The Delhi Roots and the Emissary’s Influence

I was born on 11th June 1958 in Allahabad, a city where the confluence of rivers seemed to mirror the confluence of ideas in our home. My father, Dr. O. B. Tandon, was an agricultural and veterinary geneticist of international repute. In the 1970s, he served as the Deputy Director General at the Indian Council of Agricultural Research (ICAR). My mother, Indrajit Tandon, was a homemaker and a social activist with a background in cytogenetics. Even though she had stepped away from the laboratory to raise us, the scientific method and a deep-seated social conscience remained the bedrock of our household.

I was the eldest of three siblings. My sister Amal eventually joined the MGIMS 1981 batch and later specialized in Hospital Administration at AIIMS, while my brother Havind pursued Orthopaedics at UCMS. Growing up in the Air Force Central School at Subroto Park in New Delhi, I was surrounded by a culture of discipline and service. However, it was a family friend, the late Professor Dr. Shanti Ghosh, who truly steered me toward Sevagram.

Dr. Ghosh was a paediatrician whose husband had been Mahatma Gandhi’s emissary during the complex negotiations with British authorities. This personal lineage to the Mahatma, combined with our family’s ties to the great Purushottam Das Tandon ji, made the decision to apply to MGIMS feel like a homecoming to a philosophy rather than just a college. In 1976, after a year at Sri Venkateswara College, I boarded the Dakshin Express with a suitcase full of textbooks and a heart full of anticipation.

Freedom at Midnight and the Dim Lights of the Notice Board

The journey to Sevagram was an education in itself. Vijay Ramdasi and I arrived at Wardha East, a station that was little more than a platform under the vast Vidarbha sky. We stayed at the Annapurna Hotel, a landmark for generations of MGIMS students, and took a cycle rickshaw to the campus the next morning.

The interview panel was a formidable assembly of the institute’s architects: Badi Behenji (Dr. Sushila Nayar), Chhoti Behenji (Manimala ji), and Shriman Narayan. I remember the intellectual thrill of that conversation. We didn’t dwell on the rote memorization of biology; instead, we discussed Freedom at Midnight by Dominique Lapierre and the Duke of Edinburgh Award I had received in school. The panel was interested in the person behind the roll number—a hallmark of the Sevagram entrance process.

I spent that afternoon at Babulal’s canteen, sipping tea and feeling the nervous energy of the other candidates. It was around 8:30 p.m. when the selection list was pinned to the notice board under a dim, flickering light. My name was there. I had been selected for the 1976 MBBS batch. I ran to the nearest telephone booth to make a trunk call home. It took nearly two hours for the operator to connect me, but when I finally heard my father’s voice at 10 p.m., the distance between Delhi and Sevagram finally vanished.

The Rhythm of the Ashram and the “Dirty Dozen”

The first fortnight at the Gandhi Ashram remains the most transformative period of my life. Our days began at 5 a.m. with the chime of the temple bell. We participated in Sarva Dharma Prarthana, yoga, and spinning the Ambar charkha. These were not just symbolic acts; they were lessons in the dignity of labor (Shramdan). We learned that a doctor’s hands must be equally comfortable with a scalpel as they are with a broom or a charkha.

When we moved to the A Block hostel, I was allotted Room No. 18. Our warden, Professor Sutikshna Pandey, was a man who saw potential where we saw only medical students. He cast me in several Hindi plays, teaching me that communication and empathy are as vital as clinical skills. Life in the hostel was a delicate balance between academic pressure and the mischief of the 1974 batch, who called themselves “The Dirty Dozen.” They were our tormentors during the first few weeks of ragging, but they soon became our mentors, teaching us how to survive the grueling units and clinical postings.

First MBBS: The Cadaver as the First Teacher

The transition into the First MBBS was a plunge into the deep end of medical science. Professors Parthasarathy, Ingole, and Harinath were our guides through the labyrinth of the human body. The dissection hall was a place of quiet reverence. I remember the weight of Gray’s Anatomy and the hours spent sketching the brachial plexus and the intricate pathways of the cranial nerves.

Anatomy taught us about the structure, but Physiology and Biochemistry taught us about the miraculous balance of life. Between anatomy sketches and biochemistry equations, we spent long evenings in the library where ambition mingled with the anxiety of the upcoming university exams. The Sevagram environment, isolated from city distractions, meant that our focus was total. Our batch—including Santosh Prabhu, Ashok Mehendale, and Aruna Mutha—became a tight-knit family where books and notes were shared as readily as meals.

