Remember Rama Jagtap?
You should.
The boy from Hinganghat village, the one who worked in the Paediatrics OPD in the late 1970s. Thin, eager, barely twenty, with eyes that held more hope than fear. He had just married. Life was beginning to bloom when a bolt struck from nowhere.
Without warning, his services were terminated.
No explanation. No notice. Just a letter from the Medical Superintendent, Dr Karunakar Trivedi.
Rama was stunned. He racked his brain. Had he been rude to someone? Missed duty? Taken leave without permission? Nothing came to mind. He was young, yes. But careless?
Never.
He went home that evening with fire in his chest and tears in his throat. His wife, just settling into a new life with him, sat beside him silently, as he made a decision.
He would fight.
And fight he did—at the Nagpur Bench of the High Court. That’s where the story shifted from the corridors of Kasturba Hospital to the benches of justice. For a year, the case went on. Hearings followed hearings. Dr Trivedi himself appeared, defending the hospital’s stand. But Rama had something stronger on his side—resolve. And a lawyer named Mr A.A. Desai, who knew how to walk the tightrope of justice without slipping.
Finally, the verdict came.
Rama won.
The court ordered the hospital to reinstate him.
That day, before the sweetness of the victory could even settle in Rama’s mouth, came a twist no one expected.
Dr KK Trivedi—yes, the same man who had signed his termination letter and fought him in court—walked up to Rama, shook his hand, and said, “Let’s go back to Sevagram together.”
In a white Ambassador, no less. Owned by the Kasturba Hospital. Driven by Govinda Wakode.
And so they returned. The Medical Superintendent and the OPD attendant. Side by side. In silence, perhaps, but with a strange mutual respect budding between them.
Life moved on.
But the story didn’t end there.
Two decades later, Rama’s daughter trained as a staff nurse at Kasturba Gram in Indore—where Dr Karunakar Trivedi was now the President. Each time Rama visited, Dr Trivedi would see him from across the room, call him over, pull out a chair beside him and say, “Meet my friend from Sevagram.”
Friend. Not a worker. Not a rival. Not the man who once dragged him to court.
Just a friend.
His colleagues had no idea. They’d smile politely at the lean old man, unaware of the bond that had weathered power, pride, and time.
Those were different days.
Days when men could stand firm for what they believed in.
And still have the grace to bow to those they once opposed.
When a man in a white coat didn’t think twice before sharing tea with the one in a khaki uniform.
This morning, Rama Jagtap sat across from me in the Medicine office. He came for a health related issue and we talked. He had worked with me not long ago in the MS office. As he told this story, his voice quivered. His eyes glistened.
He tried to hold back the tears. But they came anyway.
And I thought—what a world it was.
