trivedi’s mentorship, we shared both the challenges and the rewards of learning, forging memories that have stayed with me ever since. 

Dr. Trivedi, a USA-trained cardiac surgeon, began performing simple cardiac surgeries in Sevagram in the late 1970s—a rare sight in small-town India at the time. I often served as the fifth assistant in the operating theatre, performing tasks that seemed mundane but were crucial—measuring urine output, recording blood pressure, and observing every subtle nuance of technique.

One day, during a routine mitral valve repair, the patient’s blood pressure suddenly plummeted. My heart raced as I sprinted to the blood bank, returning with two bottles clutched tightly in my hands, and began the infusion immediately. Those were different times: blood was not screened for HIV, hepatitis, or malaria, and transfusions were given directly. Dr. Trivedi repaired the bleeding vessel, and the patient—a Marwadi woman from Wardha—went home safely.

A few days later, when he was invited to her home for dinner, he brought me along and told the family, “This boy deserves the credit. Without his quick action and presence of mind, you would not have survived.” That day, I understood what truly distinguishes a great surgeon: the humility to share credit, the wisdom to nurture juniors, and the generosity to recognize courage when it matters most.

Equally inspiring was the dedication of Dr. Shyam Bhabhulkar (MGIMS 1969 batch) and Asha Ramchandran (1973). When I was admitted to the medicine wards for malaria and discovered I had a leaking valve, they were almost always there—watching over patients, checking every vital sign, and patiently answering questions. Their devotion left a deep impression on me: medicine was not just a profession, it was a calling, one that demanded persistence, care, and empathy.

The third lesson came from Dr. Belokar, an AIIMS-trained urosurgeon in the surgical wards at Sevagram. During a bedside clinic, he exposed a patient’s wound that gave off a foul odor. The students instinctively recoiled, covering their noses, but Dr. Belokar remained calm and firm. “If you cannot face the patient, how will you care for them?” he asked. He sent the students out and only allowed them back after they apologized. That moment stayed with me: being a doctor means confronting unpleasant realities and attending to patients without flinching.

These lessons—technical mastery, and dedication to patient care—became the foundation of my journey. They shaped not only how I approached surgery, but also how I envisioned the life of a doctor: disciplined, compassionate, and fearless.

Choosing Surgery

Medicine tempted me, but surgery called. Once again, I returned to Dr. Bidwai at PGI Chandigarh. “If you want to fight your destiny,” he said, “become a cardiac surgeon.” The words resonated. I chose MS Surgery, worked under Dr. Karunakar Trivedi, and learned every detail of cardiac surgery, from measuring urine output to emergency transfusions.

Training took me from GB Pant to Safdarjung Hospital, then abroad for exposure—Uppsala, Chieti, Cleveland Clinic, Emory. Each place added a layer to my skill, yet my mind never forgot my childhood or the boy who once feared he would never practice medicine.

In 1993, Dr. Naresh Trehan operated on me, replacing my aortic valve with a St. Jude valve. Four decades after my first murmur, my heart beat fully, robust and strong—a living testimony to resilience and mentorship.

Across India and Beyond

My journey in cardiothoracic surgery began in 1988 at Fortis Escorts Heart Institute, Delhi. The operating theatres, long nights, and relentless learning quickly became my world. I still remember my first complex surgery—hands shaking, heart racing—but each incision brought a surge of purpose. Every patient had a story; every surgery was a challenge.

In 1995, I moved to Jalandhar to head cardiac surgery at BBC Heart Care. The hospital was small, resources limited, yet the community’s trust was immense. I spent nights beside patients, listening to the rhythm of their hearts, ensuring each beat was safe, while the distant temple bells and street vendors reminded me of life beyond the theatre.

Over the years, I helped establish three cardiac centres in Punjab and achieved several regional firsts: the first CABG in Punjab, beating-heart CABG, mini-sternotomy valve replacement, Bentall’s operation, and India’s first endoscopic internal artery dissection. In 1997, I received the Shaheed Ramesh Chand Memorial Award.

After stints at Tagore Hospital and BBC Heart Care, I led the department at Mukat Hospital, Chandigarh, before returning to Fortis Escorts in Delhi. From 2003 to 2014, at Hero DMC Heart Institute, Ludhiana, each day brought complex cases, anxious families, and the quiet satisfaction of lives changed.

In 2014, I became Director of Cardiac Surgery at Fortis Healthcare. Mentoring young surgeons and shaping programs brought immense joy. Today, at Ludhiana Mediways, I continue to operate, teach, and learn with the same intensity I felt on that first day in the operating theatre—each patient a reminder of why I chose this path.

Reflecting on my journey, I often return to those dusty Sevagram corridors, the evenings spent reading cardiac texts, and the small acts of kindness from mentors like Dr. Bidwai. From a sickly boy in Punjab to a surgeon whose hands mend hearts, the journey has been long, winding, and profoundly human. Every patient, every mentor, every challenge has taught me that medicine is not just a science—it is a testament to resilience, courage, and the enduring power of the human heart.