It was the winter of 1991, and I was a young faculty member in the Department of Medicine at MGIMS, Sevagram. Life was simple, our means were modest, and our ambitions were shaped more by circumstance than by grand design. 

One day, a handwritten letter arrived from the President of the Indian Medical Association, Nagpur. It was an invitation—an inter-medical college quiz was to be held in Nagpur in a fortnight. Teams of three, all under the age of 35, were eligible. I was just below the cut-off, and without hesitation, I roped in two bright young men—Prabhat Goel and Ravi Sautha, both fresh postgraduates from Medicine and Orthopedics who had recently joined as lecturers.

The days that followed were filled with preparation. Medical quizzes were not just about knowledge; they required speed, presence of mind, and a little bit of luck. We pored over books, tested each other with mock questions, and imagined the thrill of competition. 

But there was another reality looming over us, one that made our excitement a little subdued—MGIMS had run out of money.

For the first time in its history, the institute had no funds to pay salaries. Two months had passed, and neither teachers nor nurses had received their wages. The little money available had been used to pay orderlies, drivers, sweepers, and watchmen—those whose daily sustenance depended on their earnings. The rest of us, including the faculty, were simply surviving, stretching whatever meager savings we had, month to month.

On that Sunday morning, when it was time to leave for Nagpur, our pockets were almost empty. We pooled together the loose change we had, just enough to hire a shared auto-rickshaw to Wardha, each of us paying two rupees. From there, we boarded an ordinary state transport bus, the kind that groaned and coughed at every stop, but faithfully carried us forward. We alighted near Ajni Square, and from there, the venue—a grand hall on North Ambazari Road—was still a mile and a half away. Hiring another rickshaw was out of the question. So, we walked.

The quiz itself is now a blur. I do not recall the questions, nor the rounds, nor even the expressions of our competitors. Dr. Sudhir Bhave, the young psychiatrist, was probably the quiz master, but I am not sure. But I do remember the moment when the results were announced.

We had won.

And yet, it was not the trophy that made our hearts race. It was not the certificate of achievement that brought the widest smiles to our faces. It was the announcement that each of us would receive ₹50 as a prize.

Fifty rupees!

That sum, small in another time and place, felt like a treasure. It was money we had not expected, money that meant security for at least a few days. Our joy knew no bounds. Had mobile phones existed, we would have called our families immediately, perhaps even taken a picture and posted it online. But in those days, the news had to wait until we reached home in the evening.

The Indian Medical Association, kind and gracious, also treated us to a lunch. And this time, with our newfound fortune, we did not walk back. We hired an auto-rickshaw, then took a train to Sevagram, and upon arrival, indulged in another ‘luxury’—a second special rickshaw ride home.

By then, our long-overdue salaries were just a week away. But for that one week, we had no worries. The prize money, even after travel expenses, was enough to keep us going.

Today, Dr. Prabhat Goel is a renowned name in internal medicine, and Dr. Ravi Saha is a leading figure in orthopaedics in Gurgaon. They might not even remember that ₹50 prize, but to me, it remains unforgettable.

All blockbuster movies begin as small-budget, black-and-white productions, and often, the charm of those first frames surpasses the spectacle of a million-dollar epic. That day in 1991 was our black-and-white film, our first moment of triumph. 

And in our hearts, it was worth more than any grand prize we would ever win.

Those were the days.