SP Kalantri
SP Kalantri
Nalinbhai Mehta’s khadi rustled as he moved, a man of quiet authority. His square face, broad jaw, and deep-set eyes carried the weight of responsibility. A ledger lay open before him. He scanned it, catching every detail. His voice, steady and deliberate, commanded attention. Numbers spoke to him. He read them like a seasoned navigator …
It all started on a whim—those small, unexpected moments that often turn into the most memorable. One winter morning in 1986, while making my rounds at the hospital in Sevagram, an unusual thought crossed my mind: I should learn German. The idea seemed absurd, even to me. But then I learned that Mrs. Sunita Kawale, …
Shankar sat on the old wooden bench outside his workshop, absently rubbing his rough, unshaven chin. The bright sparks of welding had once lit up his face, but now it was worn, lined with worry. He had battled difficult customers, unpaid bills, and broken machines, but this was different. This was a fight he knew …
Radhika was never one for outbursts. But that day, as she lay in the hospital bed, her voice shattered the silence like a storm. Her eyes burned with fury. “How dare you talk to me?” she shouted, her chest rising and falling with anger. “Get out! Don’t come near me! Don’t touch me!” Her words …
The names—Kabir, Ramdas, Vivekanand, Guru Nanak, Ramkrishna, Dharmanand, Martin Luther King, Patel, and Birla—are more than just colonies in Sevagram. They hold memories of beginnings, struggles, friendships, and quiet acts of courage. Each name has a story to tell. Yesterday, a thought crossed my mind, almost by accident Dr. Sanjay Diwan had asked whether the …
The old principal’s office, once the heart of MGIMS in 1969, is now nothing more than a pile of rubble. Today it lies in ruins. In 1969, when MGIMS began, the principal’s office was a plain two-room building. It stood quietly next to the old hospital, where the Community Medicine department is now, almost touching …
It was a typical Thursday, my OPD day. After completing rounds, I settled into the clinic, surrounded by my medical residents. The waiting hall buzzed with life, crowded with patients, many standing near the door, each waiting their turn. Mornings like these felt routine, but they never lacked purpose. Our hospital, a beacon of hope …
This Diwali, Ravi (name changed) turned 19. He lived in a small town, 100 km southeast of Sevagram. Fresh out of his teens, he had completed his tenth grade at a local school and enrolled in a technical college. A promising future awaited him—steady income, a stable life. His parents, both laborers in the fields, …
“How much time do I have now?” His voice on the phone was calm, almost casual. We had discussed the sudden cold wave, his family, his niece’s recent grand wedding, Jasprit Bumrah’s lethal bowling—everything except his illness. Then, out of the blue, he asked that question. It’s a question I hear often. Families ask it …
Recently, we cared for a frail man in his late fifties. He came in gasping for air. His heart raced, and each breath was a challenge. His lungs crackled with every inhale. Both his face and feet were swollen. The ECG was very abnormal, and the chest X-ray showed fluid in his lungs. When he …