MGIMS 1976 batch

I remember the day vividly. It was August 1976, and I sat nervously in a small room at the Annapoorna Hotel opposite Wardha station. I had just been interviewed for admission to MGIMS, Sevagram. My new friend, Tarvinder Singh Oberoi, sat by my side. We had met only hours earlier, yet we were bound together by a shared anxiety—the long wait for the merit list. Both of us were perched between hope and despair. Tarvinder asked me, “Number one, listed?” I nodded. “And I’m number two,” he said, smiling. That was the beginning of a friendship that has lasted for nearly five decades.

The two of us cycled daily to Sevagram, hovered around the principal’s office, and peeped into Gandhiji’s Ashram where our future classmates were already attending the orientation camp. For twelve long days, we waited for confirmation. Finally, on the twelfth day, our names appeared on the list. Our joy knew no bounds. We rushed back to the hotel, threw our bags on the bed, and laughed until our sides hurt. That night, I felt like the happiest boy alive.

It seems fitting to begin my story there, because that was when the path of my life found its true direction. But to understand how I reached that point, I must take you back to my childhood.

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Childhood and School Days

I was born on 6 April 1959 in Manipal. My father, Dr. Kamlesh Prabhu, was a surgeon who had trained at KEM Medical College, Mumbai, and later went to the UK for his FRCS. When he returned, he helped establish the Department of Surgery at Kasturba Medical College, Manipal. My mother too was a gynaecologist, an alumna of KM Mumbai, who later practiced alongside my father. In such a household, medicine was less a profession and more a way of life.

My maternal uncle, Dr. Lala Telang, was an extraordinary man—a gynaecologist in Pune, Chief Medical Officer of TELCO, and a teacher beloved by his students. Even at ninety-two, he is fit and full of wit. I grew up surrounded by such role models. To me, there seemed to be no other career in the world but medicine.

My early education was at Premier English School, Kolhapur, where I studied till the sixth standard. Then I joined St. Xavier’s, where I studied until the eleventh. In those days, before entering medical college, we had to pass through the two-step system—first year science (equivalent to class twelve now) and second year science (equivalent to class thirteen). I did my B.Sc. Part I at Ruparel College in Mumbai.

Every day, I walked from my aunt’s house in Mahim to the college. On my way, I often stopped at Punjabi Book Stall, a modest shop with dusty shelves. The owner grew fond of me and one day handed me a thin fifteen-page booklet. It listed all the medical colleges in India and their entrance examinations. That small booklet shaped my destiny. As I scanned through the names, MGIMS Sevagram caught my attention. The reason was simple—there was no MGIMS or Sevagram Centre in Bombay. It felt like something new, something outside the beaten track.

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Choosing MGIMS

At that time, I was preparing for competitive exams like AIIMS Delhi, JIPMER Pondicherry, BHU Banaras, and AFMC Pune. Yet MGIMS stood out because of its unusual “Gandhian Thought” paper. On my way toVT station, Mumbai to meet my aunt, I bought the prescribed books from Khadi Bhavan. I remember reading them on the train back, flipping through the pages with the curiosity of a novice. That last-minute preparation helped me clear the paper and eventually land the interview at Sevagram.

The MGIMS interview was unlike any other. I had walked in expecting a volley of questions on biology, chemistry, or Gandhian thought. Instead, the panel sat around a long table, their faces unreadable. One of them—a middle-aged man whose name I never learned—leaned back in his chair, looking faintly amused.

“So,” he asked, breaking the silence, “what was the last film you watched?”

“Doctor Zhivago,” I replied, a little surprised.

His eyes lit up. “And who wrote the novel?”

“Boris Pasternak.”

He nodded, and without missing a beat, continued, “The lead actress?”

“Geraldine Chaplin.”

He leaned forward now, his chin resting on his palm. “And tell us—what was the story about?”

I took a breath. “It is set in Russia during the First World War and the Revolution. The film follows Yuri Zhivago, a physician and poet, caught between his love for Lara and his loyalty to his family. It is a story of love, sacrifice, and survival against the sweep of history.”

The interviewer’s eyes softened. “And the message?”

