The corridors of the Medicine Department in Sevagram in the early 1980s pulsed with an odd sort of rhythm, a melody not of footsteps or hurried whispers, but of letters.
Not just any lettersโ๐s.
I arrived in the summer of 1982, stepping into a world where initials carried more weight than full names, where the department beat to the cadence of a peculiar fraternity.
There was ๐ข๐ฃโOm Prakash Gupta, whose words were measured, and precise. ๐๐ฃโAP Jain, a physician who could divine a patientโs illness before the cold metal of a stethoscope even met their skin. ๐๐ฃโJP Sharma, whose silence spoke louder than most menโs chatter. ๐๐ฃโKamal Parvez, sharp-eyed, quick-witted, always ready with a quip. ๐ฉ๐ฃโVivek Poflee, whose knowledge filled the air like the first rush of a monsoon storm.
And then, there was ๐ฆ๐ฃโme, an anomaly in the rhythm of the Ps, an outlier in an alphabetic symphony.
When I started, I found them so full of energy. I felt like a small ‘s’ among many big ‘P’s’. They set the pace, and things worked in perfect rhythm, like the heart’s natural beat.
Time moves on, as it always does. Four decades have passed. The Ps, one by one, have leftโsome retired, some moved on. Just last week, we lost AP. His witty wisdom will be missed.
Their voices, once so familiar, now mere echoes in the hallways. Yet, the rhythm remains. New letters have stepped in, fresh faces have taken over.
Can anyone truly replace the Ps? Only time will tell.
