In 1979, a new postgraduate hostel rose on the GMC campus\u2014freshly built, orderly, and unmistakably modern by the standards of the time. For residents who had spent years adjusting to makeshift arrangements, it felt like a quiet luxury.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Until then, we had lived in a dormitory with sixteen beds, no individual rooms, and zero privacy. It sat on the first floor of the hospital building\u2014convenient, yes, but permanently half-awake. A tired resident would hunt for an empty bed, drop onto it as if shot, and steal whatever sleep he could before the next call dragged him back to the wards.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Communication was primitive. There were no mobile phones, and the PBX failed often. Messages travelled on foot, and confusion travelled with them. A ward attendant\u2014almost always a woman\u2014would walk to the dormitory, locate the resident, and obtain a signature on a call book.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
On one memorable night, an attendant called out for “Deshpande.” Dr. Pande, half-asleep and thoroughly disoriented, assumed the call was for him. He scribbled an order to “inject adrenaline and start cardiac massage,” unaware that the message was actually for the obstetrician managing fetal distress with faint heart sounds. Fatigue was constant, and errors were always waiting.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
***<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n Against that chaotic backdrop, the new hostel felt like salvation. It stood facing the Dental College, solid and self-assured, with the wards and OPDs barely a hundred metres away. For once, exhaustion did not require a long walk.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The hostel was neatly divided into two wings: ladies on the left, gents on the right. It was perhaps the first time men and women stayed under the same roof in a common hostel, though the demarcation was clear and unquestioned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I was allotted Room No. 99 on the second floor. I had always liked the number. My window overlooked the busy stretch of road running from the GMC entrance to the Dean\u2019s office. I could watch the campus move through the day\u2014students, nurses, patients, ward boys, and doctors in a hurry, all flowing in the same direction. The room itself was simple: a table, two chairs, a cot, and a compact almirah. Two toilets and bathrooms were shared among ten rooms, and a single telephone at the corner of the wing connected us to the hospital PBX. It was our lifeline\u2014temperamental, unpredictable, but indispensable.<\/p>\n\n\n\n ***<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n Our warden was Dr. H. C. Attal, then Associate Professor of Medicine\u2014a man who combined discipline with his own unique brand of English. Short, dressed in an untucked bush shirt and chappals, he spoke in a manner that invited more smiles than fear. But a mere lift of his eyebrows was enough to signal that he had no patience for nonsense. He never owned a vehicle, depending entirely on residents to ferry him around as if it were an accepted part of our training. His trusted lieutenant was Mr. Chimurkar, the clerk who knew everyone, everything, and\u2014most importantly\u2014where to find it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The ground floor housed the mess. The menu displayed a steadfast commitment to brinjal and potato, accompanied by shrivelled chapatis and lukewarm dal. Both disappeared without leaving much of a memory. As a friend put it, you needed spiritual discipline to taste hostel food.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Several of my 1973-batch classmates lived close by\u2014Ramesh Mundle, Harish Baheti, Madhusudan Bagdia, and Shriram Kane. While hostel rooms tended towards disorder, mine was an exception. Driven by an obsession ingrained since childhood, I kept it scrupulously clean, sweeping and swabbing the floor daily\u2014a habit that amused some and baffled others.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I still rode my old undergraduate bicycle. Throughout my MD years, it carried me through the then-quiet streets of Nagpur, faithful and uncomplaining.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The new hostel\u2014with its privacy, its order, and its modest comforts\u2014felt like progress. It did not make residency easy. It simply made it bearable. And at that stage, that was more than enough.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"The Move to Order<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n
The Warden and the Mess<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n