The Scholar’s Son and the Choice of “Gamya”

I was born in Wardha on 22 March 1956, but my intellectual roots were firmly planted in the scholarly traditions of Pune. My father, Dr. Madhukar Anant Mehendale, was a world-renowned Sanskritist whose work on the Mahabharata and the Dictionary of Sanskrit on Historical Principles brought Yale and Göttingen to our doorstep. Our home was less of a house and more of a living archive; discussions at the dinner table spanned centuries, from rock inscriptions to the Avesta.

My mother, a librarian by profession, gave me the gift of the written word. She was the one who nurtured my quiet discipline and ensured I fell in love with books and languages. My very name, “Gamya,” was a musical experiment by my parents. They began with the first notes of Indian classical music: Sa, Re, Ga, Ma. My elder brother, Pradip, took “Sa” and “Re.” When I arrived, “Ga” and “Ma” led to “Gammu,” which eventually softened into “Gamya.”

I grew up in the elite academic atmosphere of Nutan Marathi Vidyalaya, where my elegant boru (reed pen) handwriting once won an inter-school competition. When fountain pens gave way to ballpoints, my script took the “traditional” messy turn that relatives joked was a sign of a doctor-to-be. After finishing my pre-medical studies at Pune’s legendary Fergusson College, I narrowly missed a seat at BJ Medical College. My mother, who had been denied her own medical dream by the circumstances of her generation, refused to let history repeat itself. She urged me to try for the “pink buildings” of MGIMS Sevagram.

The Interview and the 1979 Sixer

At my MGIMS interview in July 1976, facing a formidable ten-member panel led by Dr. Sushila Nayar (Behenji), I gave an answer that defined my professional philosophy. When asked why I wanted to be a doctor, I didn’t recite the standard “serve the poor” script. I told her medicine was the only profession where one could blend swarth (self-interest) with parmarth (altruism). Behenji smiled; she appreciated the candor. I topped the entrance exam and joined a batch of 1976 that was already making waves with its record number of twenty girls and the first sightings of bell-bottoms on campus.

While my academics were steady, the alumni remember me for my presence on the sports field. I lived for the inter-college tournaments. I played table tennis with a smash that sent opponents scrambling and competed in basketball, kabaddi, and volleyball. However, it was the Cricket Tournament of 1979 that etched my name into MGIMS folklore. We were playing an engineering college from Nagpur that fielded two Ranji Trophy bowlers. I walked in at number six under a sharp sun and an expectant crowd. One of the fast bowlers delivered a searing ball; I stepped forward and, with a flick of the wrists, sent it sailing over long-off—out of the ground and beyond the fence. That single shot became a metaphor for my time at Sevagram: a blend of timing, confidence, and quiet precision.

Mentors of the “Golden Era”

My medical education was a mosaic of legendary personalities. We learned Anatomy under Dr. Parthasarathy, who viewed a sneeze in the lecture hall as an “antisocial act.” Dr. Harinath’s Telugu-accented Biochemistry made the Kreb’s cycle unforgettable, while Dr. M.L. Sharma’s theatrical delivery in Pharmacology turned the study of drugs into a stage play.

In the clinical wards, the logic was sharp and the mentors were giants. I remember Dr. O.P. Gupta’s incisive questioning and Dr. A.P. Jain’s meticulous diagnostic approach. Dr. Ulhas Jajoo’s compassionate patient care served as a moral compass. In the operating theater, the mastery of Dr. Trivedi and Dr. Belokar was hypnotic. Even in the stressful halls of Ob-Gyn, we found a spectrum of wisdom: from the military-like discipline of Dr. Mrs. Trivedi to the razor-sharp intellect of Dr. S. Chhabra. Each of these mentors didn’t just teach us medicine; they taught us how to hold the weight of a patient’s life with dignity.

The Redirection: From Paediatrics to the Village

My career path was not a straight line. I initially sought a residency in Paediatrics, but when the lone seat was taken, I found myself as a demonstrator in Pathology. In 1983, Dr. Sushila Nayar intervened with a firm hand: “I know you want Paediatrics, but we need you in the General OPD. You’ll treat children there, but you’ll also see the families and the villages.”

