SP Kalantri
SP Kalantri
That old black phoneโsolid, heavy, a relic of a time when voices travelled through wires, not airwaves. Each number on its dial, a small circle, waiting for a finger to spin it. No speed dial, no saved contactsโjust memory and precision. Calls were brief, words measured. Every minute cost money. The phone perched on a …
Nalinbhai Mehtaโs 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 whimโthose 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 …
The namesโKabir, Ramdas, Vivekanand, Guru Nanak, Ramkrishna, Dharmanand, Martin Luther King, Patel, and Birlaโare 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 …
Donโt forget to eat that ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐,โ he said again, his voice steady now. โI will,โ I replied with a smile, stepping away. Only a week earlier, his son had wheeled him into the hospital OPD, visibly anxious. A driver in our hospital, his face betrayed his helplessness as he pushed the wheelchair into my …
In our quiet ward, a son softly asked, “Can I take my mother home?” Usually, such requests mean relief. Patients leave with hope, their struggles behind them. Grateful families thank the doctors, smiling. It feels like a victory. But this time, there was no joy. No happiness. His question wasn’t about hopeโit was about saying …
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 himโsteady income, a stable life. His parents, both laborers in the fields, …
For decades after completing my MD residency and becoming a physician, I held firm to a belief: diagnose accurately, treat effectively, monitor diligently, and ensure that patients followed my advice. This was the creed I practiced in OPDs, wards, ICUs, and even during cross-department consultations in the hospital. And it worked. Most of the time. …