Clinical Years: Matching Theory with Breath

By the Second and Final MBBS, the tone of our education shifted from the morgue to the ward. Pathology, Pharmacology, and Forensic Medicine were the bridges to clinical practice. Our visits to nearby villages as part of the Community Medicine department were eye-opening. We saw firsthand that illness in rural India was often a symptom of deeper social determinants—poverty, lack of sanitation, and prejudice.

Final MBBS was the pinnacle of our student years. Ward rounds became the highlight of our days. It was exhilarating to finally match our theories with the living complexity of patients. We learned the art of history taking—how to listen to what the patient wasn’t saying. I stayed back at MGIMS for my house jobs in Medicine and Paediatrics, finding my true calling in the care of children.

I pursued my MD in Paediatrics under the mentorship of Professors Pushpa Chaturvedi and B.D. Bhatia. My thesis, focusing on the transplacental transfer of IgG and Complement 3 in low-birth-weight babies, was born out of the specific challenges we faced in the neonatal unit at Kasturba Hospital. This work eventually found its way into international journals, a testament to the high research standards Behenji demanded of us.

A Career in the Nurseries of Delhi

After completing my MD, I returned to Delhi. The city was a different world from the quiet dusty roads of Wardha. I spent the next two decades in the wards and nurseries of Sir Ganga Ram and Moolchand Hospital, and later at our family’s Tandon Nursing Home. I had the privilege of learning from stalwarts like P.N. Taneja and S.K. Bhargava.

Those years were a beautiful chaos—the midnight calls, the cries of newborns, and the immense responsibility of talking anxious parents through the most difficult nights of their lives. Paediatrics is a specialty of small victories and immense heart, and I found profound fulfillment in the clinical trenches of Delhi.

From the Ward to the World: Polio Eradication

However, a new calling began to emerge through my engagement with Rotary International. I started working on HIV/AIDS prevention, which slowly pulled me toward the broader world of public health. I realized that while I could save one child in my clinic, a successful public health policy could save a million.

I took on leadership roles, first as the Executive Director for Polio Eradication at Rotary International, and later with global organizations like USAID, Save the Children, and PATH. My work took me across forty-five countries. I stood in crowded health posts in sub-Saharan Africa and sat in high-level policy forums in Geneva. In every meeting, I found myself drawing on the lessons of Sevagram. The Gandhian principles of equity and focusing on the “last person” (Antyodaya) became my strategic framework for global health interventions.

Co-Founding The Health Continuum

After retiring from RTI International in April 2024, I felt that my journey was far from over. Along with a few dedicated colleagues, I co-founded The Health Continuum—a social enterprise dedicated to finding holistic and sustainable solutions to complex social problems.

Our current focus is on newborn care, specifically the implementation of Bubble CPAP systems in low-resource settings. We are collaborating with global academic leaders like Professor Thomas Burke of Harvard and Professor Jude Walson of Johns Hopkins. We are also working on programs to tackle Soil Transmitted Helminths. It is a full-circle moment: using the world-class expertise I’ve gathered to solve the very problems I first encountered as a medical student in the villages of Wardha.

Personal Life and Musical Anchor

My life has been anchored by my wife, Lata, whom I married in 1992. She is the daughter of the late Pandit Mani Prasad ji of the Kirana Gharana. Her voice and her grounding in Indian classical music have been my sanctuary through the years of international travel.

Our two sons, Sahil and Tejas, have carried forward the family tradition of service. Sahil works in a leadership role with Fondation Chanel, and Tejas is with Transform Health. They are tackling public health and social challenges across continents, proving that the values of Sevagram can be translated into a modern, global context.

Reflecting on the Sevagram Legacy

Today, when I look back at that 17-year-old boy boarding the Dakshin Express, I see how much Sevagram gave me. It gave me more than just the knowledge to treat a disease; it gave me the compassion to treat a person and the vision to treat a society.

The soil of MGIMS remains etched in my heart. The clatter of the A-Block corridors, the smell of the first rains on the Vidarbha dust, and the suppressed giggles during a boring lecture are all part of a melody that still plays in my mind. I am a product of the Wardha ward rounds and the Ashram prayers, and as I continue my work in global health, I know that the smallest act of sincerity can ripple far beyond what we can see.