This morning, I hung up my shoes. I stepped down as a medical superintendent of the MGIMS hospital.

Twelve years ago, I became a reluctant MS of the hospital. For a physician-teacher who had not had a single day management experience, the initial days were unnerving, to say the least. Here I was—catapulted straight into test cricket. I was forced to make my debut at Sabina park, without having ever played first-class cricket.

The pitch was treacherous, the sky was overcast, some deliveries would suddenly bounce, and some deliveries would land wide of leg but spin so much that they knocked over the off-stump.

It took me some time to understand the game. Over the weeks, I realised where my off stump was. As months rolled by, I grew confident. I felt secure and seemingly at peace with myself. After playing in the “V”, I started playing my shots—hooking and pulling fearlessly.

I began to see a bigger picture and acted with the big picture in mind. Many problems begged for innovative solutions. Patients—today they have become increasingly empowered health care consumers—demanded more-convenient, more-effective, and less-expensive treatments. And health professionals demanded more staff, more budget, more equipment and more renovations in their infrastructures. They wanted—and rightly so—new drugs, diagnostic methods, innovative technologies, and medical devices that offered the hope of better treatment.

When the expectations are high, and the budgets are frugal, a MS has to walk a tightrope between the demands and the supplies. I was closely watched as I walked. I had my share of success. I had my share of failure. Not all my ideas panned out as I would have liked. And sometimes things turned out to be much better than I thought they would. In the process, I also got more bouquets—and brickbats—than I deserved.

As I look back, I realise that this responsibility helped me translate my several ideas into reality. I might be accused of blowing my trumpets loudly, but I do feel that at least partly, the hospital became more responsive to the needs of the community.

I might have been a bit petulant, sometimes taciturn, occasionally stubborn, unreasonable and demanding at times, but my colleagues kept on supporting me even on days when things seemed tough. I apologize for my shortcomings. I might not have scored enough runs when the pitch was friendly and the bowlers were bowling gentle full tosses. I thought they would be upset but they took my poor performance in their stride. But for their unconditional encouragement, I would not have lasted the tumultuous times.

Why did I resign? Many have this question in their mind but they are not letting the curiosity getting the better of them. Let me answer. I was getting stale. I wanted to leave the stage at the correct time. The time was ripe for me to hand over the reins to a zealous, brighter and blooming faculty in the institute—and, hopefully, a better MS. Time to pass on the baton to a younger pair of legs. I strongly felt that once I gave up the job, the change would surely boost the bottom line of MGIMS—in more ways than one.

These changes, I felt, were not simply nice to have, they were crucial for the future success of MGIMS. As Alfred Tennyson once famously wrote, “The older order must change, and yield place to new.”

Wasn’t it Vijay Merchant, the Indian Cricket Captain, who had put it succinctly in 1948, “Retire when people ask why and not when.” Realisation dawned on me that what holds true in cricket also holds true in healthcare.

My heart is full of gratitude and respect for the institute I worked for. For decades, my colleagues and my staff believed in me, gave a short shrift to my weaknesses and seldom breathed over my shoulders. They struck together through thick and thin. They give me free reins to run the hospital.

How do I sum up my MS days? I can look no further than Charles Dickens whose 1859 novel, A Tale of Two Cities describes the scene in London and Paris:

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.”

Charles Dickens.  A Tale of Two Cities

This morning, when they assembled to bid a teary farewell to me—telling me what I meant to them—their kindness left me moved and grateful. I couldn’t find enough words to thank them for their unstinted trust.

What next? Many lips had this question this morning. Now that the rigmarole of administration is behind me, I will focus on teaching and caring for patients—focusing on those who need palliative care. I’ll pick up the research thread. And I plan to spend more time on reading and writing—my lifelong hobbies. More time for my family, particularly for Diti and Nivi, and Krit, my grandkids.

I hope that this change will help me find a clear sense of purpose. Make my mind calm and tranquil. And give me space to rediscover myself.