If you ask any MGIMS student from the 1970s or โ80s about their Dean, or even most of their professors, the memories may be hazy. Names of many classmates might have slipped away too.
But mention Babulal, and the recollections come rushing back.
In those days, Babulalโs canteen was their ๐ข๐ฅ๐ฅ๐ข, their little world in the middle of Sevagram. He presided over the tea kettle and the sizzling aloo-bonda pan like a king. But without a crown, just an easy smile and a heart that seemed too big for one man.
To them, he was more than the man who fed their hunger. He was their Bhamashah. Quietly slipping a lifeline to any student in need. Tuition fees short? Train ticket home too expensive? A film calling their name but their pocket saying no? Babulal was there. No ledger. No questions. And when one tried to repay him, he would shrug and say, โ๐ ๐ฅ๐ฐ๐ฏโ๐ต ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ฎ๐ฆ๐ฎ๐ฃ๐ฆ๐ณ ๐ญ๐ฆ๐ฏ๐ฅ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ ๐บ๐ฐ๐ถ ๐ข๐ฏ๐บ๐ต๐ฉ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ.โ
Today, Babulalji is 89. He still walks into my OPD once in a while, his step slower but his warmth unchanged. Each time, I nudge him back to those golden days. His memory sometimes wanders, but the moment we speak of Sevagram in the โ70s, his eyes brighten, and with that same familiar smile, he says,
โ๐๐ฉ๐ฐ๐ด๐ฆ ๐ธ๐ฆ๐ณ๐ฆ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ฅ๐ข๐บ๐ด.โ