The Salt and the Ashram: A Cultural Jolt

“Mith Aan,” I said casually to Premdas, asking him in Marathi to pass me some salt at the Sevagram Ashram when we sat for our dinner. We were first year medical students who had just joined the medical college.

Before he could respond, Narinder Sandhu from Delhi nearly leapt from her seat.

“How dare you ask for meat here?” she cried, her eyes wide with shock. “This is Gandhiji’s Ashram!”

The hall went silent for a moment before laughter rippled through the room. It took us several minutes to explain that in Marathi, mith meant salt, not the forbidden non-vegetarian fare. Narinder, embarrassed but still suspicious, shook her head. “Strange language,” she muttered.

That little misunderstanding in the first week of my medical college life in Sevagram has stayed with me. For a Pune girl who had never stepped out of her comfort zone, life in a Gandhian ashram was a daily series of surprises, challenges, and adjustments—some hilarious, some humbling.

I was born in Pune, the daughter of Hemraj Mutha, a wholesaler of stationery, and Shakuntala, a homemaker who anchored our household with quiet grace. I had always done well in my studies, topping my SSC examination. My parents were proud, but I was content with the idea of staying in Pune, studying something close to home. In those days, it was not considered proper for a “gentle girl” to move far away for studies.

But my father was determined that I should become a doctor. “Doctors are respected everywhere,” he often said, “and a girl with this talent should not waste her chance.”

It was April 1976. For the first time, I felt the Vidarbha heat. I saw cycle rickshaws on the road and refused to ride in one, unable to bear the thought of a man pulling the rickshaw with me seated in it.

He had heard of a new medical college in Sevagram—Mahatma Gandhi Institute of Medical Sciences. When their pre-medical entrance test was announced in Nagpur in April 1976, he insisted that I appear. “At least go and see,” he said. “You won’t stand a chance anyway. 

Thousands of students will take the exam, and there are only 20 seats for women.”

To my own surprise, I did well. A telegram arrived, calling me for an interview. I protested. 

“I don’t want to go,” I told my father. But he persuaded me, and we traveled to Sevagram.

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The Interview: A History Lesson with Behenji

I had never been so nervous. Inside the principal’s office, eight or ten people sat around a table—Manilala Chaudhary, Dr. M.L. Sharma, Shriman Narayan. Then I saw Dr. Sushila Nayar herself.

“Where are you from?” she asked.

“Pune,” I said, my voice barely audible.

“What is Pune famous for?” she continued.

I blurted out what came to mind: Shivaji Maharaj, Shaniwar Wada, Saras Bagh, Ganpati Temple.

“Anything else?”

“Yes, Aga Khan Palace,” I said hesitantly.

“What is it famous for?”

“In 1942, Gandhiji and his colleagues were imprisoned there,” I replied.

“And who was with him?”

“Kasturba Gandhi and Mahadev Desai.”

She smiled. “Do you know Sushila Nayar?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Would you like to meet her?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Well, you are meeting her right now,” Dr Sushila Nayar laughed heartily.

“Would you like to study in this college?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then come and join tomorrow.”

The interview was over. Not a single question was asked about physics, chemistry, or biology.

That was it. Not a word about physics, chemistry, or biology. By evening, the results were pinned on the notice board. Ashok Mehendale from Pune had topped the list, and I was second—and among the girls, I was the topper.

I went back to Pune. A month earlier, I had taken admission in St John’s Dental College, but now I collected all my certificates and transfer letters and returned to Sevagram.

That little scrap of knowledge about Pune’s history and Aga Khan Palace had changed the course of my life.

The rest is  history.

Our class of 1976 was special—we had a record number of girls, twenty-one of us. On 1st August, we were packed off to Gandhiji’s Ashram for a two-week orientation. Life there was stark and austere. At 4:30 a.m., when most of us would rather be lost in dreams, Mr. L.R. Pandit, the camp in-charge, and his gentle wife, Manorama-bai, would wake us for prayers under the very pipal tree where Gandhiji had once sat. The girls from North India, who had never seen a morning that early, would rub their eyes in disbelief. But rules were rules.

Khadi was non-negotiable. The tailor from Wardha, who kept a shop near Durga Talkies, almost dropped his scissors when we asked him to stitch trousers. “Girls in trousers?” he muttered, shaking his head in horror. Within hours, the news had spread like wildfire: “The Pune and Bombay girls wear trousers!” Until then, girls from the earlier batches had worn only saris or salwar-kameez, their hair oiled and braided in traditional styles. But our batch broke the mold—some of us wore boy-cuts, a sight that shocked Sevagram’s sleepy conservatism.

