In November 2011, Amrita applied for the Maheshwari Vidya Pracharak Mandal (MVPM) Scholar Awards, which recognize exceptional students who can inspire others. Hundreds applied from across the country, but only five were chosen each year.

A few weeks later, the results arrived. Amrita’s name was on the list. I  read the email, blinked, and then read it again to be sure. She had made it.

Our family erupted in joy. Bhavana clapped her hands in delight. The MVPM Scholar Award was not just any recognition—it was a mark of excellence.

The ceremony was set for the second week of January in Pune. We booked our tickets early. After all, what could be more fulfilling for parents than watching their daughter receive such a prestigious honor?

On a chilly January evening, the three of us boarded the Garib Rath, squeezing into a third AC compartment from Sevagram to Pune. The train clattered over the tracks, rocking us in its rhythm, but sleep didn’t come easy. Amrita sat comfortably, her iPad in hand, lost in a movie or a book—I couldn’t tell.

Meanwhile, unease crept into me. Tomorrow evening, she would stand before a hall packed with dignitaries, students, and parents to accept her award and give a speech. But she hadn’t written a word.

I asked. She shrugged.

I shifted in my seat. Should I offer to write it for her? Would she even accept?

The train thundered through the dark countryside, but my thoughts raced faster.

She had not prepared a word.

I offered to write it for her. She refused.

I tried anyway. Sitting cross-legged on the narrow berth, I scribbled a few lines, paused, stared at the ceiling, and wrote again. A block of silence filled my mind. After a while, I handed her what I had managed to put together.

She scanned the pages, laughed, and shook her head. “Delete this,” she said. “I’ll do my own.”

The train pulled into Pune at dawn. We took an autorickshaw to my nephew’s house, 20 kilometers away. Amrita freshened up, had breakfast, and then—unbelievably—settled into a lazy morning, playing with the kids, giggling over their antics.

Afternoon came. She slept.

I paced the room. The clock ticked. I woke her up. “You need to write your speech. This is a once-in-a-lifetime moment. The entire hall will be listening.”

She stretched, yawned, and smiled. “I know.”

An hour later, we were in a taxi, crawling through Pune’s traffic. Amrita pulled out her iPad and began typing, her fingers moving swiftly. I peeked over her shoulder. It was the first draft. No time for revisions. No rehearsals.

She didn’t look worried. I, on the other hand, felt a knot tightening in my stomach. How could she be so casual? Would she stumble? Would she make a fool of herself? Why don’t children listen to their parents?

We reached the venue at five. The hall was grand, packed with 250 parents, 150 students, and a panel of distinguished judges.

Amrita’s name was called. She rose, adjusted her dress, walked to the podium. Her face glowed under the lights. There was no hesitation, no trace of nerves. She stood tall, her poise positive, her presence commanding.

The host introduced her. They spoke of her academic brilliance, her top ranks in MBBS, her ICMR studentship, her awards, her leadership in organizing MEDICON. They listed her talents—dance, languages, writing. I listened, proud yet anxious.

Then she stepped forward. Adjusted the mic. Scanned the audience. Smiled.

And spoke.

For five minutes, words poured out—clear, confident, captivating. Her voice rang with conviction, her sentences crisp, her metaphors vivid. She quoted, she narrated, she wove a speech that was entirely her own. No notes. No stumbles.

I sat frozen. The audience hung onto every word.

And then, it was over. A second of silence. A wave of applause.

I exhaled. She had done it.

She began by saying that she knew she was addressing a mixed audience— I am humbled and excited to be in the midst to receive the award.  I am  told that this audience is made up of 150 students and 250 celebrated adults. “My speech is supposed to inspire the 150 and justify my presence here to the other 150,” she said. “Let me do so  one by one,” she added.

“For the 150 students, I won’t boast of being someone who is an inspiration.” The first sentence drew spontaneous applause from the audience.

She addressed the first 150.

“I can’t tell you what to do, how to think, where to go, or what to believe because I don’t have a clue either. But here I am, so I must have done something right.

“What I did right—I will leave that to you to decide.

“I will only tell you how I have lived my life so far. I will tell you my story.

