The first time my admission was cancelled, I did not even know of it. The second time, I almost packed my bags to leave Sevagram forever. Even now, I wonder what invisible threads of fate kept me tied here, when so many hands seemed eager to loosen the knot. It was August of 1974. Monsoon clouds had wrapped Sevagram in grey, and I stood outside the admissions office, clutching a crumpled slip that carried just two chilling words: Admission Cancelled.

I had gone home to Naya Nangal, where my father was posted, because I was homesick. Two days later, I was back, arriving weary and hopeful by the Dakshin Express. Instead of a welcome, I found Mr. Bhausaheb Deshmukh, administrative officer of the principal officer, waiting, his voice sharp as a whip. He thundered that I had broken Ashram discipline by leaving without informing. The words struck like a hammer. My bewildered footsteps carried me to A Block of the boy’s hostel, to Brijmohan Gulati, the 1971 batch President of the Student Union. He looked at me and asked, “Can you cry? Can you really dramatise your story?”

In Principal Dr. I.D. Singh’s office, my tears came easily. Dr. Singh, hearing my story, switched to his earthy Punjabi: “Ki gal hai, munde?” (What’s the matter, boy?). It turned out they had admitted Pushpa Maheshwari from Etawah in my place, but another boy had just left, opening a second chance. That was how I entered MGIMS: not as a bright-eyed student striding into the future, but as a bewildered young man who had stumbled inside by the grace of circumstance and a well-timed cry.

From the Fertilizers of Sindri to the Calling of Dr. Das

My name is Arvind Garg. I was born on 1 September 1957 in Sindri, a small industrial township in Dhanbad district—then part of Bihar, now in Jharkhand. Sindri was synonymous with the Fertilizer Corporation of India (FCI) plant, and our lives revolved around its industrial rhythm. My father, a chemical engineer, worked there, but my own sights were set on a different kind of service. My grandfather suffered from bronchiectasis, and I watched my father carry him to the colony hospital, where a Dr. Das treated him with a calm assurance that left a permanent imprint on my sixth-grade mind.

My schooling was scattered across Gorakhpur and eventually Naya Nangal in Punjab. I was a product of the Hindi medium, but by Class 11 and 12 at Government Jubilee College, I began the difficult transition of answering my science papers in English. When the call for an interview came from Sevagram, I didn’t realize it was just a call; I arrived in Wardha with a large aluminum trunk and a holdall, convinced I was already a medical student. My interview was brief. Dr. Manimala Choudhary asked about the code of conduct—no meat, no alcohol, no smoking. Being from a strict vegetarian family, I replied that we didn’t even eat onion or garlic. She smiled, and the boisterous voice of Bhausaheb Deshmukh soon announced my rank on the notice board.

The Ashram Dormitory and the Takli’s Hum

For the first fortnight, all of us from outside Wardha were housed in a dormitory at Gandhiji’s ashram. I had never seen a metal bed before; at home, we slept on woven cots. I bought a thin mattress and a set of Khadi clothes from the Ashram shop, beginning a life that felt more like a spiritual apprenticeship than a medical course. Each morning began with prayers, followed by an hour at the takli—the small hand spindle. Luckily, I was not entirely new to it; in Sindri, spinning had been an elective. The charkha, however, was a new symphony, its rhythmic hum both strange and soothing.

The campus itself seemed more like an ashram than a medical college. Neem and banyan trees spread their shade generously, and the whitewashed buildings were simple, almost austere. My first friend was Deepak Fulzele, followed soon by Sanjiv Chugh, Sunil Dargar, and Vikrant Mohindra. Dargar would grandly announce he was from the Fiji Islands, while Vikrant wore his Ferguson College days like a badge of honor, polishing his shoes until they gleamed like mirrors. We were a eclectic mix, and from this group, a smaller, inseparable circle soon took shape: “The Dirty Dozen.”