For us city-bred girls, Sevagram was full of new lessons. The Indian-style toilets left some bewildered—“How do you even sit on this?” Narinder, soon rechristened ‘Nimmi,’ asked one morning, half in despair, half in laughter. Sitting cross-legged for meals was another challenge. We giggled, fumbled, and winced, but soon, everyone adjusted.

Ragging was playful, almost affectionate. Seniors asked us to sing bhajans like “Jai Santoshi Maa,” the chartbuster of the time, oil our hair, and wear two long plaits. They teased us about our trousers but never with malice. My cousin Chhaya, a 1972 alumna, often stood guard, shielding us from anything that crossed the line.

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The GANG and the “Trousers” Scandal

The hostel quickly turned into a home. Gopa, Aruna, Nimmi, and Gauri formed a little circle we proudly named “GANG”—an acronym stitched from our initials. Nimmi was the best cook of the lot. She would whip up curries and snacks, pack tiffins for the boys’ hostel, and send them along on our weekend picnics to Bordharan.

Evenings in Sevagram belonged to theatre. As the sun dipped, the hostel corridors would buzz with voices rehearsing lines, the scrape of chairs pulled together for makeshift rehearsals, and bursts of laughter when someone forgot a cue. Under the watchful yet indulgent eye of Dr. M.D. Khapre, practices stretched well past midnight. Sleep could wait; the stage could not.

With my Puneri English and easy stage presence, I was often thrust into the heroine’s role, slipping into characters from Marathi plays like Dinachya Saasu Radhabai and Ghetala Shingawar. At first, we had the guidance of Mr. Dharashivkar, a professor from Yashwant Arts College, Wardha. But after a single visit, he vanished—leaving the field wide open for us. We didn’t complain. Students eagerly took over, with Kishore Shah from the 1974 batch steering much of the direction.

The casts were drawn from every corner of our classes. Dinuchya Saasu Radhabai brought together Ashok Mehendale, Atul Deodhar, and me. In Ghetlay Shingawar, late Mamta Jawalekar, Kaustubh Patil, Santosh Prabhu, Ashok Mehendale, Mridul Panditrao and I—all from our 1976 batch—filled the stage with energy and verve. Seniors like Alhad Pimputkar and M.J. Khan joined in, adding their gravitas.

Morning lectures were casually sacrificed. Dr. Khapre, with a smile that reached his eyes, reassured us: “Don’t fret. You’ll all pass your exams.” And we believed him. Costumes were scavenged from seniors’ saris and shawls borrowed from teachers’ wardrobes. Nobody minded. In Sevagram, nothing belonged to one person alone. Books, meals, costumes, even dreams—everything was shared. The stage wasn’t just theatre; it was our second classroom, our family hearth, our world.

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The Rigors of A, B, C, and D

Of course, there were classes too—memorable ones.Dr. Parthasarathy taught anatomy. If someone sneezed, he would glare and thunder, “Who is this antisocial creature disturbing my lecture?”

Dr. S.K. Pandey taught physiology. In our first exam, we mischievously filled answer sheets with cartoons—a train named “Maharashtra Express,” cricket players, watches, even a jungle. Dr. Pandey was livid. “Your future looks dark and gloomy,” he warned. But we laughed nervously, knowing we’d crossed a line.

In medicine, we had stalwarts—Dr. O.P. Gupta, Dr. A.P. Jain, Dr. Ullas Jajoo. In surgery, Dr. Trivedi; in obstetrics, Dr. Chhabra. Each was larger than life, etched into our memories.

Exams were gruelling. For those of us with surnames starting from A to D, it was torture. Examiners arrived late, viva sessions stretched till 8 p.m., and the next day’s practicals began at 8 a.m. By the time we dragged ourselves back to the hostel, it was past eight. We dropped our bags on the floor, too drained even to talk. Some collapsed on their beds without changing; others sat staring blankly at half-eaten plates of food. The silence in the corridors said it all—tomorrow at eight, it would begin again. We often joked: “Never give your children names starting with A, B, C, or D.” Ironically, I married Ashok and later named my sons Aditya and Anuj!