This was the beginning of my journey into the heart of rural health. I registered for an MD in Community Medicine in 1984 under Dr. M.P. Dwivedi. My research took me deep into the villages surrounding Sevagram to collect night blood smears for microfilaria.

When Dr. Dwivedi left to lead the research into the Bhopal Gas Disaster, I was left to navigate my thesis alone. In a rare academic milestone, Behenji herself signed my thesis at the Nagpur airport just before it was submitted. I passed my MD in April 1986, and by December of that year, through a series of unexpected faculty shifts, I found myself as the second-in-command of the department.

The Architect of the ROME and Social Service Camps

My most enduring legacy at MGIMS is perhaps the Reorientation of Medical Education (ROME) camp. Between 1988 and 1990, I took charge of the health unit at Anji. This was no ordinary training; it was a bold experiment in “unlearning.” We stripped students of their city comforts and placed them in the heart of rural India.

I believed that a doctor who hasn’t fetched water from a village well or understood why a farmer prioritizes seeds over surgery is not a complete healer. I collected jowar for health insurance schemes, braved floods during fieldwork, and often slept on gunny sacks after long days in the field. I led students into village homes, guiding them as they studied how family environments shaped diseases. In the mornings, specialists from all branches arrived to present cases; in the afternoons, students fanned out into the community to teach hygiene to schoolchildren and debate sanitation with village elders.

I also spearheaded the Social Service Camp for first-year students. Each recruit was assigned a village household, where they ate what the villagers ate and lived as they lived. For me, this was medical education at its best—raw, real, and deeply human. To reach these scattered villages, we relied on Health Minister Raj Narayan’s “white elephants”—massive ambulances—and our trusty Bradford white van.

Warden of A-Block and the 13th Fellowship

In 1990, Behenji appointed me Warden of the Boys’ Hostel. “You’ve been a student here since ’76,” she said, “you know hostel life inside out. Now sit on the other side of the table.” I moved into the Warden’s Apartment in A-Block and stayed there for five years. I was one of the few wardens who actually lived on the premises, ensuring I was not just a supervisor, but a mentor to students at their most vulnerable hours.

In 1995, I applied for a UNFPA fellowship for a Master’s in Public Health. The program was exclusively for women from developing countries, but Behenji’s personal recommendation was so powerful that the selection committee made a historic exception. They created a 13th slot just for me—the only male recipient. This took me from the mud of Anji to the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill, where I expanded my horizons from rural health to global epidemiology.

Legacy and Guru Nanak Colony

Upon my return in 1996, Behenji assigned me a residence that held a near-legendary status in Sevagram: 9, Guru Nanak Colony. Much like 10 Downing Street, it was a home for the leaders of the institute. I lived there for twelve years, surrounded by senior colleagues like Dr. B.S. Garg and Manimala Chowdhury. It was a period of deep professional stability and personal joy.

I married Anuradha on 23 May 1995. Our children, Ajita (Chinu) and Shivansh (Haddu), were both born in Sevagram and delivered by the sharp-eyed Dr. S. Chhabra. Both have followed the medical call, carrying forward a tradition that began with their father’s “borru” pen. Ajita is currently doing her postgraduation in Dental Surgery and Shivansh is in the midst of Orthopedics residency in Nashik.

On 1st December 2000, I was promoted to Additional Professor. Just weeks later, our 1976 batch gathered for our Silver Jubilee. But the joy was soon followed by the loss of my mentor; Dr. Sushila Nayar passed away on 3rd January 2001. Her influence remains the bedrock of my practice.

I served as the Head of the Department of Community Medicine from 2010 to 2020. Across my career, I mentored 23 postgraduates and published 50 research papers. But my true success is measured in the students who walked through the ROME camps and realized that being a doctor is not just a trade—it is a calling. As I look back at the journey of “Gamya,” I see a life where swarth and parmarth were indeed perfectly blended in the red soil of Sevagram.