The Dirty Dozen: A Legend in the Making

Rajiv Khushu, a Kashmiri boy with a ready wit, christened us “The Dirty Dozen.” At the time, we had no idea it was a 1967 war film; we just knew we were twelve souls bound by an unbreakable bond: Ashok Birbal Jain, Dilipkumar Bahl, Shadab Mahmood, Rajiv Khushu, Ravindra Behl, Sanjiv Chugh, Sunil Dargar, Sunil Taneja, Vikram Mohindra, Waqar Hasan, Deepak Fulzele, and myself. We were the actors in the dramas, the players on the cricket field, and the voices laughing in the corridors long after lights-out.

In the dissection hall, the glamour of our “Dozen” status vanished. My table partners were Bina George, Abhoy Sinha, Lalit Kose, and Ashok Taksande. Abhoy was the studious one, leaning over the cadaver while I read aloud from Cunningham, stumbling over the Latinate names of muscles. Biochemistry brought us Professor B.C. Harinath, who punctuated every lecture with: “A lot of research is going on in the USA on this…” We weren’t always saints, of course. We were once caught sneaking back from a late-night film in Wardha, facing the thunderous face of the warden who reminded us that tomorrow we would cut open cadavers, but tonight we wasted our time on Rajesh Khanna.

Illness, Tales of Hanuman, and the Library Refuge

Sevagram life was never without its sudden turns. I once fell ill with jaundice, a rite of passage for many of us. As the hostel emptied for vacations, I lay alone in the medicine ward, the silence pressing in. Only Hariom remained behind. He would sit beside me in the dim ward and tell stories—how Hanuman made the fire tremble in Lanka, or tales of mischievous cousins stealing mangoes in his village. I realized then that illness didn’t just isolate; it pulled people closer. Hariom’s tales stitched the silence into companionship.

Because money was always tight, I could not afford to buy many books. The library became my sanctuary. From nine in the morning until nine at night, I sat there, soaking in anatomy and physiology. But no matter how long the day in the library had been, the night belonged to the badminton court. At nine o’clock sharp, the whirr of the shuttlecock and the crisp sound of the racquet felt like a necessary release. I eventually had the privilege of captaining the college badminton team, balancing the hushed walls of the library with the competitive sweat of the court.

The ‘Wanted’ Expulsion and the Carbon Paper Notes

In 1974, Sunil Dargar and I went to Wardha to watch Wanted, starring Dev Anand. We returned at midnight to find the 1975 batch being ragged on the terrace. The principal arrived, everyone scattered, and the next morning, disaster struck. A senior falsely accused Dargar, Khushu, Taneja, Vikrant Mohindra, and me of being the culprits. Dr. Sushila Nayar, newly returned from Delhi, was furious. Four of us were suspended for a year, and Dargar was expelled.

The principal handed us booklets of donation coupons worth ₹5000—a king’s ransom in those days. “Sell these,” he said, “and only then can you return.” Our parents, heartbroken, rushed to Sevagram to pay the sum. We lost two months of classes, but the kindness of Suneela, Bina George, and Kamini Kaushal saved us. They took meticulous notes with carbon paper and posted them to us every few days. When we rejoined, the scars remained, but so did a deeper understanding of solidarity.

Holi, the Banyan Tree, and the Art of Listening

Holi in Sevagram was a test of survival—muddy water, soot-stained palms, and the occasional foul egg. Near the Madras hostel, the faculty—Drs. M.L. Sharma, R.V. Agrawal, and others—would swap scandalous jokes and dissolve the distance between teacher and student. But it was in the village postings that we learned the most. Pairing with Suneela—who would later become my life partner—I trudged through the dusty lanes of Warud. Suneela once remarked, “Textbooks don’t tell us that the hardest part of medicine is listening.”

Sevagram taught us resilience when the taps ran dry and humility when villagers brought us groundnuts as payment. On our last day, we gathered under the old banyan tree. I looked at the faces of the Dirty Dozen—Vikram’s grin, Deepak’s laughter—and I knew Sevagram was the invisible thread binding us. If my admission had truly been cancelled that June morning, I would have missed the best years of my life. Fate gave me Sevagram, and with it, memories that refuse to fade.