In school, I was a perfect student. I got excellent grades, aced exams, danced, took exams for classical dance and classical music, arts, won debates. I did everything that an ideal student is supposed to do. Never stepped out of line.  Basically, I was every parent’s dream daughter.

In the year 2007, things changed. I discovered who I really was. That was the year I entered medical school. I discovered that I was good at plenty of things—academics, dance, badminton, painting, making friends, and getting into trouble. 

Yes, in 2007, I was born. Again.

I am sure each of you can trace back that landmark year in your life when you first realize who you are.

Over the years into medical school, I discovered why I had gone there. I loved seeing patients, suturing, and talking to old women. And, most excitingly, they loved me back as well.

In 2012, a bunch of students from my college took up the task of organizing the fifth annual international medical students’ research conference. I was the Organizing Secretary of MEDICON. This was a conference exclusively  of, by, and for the students.

From selecting the best scientific works, arranging faculty, food, cleaning toilets, managing travel, food, and money—we students did it all.

When it was over, the students who attended the conference said it was the best conference they had ever attended.

Ask my team. They will tell you what we went through. It was the most traumatic part of my undergraduate years. As I prepared for the conference, I was restless all the time—I lost weight, appetite, and sleep.

But in life,  it is these events, these little efforts that made you lose your appetite, lose sleep, lose weight—and that left you restless, that truly change your life.

Smooth rides make life boring. A little calamity, a little adventure, a little adrenaline—that’s what makes life worth living.

In 2012, I rediscovered who I was. Today I know what I want. I have found my inspiration—the lives of Drs. Ulhas Jajoo and Abhay Bang, who dedicated their lives to making rural India better.

My father. He is a perfect physician. When he talks to his patients, it is his compassion, not just his medicine, that heals. He is a perfect scientist—correct, ethical, and driven. He is a perfect writer—his writings keep the audience spellbound. He is a perfect friend—who listens understands and helps unconditionally.

I found my role models in my own father and teachers. Look around. It is difficult, but not impossible. We all need someone to look up to. So, find out who you want to emulate. Otherwise, in an era of Facebook and YouTube, it is not difficult  to get lost.

There is no limit to discovering yourself. We, human beings, are dynamic models. What I am today shows me how far I have come from Amrita five years ago. Back in 2007, I had no idea why I got into medical school. My answer to most opportunities that came my way was ‘no.’

Throughout my  undergraduate years, I saw my friends struggle for confidence, skills, and money. I had none of those problems. But I struggled for inspiration. I needed someone to look up to—not copy or mimic, but simply to draw inspiration from.

So, stay driven, stay inspired.

For the 250 grown-ups here, I have only this to say: When I applied for this scholarship, I had no idea what it was all about—what the criteria were, who all  applied and won. Nothing. I still don’t know, to be honest.

But my parents believed I was worth it. That was enough. They believed.

That is all my generation needs. We might seem independent, arrogant, and lost, but we seek your approval. Nothing more.

Thank you for having faith in us. Thank you for trusting our choices. Thank you for letting us strive free.

Ladies and gentlemen, If this award stands for anything, it stands for the united spirit among us.

Maya Angelou once said: ‘When you get, give. When you learn, teach.’

I want you to know that this award to me means that  I will continue to strive hard and give back to the world what it has given me, so that I might be even more worthy of tonight’s honor.

As I accept this award, I also promise to get better at my work so that the next time you see me, you will discover a new, freshly discovered Amrita.”

As she finished, the applause roared in the hall. Bhavana and I exchanged looks of disbelief and pride. My heart pounded as I leaned in and whispered to Bhavana, “Today, she was amazing.”

Amrita stepped down from the stage. When she reached us, her eyes sparkled as she teased, “And you wanted to write my speech. And you wanted me to write, rewrite, revise, and rehearse!”

I chuckled, still catching my breath, and said softly, “Maybe we needed a backup plan, but you outdid all our hopes.” Bhavana squeezed her hand and added, “Your words lit up the room.”

For a long moment, we stood together in our small circle of warmth. The cheers outside blended with our soft, sincere laughter as we celebrated not just the speech, but the journey that had brought us here.

19 January 2012