I still remember that evening in Sevagram in 1974 as if it happened yesterday. The dusty courtyard of the hostel had been swept clean, a few strings of yellow bulbs hung across bamboo poles, and students kept rushing about with last-minute instructions. We were ready to stage Kaka Kishyacha, a Marathi play that had already earned a place in the hearts of theatre lovers. Kishore Pradhan and his wife, Shobha, had immortalised it on the Marathi stage in the 1960s. Now it was our turn to bring that magic to Sevagram.
I had acted in one-act and three-act plays before, but Kaka Kishyacha was special. I was playing “Kaka” himself, and the responsibility weighed on me. The play opened with my long dialogue, a philosophical yet playful reflection on life. Even today, after so many years, I can recite those lines by heart:
“हे स्त्रिये, हे संसार सरिते,
हे संसाराच्या सात संग्राम वर सरस्वी,
सत्ता सांगणाऱ्या सर्वशक्तिमान स्त्रिये,
ये आणि पंचप्राण होऊन
प्रियकराच्या प्रेमाळ प्यालातील
पिठुळ पायस पिऊन टाक.”
When I first rehearsed it, the juniors would stare at me wide-eyed. Many of them didn’t know Marathi, and soon I found myself explaining the meaning again and again—to curious boys and girls from all over India. Those were delightful evenings, when I sat on the hostel steps, surrounded by friends, my voice carrying in the warm Sevagram night.
Professor Sudhakar Deshpande from Nagpur—our lifeline—was behind the production. A relative of Dr. M.D. Khapre, the pharmacology professor, would travel all the way to Sevagram just to guide us. He was director, stage manager, sound engineer—everything rolled into one. Once, during rehearsal, an irritating echo bounced from the distant walls of the hall. We panicked. Deshpande Sir calmly walked up to the speakers, turned them 180 degrees to face the audience, and said, “Now let the sound waves get absorbed where they should.” Instantly the echo vanished. We clapped in relief.
On stage, every character brought hostel life alive. Lily Lawange was played by Meena Kurundwadkar of the 1973 batch—bubbling with energy. Subhash Patil of the 1969 batch was “Madhya,” Shyam Babhulkar from 1969 was “Balya.” Balya’s entry always sent the audience into roars of laughter. He would shuffle in, wrapped in a lungi, toothbrush in hand, muttering hostel slang and demanding Kishore’s toothpaste. It was as if our hostel rooms had climbed onto the stage.
The real challenge was finding someone to play “Suman Mungi.” After many “yes-no, no-yes” exchanges across the campus, I approached Shirish Gode of the 1972 batch. He sighed, then smiled, “For you, yes. For anyone else, I’d have refused.” And what a performance he gave! He played the role with such shades and subtlety that the audience forgot Shirish and only saw Suman Mungi. Ironically, the character was the opposite of Shirish in real life—that made it even more memorable.
My 1971 batchmate, Narayan Daware, was “Joshi.” He had his own quirks. He could never pronounce the Marathi “ळ” sound. During rehearsal, when asked to read lines in Marathi script, he would protest, “अरे मला ते अक्षर बोलता येत नाही ना, मग मी शक्यतो ते ‘टाडतो!’” and we would burst into laughter. He also had another unmistakable trademark. Whenever he found himself in an awkward spot, he would raise his right fist, press it gently against his mouth, brush his fingers against the tip of his nose, and exclaim with wide eyes and mock despair, “Oh my God!” At first, it seemed like a nervous tic. Soon, we realized he had turned it into a delightful performance, using it to time his comedy.
One evening, he was asked to recite a Marathi poem. We expected his usual “Oh my God!” Instead, he stunned us. He delivered the verses like a seasoned actor:
“सुमन फुलले दगडावरी, सान्द्र निलिमा झाकते आकाश
बगळा पांढरा नजर काळी, काळी काळी ओरड ऐकू ती आली…”
The applause drowned his sheepish smile. That night, Narayan Daware became a star.
Narayan’s wit was quicksilver—mimicry, witty one-liners, and the knack of making the mundane sparkle. In hostel evenings, he would slip into perfect imitations of our professors. Within minutes, we were doubled over, laughing till our eyes watered, praying the faculty never overheard. But behind the mimic was a gentle, steady friend—someone who made medical college about more than textbooks and exams. He reminded us of friendship, humanity, and joy.
Sudhir Deshmukh from the class of 1970 carried a different charm. In one unforgettable scene during the Ganpati festival, he stood on stage with an aarti plate in hand—plump and dignified. Someone whispered from the wings, “बाप्पाच्या समोर बाप्पा!” From that day, he was “Bappa,” a name he wore like a badge of honour. His humour was self-deprecating: “At my birth, the weighing scale showed my lowest. After that, it always showed higher and higher figures!”
Sudhir went on to become both a paediatric and a cardiac surgeon, serving Latur with skill and compassion. Narayan, too, carried his warmth beyond the stage, remembered as much for his wit as for his gentle friendship. But fate was unkind. Narayan passed away in 2018, and Sudhir, a few years later.
When the curtains came down on Kaka Kishyacha in 1974, the applause lingered long after the lights dimmed. Today, both Sudhir and Naraya live on in our hearts—not just as performers who filled Sevagram with laughter, but as friends whose absence has left our world poorer and our memories infinitely richer.
( As told by Dr Alhad Pimputkar, edited by Dr S.P. Kalantri)
