The Delhi Roots and the Botanic Commentator

I was born and raised in Delhi, a city of high ambitions and fierce competition. After school, I enrolled at Zakir Hussain College (then known as Delhi College) near the Delhi railway station for my BSc Part One. I was an academically strong student, but looking back, perhaps it was a touch of overconfidence that led me to miss out on the local Delhi medical colleges.

One of my most vivid memories from that time wasn’t of medicine, but of my Botany teacher. He was a popular Hindi cricket commentator, and his lectures often felt as rhythmic and engaging as a radio broadcast during a test match. While I enjoyed the greenery of Botany, my heart was set on the white coat. While attending a pre-medical coaching class, I heard a whisper about a unique institution in Maharashtra: MGIMS Sevagram. The catch was the “Gandhian Thought” paper—a 60% score was mandatory. I hunted through the bookshops of Delhi, buying every title I could find on the Mahatma, reading his Autobiography and Constructive Programme from cover to cover.

The Train Journey and the PNB Connection

I must have performed well in the entrance test, as an interview call soon arrived. My father, who was a manager at Punjab National Bank in Delhi, reached out to his colleague, Mr. Sunderlal Chandna, the PNB branch manager in Wardha. Thanks to that professional kinship, we had a comfortable holiday home near the station to rest our heads before the big day.

The journey itself was a prelude to the lifelong friendships of medical school. In my train compartment was Gauri Thuli, who was also traveling for the interview with her father. We didn’t know then that we would spend the next several years as batchmates in the Class of 1976.

The “Googly” and the Bold Answer

The interview panel was a formidable lineup of the institute’s giants: Dr. Sushila Nayar, Dr. Manimala Chaudhuri, and Prof. M.L. Sharma. Dr. Nayar, known for her sharp insight, threw me a curveball right at the start.

“What would you do if you are not selected?” she asked.

I didn’t blink. I looked her straight in the eye and told her that medicine was my lifelong ambition and that the decision was entirely mine, not my parents’. I told her I was confident not just of getting in, but of becoming a doctor she would be proud of. “And if I don’t make it this year,” I added, “it doesn’t matter. I will come back next year and get into Sevagram.”

Dr. Nayar turned to Dr. Sharma with a smile. “This boy looks very confident,” she said. “Select him.”

Choosing Sevagram over Ludhiana

Almost simultaneously, I received an admission offer from CMC Ludhiana. However, the financial contrast was staggering: CMC required nearly ₹74,000 a year, while Sevagram was a manageable ₹10,000. My stubborn confidence had not only won me a seat but had also led me to a place where the values of the Ashram would temper my Delhi-bred ambition.

I arrived in Sevagram as a boy from the capital who had never heard of the village just months prior. I left it as a physician who understood that confidence is only valuable when it is put to the service of those in need.