Remembering Dr. H.C. Attal

This morning, my friend Ramesh Mundle called to inform me that Dr. H.C. Attal, former Professor of Medicine at GMC Nagpur, passed away yesterday at the age of 80.

He taught us medicine during our residency at Government Medical College, Nagpur, in the late 1970s and early 1980s. He led one of the six medicine units and was known for his discipline and commitment to patient care.

He was small in stature but cast a long shadow in the wards. His bedside rounds were famously long and rigorous. Behind the thick frame of spectacles, his eyes would scan the entire ward, missing nothing, and his sharp tongue would bring to discipline even the most wayward intern, house officer, or resident. He expected detailed history and physical exam, well-reasoned differentials, and meticulous attention to patients. Many students feared his stern manner, but none questioned his sincerity.

He held Dr. B.S. Chaubey, the then head of the department, in deep reverence. Alongside him worked a striking cast—Drs. P.Y. Deshmukh, G.K. Dubey, B.G. Waghmare, S.M. Patil, Mrs. Lata Patil, and Ms. Barua—each with a distinct clinical style. In the medicine department of that era, one could sense the drama of a 1960s Bollywood film. Every physician had a role, a presence. Dr. Attal refused to be a side character. Quietly, steadily, he wrote his own script and claimed his space in the story of GMC.

Raised in an orthodox 𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘸𝘢𝘥𝘪 household, schooled in vernacular schools in small towns, and shaped by modest means, Dr. Attal rose through sheer perseverance. He knew his shortcomings—and never used them as excuses. Instead, he built his own rulebook: work hard, stay disciplined, keep moving. He understood that academic medicine was demanding, often unforgiving. Still, he endured, adapted, and earned his place as professor of medicine.

Students mimicked him. His English drew chuckles, his habits became material for mimicry, and his lines turned into running jokes in the hostel. At reunions, those tales resurfaced—polished, exaggerated, fondly retold. Yet even then, beneath the humour, lay profound respect. He was tireless: OPD in the morning, ICU by noon, postgraduate activities in the late afternoon, wards in the evening, hostel by night.

As PG hostel warden, he partnered with the ever-watchful clerk, Chimurkar. Together, they missed nothing—a noisy corridor, unpaid hostel rent, a late return—they noticed it all.

Writing a thesis under him tested patience and perseverance. He demanded clean numbers, precise charts and tables, and endless revisions. No corner-cutting. No shortcuts. Residents grumbled—for they had to re-do everything by hand—but they also grew.

Yet beneath the taskmaster lay a gentle core. He spoke softly, never raised his voice. Business families trusted him; he understood their concerns, calmed their fears, and treated them with warmth and compassion. In the hospital, he moved like a private physician—calm, composed, and attentive.

He never owned a scooter or a car. His postgraduates ferried him across campus on the pillion seat—often from the main hospital building to Wards 37 and 38, where Unit VI functioned. It became a rite of passage.

After retirement, he entered full-time private practice—a role he relished. Patients flocked to him. He listened carefully, grasped the nuances, and offered treatments that suited the person, not just the disease.

In his final years, chronic kidney disease slowed him down. Eventually, it took him.

During our time, his wife, Dr. Prabha, was a professor of gynecology. They lived on campus in the professors’ quarters, a short walk from the hospital. Their daughters—Dr. Archana, Anju, and Madhuri—are all alumni of GMC Nagpur.

With Dr. Attal’s passing, we’ve lost a teacher who demanded the best—and lived by it. He will be remembered—for his peculiarities, his purpose, and his perennial presence by the patient’s side.