I thought for a moment before answering, “That human love and compassion endure, even when crushed by politics, war, and the cruelty of fate.”

For the first time that afternoon, I noticed a smile pass across the faces of the panel. Perhaps they were tired of hearing the same rehearsed answers about science and service. Perhaps they simply enjoyed the detour into art and cinema.

That evening, the merit list was pinned to the notice board. My name stood at waitlisted number one. I was staring at it when a Sardar with an easy smile came up to me.

“I’m Tarvinder,” he said, pointing to the list. “Number two.”

We laughed at our shared fate, and in that moment, a bond was struck. Both of us decided to wait it out together, at the Annapoorna Hotel near the bus stand.

The hotel was run by two brothers—Surendra Bajaj and his brother Virendra—plump, cheerful Agrawal men in their late twenties. Soon they took to us as if we were younger brothers.

“Arre, don’t just sit idle,” Surendra would say, tossing us the keys. “While we go for lunch, you sit on the gulla and mind the cash counter.”

So there we were, two anxious medical aspirants, ringing up bills and handing out change to customers. The Bajaj brothers would return, slap us on the back, and chuckle, “Don’t worry. You’ll be in MGIMS before long. Have faith.”

Their confidence was infectious. Between endless cups of tea, hopeful conversations, and the daily ritual of checking the notice board, those twelve days became a small festival of waiting. What could have been a restless, anxious stretch turned instead into a chapter of joy, laughter, and friendship—etched in memory even today.

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Sevagram Life

Sevagram in 1976 was a world far removed from Bombay. We were lodged at Gandhi Ashram for the orientation camp. At dawn, we attended prayers, sang bhajans, and wore khadi. Many assumed that a Bombay boy like me would resist the strict Gandhian code. But it never felt like compulsion. Everyone—teachers, doctors, nurses, even drivers—wore khadi. It was part of the air we breathed.

When the orientation ended, I moved to A-block of the boys’ hostel. Friendships grew quickly—Tarvinder, Rajiv Tandon, Ashok Mehendale, Kiran Swaroop, Atul Deodhar, Gopa Chatterjee, Aruna Mutha, Narindar Sandhu, and Gauri Tuli. We formed a lively group. Ragging was mild, nothing beyond playful moustache-pulling. I remember one senior threatening to pluck my moustache with forceps if I did not shave it off. I obeyed, and that was the end of it.

Life at MGIMS was simple but rich. We had inspiring teachers who not only taught medicine but also ethics, communication, and the responsibility of serving society. I joined college dramas, played table tennis, and represented the university. Unlike many, I never cared for hostel politics or the North-South divide. My heart was always apolitical.

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House Job and Bombay Days

After completing my internship, I was eager to widen my horizons. A government rule allowed house jobs done in any MCI-recognised hospital to be considered valid. My aunt, an anaesthetist at Bombay Hospital, invited me to work there. Bombay Hospital in the late 1970s was a world-class institution with modern equipment and the best doctors.

Though I wanted a post in obstetrics and gynaecology, politics played its part and the seat went to someone with strong connections. I was left with no job. It was then that I noticed an opening for a house officer in neurosurgery at Nair Hospital. I applied, not knowing that this step would change my life forever.

At Bombay hospital, I worked under Dr. Daftari and Dr. Suresh Wagh. Neurosurgery fascinated me. The sight of the brain exposed under the surgeon’s steady hand, the delicate removal of tumours—it was awe-inspiring. I also met Dr. S.N. Bhagwati, who had been my father’s junior. On learning that I was Dr. K.P. Prabhu’s son, he welcomed me warmly. I began assisting him as well.

Equally influential was Dr. T.P. Kulkarni, a vascular surgeon and my father’s classmate. He often invited me to assist in his operations. Watching him perform delicate vascular procedures planted the seeds of my future interest in carotid artery repair surgery.

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The Fight for MS Surgery

After six months in Bombay, I returned to Sevagram, confident that my varied experience would secure me an MS seat in surgery. But to my dismay, the seat went to my classmate, Dr. Diwakar Mittal. I felt wronged, for the government’s rule clearly recognised house jobs done in other hospitals.

