He had a favourite couplet that he carried through his life like a pocket torch: kisike muskurahaton pe ho nisar, kisi ka dard le sake to le udhaar, jeena isi ka naam hai. To live for someone’s smile, to borrow their pain if you can — this is what it means to be alive. His classmates from the GMC Nagpur Class of 1973 would later say that Tukaram Badodekar did not merely quote those lines. He lived them, daily, in a town that most doctors found easy to avoid.
The Boy from Rajurwadi
Tukaram was born in Rajurwadi, a village in Ghatanji tehsil, 56 kilometres southeast of Yavatmal, to a farmer who had never been to school. He attended the Adivasi Primary School in Rajurwadi, then the middle school and high school at Ghatanji, and eventually made his way to Amolakchand Mahavidyalaya, Yavatmal, for his premed education — the same college that sent Vijayalaxmi Kane, Farhad Khan, Vrajlal Patel, Omprakash Singhania, Chandrabhan Chattani, Mohan Gupte, and Panjabrao Chavan to GMC Nagpur in 1973.
He arrived at Government Medical College, Nagpur, in 1973. After graduation, he interned at a primary health centre in Arni and at the district hospital, Yavatmal, working alongside MG Rathod and Sham Hingade.
His post-internship years were busy and deliberate. He did three house jobs at GMC Nagpur — in Medicine, Tuberculosis, and Psychiatry — before enrolling in the MD (Medicine) programme. Placed mostly in Unit 2 Medicine, he wrote his thesis on systolic time intervals in chronic alcoholics under the supervision of Drs Vinod Adbe and BG Waghmare, and earned his MD in 1982.
Five Years at Central Prison
After MD, Tukaram took a posting that most of his contemporaries had no interest in: medical officer at the Central Prison, Nagpur. He served there for five years. What he saw inside those walls — illness stripped of resources, dignity stripped of circumstance — shaped the kind of doctor he became. He learned to work without complaint and without spectacle. He learned, as he later put it, that nurses, technicians, and paramedical staff were not support roles but the actual architecture of care. “I learned a lot from nurses, technicians and paramedics during my early days,” he said. “They shaped my career, boosted my confidence and provided me much-needed moral support for managing patients in a resource-limited setting.”
In 1994, he left the prison posting and went to Pandharkawada, a town 150 kilometres southwest of Nagpur. He went because Bhaskar Gadge, a classmate who had been serving there as medical officer, had died suddenly. The town had a cottage hospital. The 30-bed ward was ill-equipped, the trust of tribal patients had long been broken, and the support staff was thin. Tukaram walked in and began working eighteen-hour days.
Pandharkawada
It took patience and consistency rather than drama to rebuild that hospital. He showed up. He treated the sick regardless of whether they could pay. He referred nothing he could manage and managed much that others would have referred. The ward filled. Patients who had avoided the hospital for years began returning. Word spread through the villages: there was a doctor at the cottage hospital who listened.
In 1994, he also opened a private clinic in the town. He invited classmates to the inauguration — Aziz Khan, Dilip Gohokar, Chandrashekhar Meshram, Avinash Joshi, and Ravindra Jharia came. Within a few years, hundreds of patients were arriving daily, drawn not only by the quality of treatment but by something harder to name: the sense, rare enough in any clinical encounter, that the doctor in front of them genuinely cared whether they left feeling better.
For nearly a decade, he maintained this pace — sleeping two to three hours a night, seeing every patient who came. By 2002, he understood that the pace itself was the risk. He closed his inpatient ward and shifted entirely to outpatient work. “Now I have restricted hours and selected patients to care for,” he said. “I feel much more relaxed now.” It was a practical decision, not a retreat. He continued to practice steadily in Pandharkawada for the next twelve years.
He also arranged diagnostic and health care camps for victims of disasters, extending the reach of medicine into communities where it rarely arrived unasked.
The Last Year
In June 2014, a computed tomography scan ordered for a nagging cough returned an answer nobody wanted. Metastatic lung cancer. He received chemotherapy. His family cared for him. His cancer did not respond.
He spent much of that final year on the telephone, tracking down classmates who had drifted out of contact, calling SP Kalantri late in the evenings to share what he had found. The December 2013 class reunion had energised him. He had brought his entire family. He had sung and danced. He had introduced his wife and children to people he had not seen in decades. He was already ill, or very close to it, though he did not say so.
“His laughter still echoes in my ears,” Kalantri wrote afterwards. “His vibrant liveliness continues to resurface in my memory.” The 9 PM calls continued through his illness — a childlike excitement at finding an old friend, at recovering a shared memory, at making certain that nobody was forgotten before the archive closed.
Tukaram Badodekar died on 30 December 2014. He was 55.
He had gone from an Adivasi primary school in Rajurwadi to a medical degree in Nagpur, and from there to a prison ward and a tribal town where doctors rarely stayed. The journey, in the words of the couplet he carried all his life, was one long act of borrowing other people’s pain. He seemed never to have found it a burden.