Weekends were pure adventure. The moment the Friday classes ended at 5 p.m., we would dash to Wardha station, our hearts already halfway on the journey. The Maharashtra Express, always crowded, became our chariot of freedom. With no reservations, we squeezed ourselves into the unreserved compartments, sometimes perched at the doorway, the warm night wind whipping through our hair. Strangers, kind and curious, offered us seats or shared their snacks, and in that mingling of people and places, we felt free, alive, and impossibly young.

Festivals lit up our Sevagram days. Ganesh Chaturthi was celebrated with a grandeur that surprised even the most devout among us. On Dussera, we gathered large sona leaves, going from house to house, touching our teachers’ feet in reverence. The North Indian girls would frown in puzzlement. “Why call it sona when it isn’t gold?” they teased, their voices echoing with laughter.

Amid this whirl of studies and prayers, festivals and friendships, laughter and small rebellions, I slowly came of age. Sevagram was no longer just a village; it was the crucible where innocence turned into experience, where we discovered who we were, and who we might become.

When I finished MBBS, I was certain I would return to Pune. I had promised myself I would not spend a day longer in Sevagram than necessary. With that resolve, I went to B.J. Medical College, Pune, to apply for internship. The clerk there, however, gave me a piece of advice that changed the course of my life. He quietly warned me that if I left Sevagram, I risked losing my postgraduate seat not only at MGIMS but also at BJ. It was wiser, he said, to complete my internship at my alma mater. 

Reluctantly, I returned to Sevagram in January 1981 to begin what I thought would be my final year here.

But destiny had other plans.

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A Proposal and a Path

My first posting was in Medicine. Dr. Ashok from the class of 1974—fondly called Ashok Birbal—was then a resident, along with Hari Om. On 16th March, the last day of my posting, Ashok proposed.

“I can’t decide,” I told him honestly. “Our parents must approve.”

But he was persistent. With calm logic and persuasive charm, he continued to win me over. Still, I hesitated. Calling my father was daunting—there were no mobile phones then, only the public telephones in the hostel or casualty, and I did not have the courage to make that call. Instead, I wrote him a long, heartfelt letter, explaining that a senior had proposed and asking for his advice.

My father made discreet inquiries in Bhopal. He learned that Ashok’s father, once Chief Secretary in the Government of India, had long ago dropped the family’s caste-linked surname, choosing instead a life beyond labels of religion or caste. Satisfied, my father relented.

On 14th July 1981, we were married—making me the first among the twenty-one girls of my batch to tie the knot.

Ashok, ever practical, had insisted we not wait until December as originally planned. “Only married couples are allotted hospital quarters,” he reasoned. “If we delay, we might lose the chance.” That clinched it. Pragmatism had the final word, and with it began our shared journey.

After marriage, my academic path took a turn. I had performed well enough to pursue paediatrics or gynaecology, but Ashok gently nudged me toward pathology—a discipline, he reasoned, that would balance family life with a fulfilling career. I agreed, though not without reluctance.

In time, pathology drew me in. Under the meticulous guidance of Dr. Narendra Samal, I began my MD, choosing to work on biomarkers of chronic liver disease for my thesis. My dear friend, Mamta Jawalekar, and I studied side by side, supporting each other through every late night and early morning. Together, we broke tradition: we cleared the MD in our very first attempt. The examiners, impressed, overruled the unspoken custom of “never 100% results” and passed us both.

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A Family Bound by the Vocation

By 1984, my MD was complete. Ashok and I tried to make a life in Delhi, but the city’s rhythm never matched ours. We soon returned to Wardha, where our son Aditya was born. Ashok, ever resourceful, set up a small private clinic near Durga Talkies with his batchmate, paediatrician Dr. Arvind Garg. Their practice flourished quickly. I too found my footing, establishing a pathology lab of my own in Wardha. Together, we built a life, brick by brick. Our sons, Aditya and Anuj, followed medicine’s call, and so did their wives—a family bound by the same vocation.

Looking back, I marvel at how far I had come—from a hesitant Pune girl afraid to step beyond home, to a woman shaped by Sevagram’s soil. It was Sevagram that toughened me, gave me friendships to last a lifetime, a stage for theatre, the thrill of exams, a partner in Ashok, a career to cherish, and a life brimming with memories.

Even today, when I pass through Sevagram, I feel the same morning breeze beneath the pipal tree, hear Dr. Pandey’s stern warnings ring in the distance, catch the ripple of laughter in hostel corridors, and breathe in the earthy fragrance of the ashram dawn.

That was our world—simple, demanding, innocent, unforgettable.