I decided to fight. I filed a writ petition in the Nagpur bench of the Bombay High Court and engaged the legendary lawyer, V.R. Manohar. Many mornings, I rode pillion on Tarvinder’s scooter through the biting December cold, heading from Sadar to Dhantoli for consultations before the hearings. We would find Manohar already at his desk—draped in a simple kurta-pyjama, Tilak bright on his forehead, calm yet alert, every fact of the case arranged neatly in his mind. His presence itself commanded respect; he was then among the most admired lawyers at the Nagpur bench.

In court, his brilliance was effortless. He argued that I had been wrongly denied admission, reminding the judges that MGIMS, though unique in its ethos, was not autonomous but bound by the rules of the Maharashtra government. The Government Resolution was binding; by ignoring it, the institute had erred. He spoke with clarity and precision, dismantling the defense brick by brick, while the lawyer representing MGIMS paled in comparison, his arguments dissolving in the air.

The judge leaned in my favour and offered two options: cancel Mittal’s seat or create an additional one. I chose the latter—for I could not bear to harm a friend. And so, with that judgment, a new seat was created. That winter morning, I entered MS Surgery, not just as a student but as someone who had fought for his place.

My guide was Dr. K.K. Trivedi, and later, Dr. Kiran Kher. I wrote my thesis on diagnostic paracentesis in the abdomen and completed my MS successfully.

Turning to Neurosurgery

Initially, I enrolled in M.Ch. Urology at Manipal. Within a week, I knew I was in the wrong place. I had already tasted the fierce excitement of neurosurgery at Nair, and urology could not hold me. At that time, CT scanners were just arriving in India; MRI was still unheard of. Neurosurgery carried a reputation for relentless morbidity—head injuries, long hours, uncertain outcomes. Yet I knew instinctively: that was where I belonged.

In the mid-1980s, I stood at a crossroads. I was training in neurosurgery under Dr. Vengsarkar at Nair, but I feared that remaining there would put me at a disadvantage. Nair and KEM were fierce rivals, their neurosurgery departments locked in a long, simmering feud. Personal histories only sharpened the divide—Dr. Vengsarkar had never forgiven Dr. Sunil Pandya for being elevated to professor at KEM, despite being an “outsider” from Grant Medical College and JJ Hospital. The bitterness spilled into every interaction, and I knew it would cast a shadow on my future.

So, I applied for a registrar’s post in Neurosurgery at KEM. On the merit list, I stood first. But when the interviews were held, my name was never called. I sat in the waiting hall until 5 p.m., puzzled, then walked to the Dean’s chamber.

“Sir, I was first on the list,” I said to Dr. G.B. Parulkar, the legendary cardiac surgeon and Dean of GS Medical College. “Yet I was not interviewed.”

He looked at me coolly. “You’re not a KEM boy. The post has gone to Dr. Vaidya.”

The words hit like a blow. Anger rose. “But this is unjust. I deserved at least an interview.”

He frowned. “Please leave.”

“I will,” I replied, my voice steady, “but then I’ll see you in the High Court.”

That sentence lit the fuse. “Are you threatening me?” he thundered.

“No, sir,” I said quietly. “I’m only asking for what is rightfully mine.”

I walked out shaking, but determined. Outside, by chance, I met Dr. Prafulla Kerkar—later to become one of Mumbai’s finest cardiac surgeons. He too had been denied admission, and his brother was a High Court lawyer. We compared our stories, and his brother said firmly, “You have a hundred percent chance. This is gross injustice.”

At that time, MARD had gone on strike for better stipends and living conditions. With no hospital duties, I poured all my energy into the case. Within a day, our writ was admitted by Justice Bharucha, a brilliant but short-tempered judge. Three days later, it came up for hearing.

KEM’s head clerk, my friend Mr. Bhiwalkar, was representing the hospital. Ironically, he rode pillion on my scooter to court each morning. In court, Justice Bharucha listened, bristled, and declared that merit had been bypassed. “This is illegal,” he said. “I will pass strictures—and with costs.”

The KEM lawyer panicked. “Ten minutes, My Lord,” he pleaded, “to consult the Dean.”

Bhiwalkar stepped outside, dropped coins into the black public phone, and relayed the message to Dr. Parulkar: The judge has awarded the seats to Kerkar and Prabhu. He is threatening strictures, and you will have to pay costs. Better settle now—admit them, and be spared the humiliation.

Dr. Parulkar agreed. Just like that, the case ended in our favour. I was admitted to M.Ch. Neurosurgery at KEM.

Breaking the news to Dr. Vengsarkar at Nair was another trial. “You donkey!” he exploded. “You have no brains. You were doing so well here. I would have trained you myself.” But my decision was made.

The victory came at a price, though. I had displaced Dr. Pandya’s own chosen candidate, and for that, he did not take kindly to me. For weeks, I simply failed to exist in his field of vision. I was the outsider who had forced his way into a place that had not been meant for him.

Then fate intervened. With registrars on leave, sick, or gone, I was left as the only registrar for nearly a month. Those weeks were brutal. I slept two or three hours a night, if that. I managed OPDs, admitted patients, assisted in theatre, and ran to every head injury call. Some days we admitted thirty head injuries—railway accidents, road crashes, industrial trauma. I often collapsed on the sofa in the department, waking only when the next call came. But I kept smiling. I never complained.

One day, Dr. Pandya and Dr. Nagpal came to me. Dr. Pandya spoke at last. “We have been watching you. You’re doing the work of four registrars, always cheerful. From today, you are my boy.”

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Career and Return to Kolhapur

After completing my M.Ch., I worked as a lecturer in neurosurgery at KEM for over three years. Dr. Pandya trained me rigorously and shaped me into a skilled neurosurgeon. 

That moment changed everything. From then on, he took me under his wing. By the time I finished my M.Ch., he was my strongest supporter. When I applied for lecturer, he told the interview board, “Grill him as you like. I will not ask him a single question.” I was chosen, over eleven others.

For three and a half years, I worked under him, lecturer in Neurosurgery, learning the craft of neurosurgery. Later, I received an offer from Hinduja Hospital as Assistant Honorary Neurosurgeon. I asked him, “Should I stay in Bombay, or return to Kolhapur to practice with my father?”

He answered with a smile: “You can be a small fish in a big pond, or a big fish in a small pond. The choice is yours.”

The choice was clear. My father wanted me back in Kolhapur. I returned, started a small hospital, and invited Dr. Pandya to inaugurate it. He came again when we expanded. By the time we had grown into a 330-bed superspeciality hospital, with a hundred beds dedicated to neurosurgery, he had passed away.

But his voice still echoes within me.

My wife, Sujata Mehta, a bright Gujarati girl from Bombay, entered my life in the most natural of ways. She was a student in the 1980 batch of MGIMS, and I often taught her group during evening clinics in the surgery wards. What began as a teacher-student interaction soon deepened into friendship, and then something far more enduring.

When I finally gathered the courage to propose, Sujata—true to her thoughtful nature—did not say yes immediately. She tested my resolve, gauging the depth of my commitment. Only after she was convinced did she give me her consent, and soon, our families too blessed the relationship. She went on to earn her Diploma in Anaesthesiology from Tata Memorial Hospital, while becoming my lifelong companion in every sense of the word.

Together, we raised two children, each carving their own path in medicine. Our son, Akash, chose neurosurgery, following in my footsteps and joining me in practice. Our daughter, Niharika, took a different but equally challenging road—cosmetic dermatology—and established her practice close by in Kolhapur. Today, both of them work in the city we call home, Akash by my side in the operating rooms, and Niharika tending to her patients not far away.

Looking back, it feels as though life has come full circle—my journey that began in the wards of Sevagram found its anchor in Sujata, and together we have built not only a family but a shared legacy of healing in Kolhapur.

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Looking Back

It has been more than four decades since I left Sevagram. Yet the friendships formed there, the values imbibed, and the sense of service remain fresh. I still remember the smell of those cyclostyle machines, the khadi clothes, the morning prayers, the warmth of teachers, nurses, and clerks. MGIMS gave me not just a degree but also an ethos. It taught me that medicine is not just about skill—it is about service, humility, and ethics.

When I stand in my hospital today and look at the rows of patients waiting for treatment, I silently thank MGIMS. It was there, in that small ashram-like campus, that my journey began.