From the Mats of Gorakhpur to the Calling of Medicine

I was born in Gorakhpur, a town in Uttar Pradesh that, in the 1950s and 60s, moved at a sleepy, unhurried pace. My father was a manager at the Punjab National Bank—a man of figures and discipline—and my mother was the heartbeat of our large, bustling household. Although our family was vast, filled with cousins and siblings, the path of medicine was a pioneer’s trail for me; none of my relatives had ever worn the white coat.

My grandfather and father, however, held a shared dream. To them, a doctor was not just a professional; he was a figure of ultimate respect and sacred purpose. This hope was whispered into my ears so often that it took root in my soul before I even understood the complexity of the human body. My early education was humble and traditional. From Class 1 to 6, I attended Maharana Pratap Shishu Shiksha Mandir, a local Hindi-medium school where we sat cross-legged on mats on the floor. There were no desks, just the scratch of slate pencils and the sonorous voice of the teacher. I moved to DAV College and eventually JB College, but throughout my youth, the medium of my thoughts and my learning remained entirely in Hindi.

The Money Order and the Long Road to Wardha

In those days, the world of medical admissions was a mystery box. There was no internet to scan, no social media to consult. Our only windows were the newspapers and the local coaching centers. It was through these teachers that I first heard of a place called Sevagram—a medical college built on the ideals of the Mahatma. To prepare for the entrance, I needed books on Gandhian thought that were nowhere to be found in the bookstores of Gorakhpur. I remember the anxiety of sending a money order to a bookstore in Wardha, waiting weeks for the package to arrive, and then devouring those books cover to cover as if they held the secrets of my destiny.

The telegram inviting me for an interview was a lightning bolt of joy. But reaching Wardha was a feat of endurance. There were no direct trains from Gorakhpur. My father and I embarked on a multi-stage odyssey, changing trains at Jhansi, then Allahabad, and finally at the junction of Itarsi. By the time we reached Wardha East, we were coated in the coal-dust of the railways. My father, ever the banker, had connected with Mr. Sunderlal Chandna, the local PNB manager. After a brief rest at his home, we shifted to the Annapurna Hotel—a modest lodging that was, in those days, a crossroads for every hopeful MGIMS aspirant in India.

The Interview: A Moment of Raw Truth

The next day, I saw Sevagram for the first time. The interview took place in the Principal’s office, a modest setup near the old Kasturba Hospital. The panel was formidable: Mr. Sriman Narayan was the chairman, flanked by Dr. Sushila Nayar, Dr. Manimala Chaudhary, and Principal M.L. Sharma. I felt the weight of my father’s expectations as I sat in that chair.

The first question was sharp: “What’s the source of Vitamin C?” “Citrus fruits, sir,” I replied, my voice steadier than I felt. “Lemon, in fact, contains nearly twice as much vitamin C as most others.” They moved quickly to my background. Seeing my father was a bank manager, they asked my views on the nationalization of Indian banks. It was a political firebrand of a topic, but I spoke from my heart. I told them that nationalization meant the common man could finally walk into a bank without being turned away—that banks would finally serve the people, not just the wealthy.

Then, the tone shifted to the soul. They asked if Gandhian philosophy was still relevant. I took a deep breath. “I have immense respect for the Mahatma,” I said, “but I feel disheartened. Many who wear Khadi and spin charkhas today have eroded the values he stood for through corruption.” The room went silent. One interviewer noted that it was a strong statement for a boy my age. “But it’s the truth, sir,” I replied, meeting his gaze.

Finally, they asked why I wanted to be a doctor. I told them about the board I saw outside our local hospital every day: ‘To serve people is to serve God.’ I spoke of Mother Teresa and the dignity of the weak. I found myself moved to tears as I spoke, and in that moment, the panel stopped being a board of examiners; they became listeners. They sensed my empathy, and before the sun set that day, I was selected.

The Ashram Ethos and the Geometry of the Heart

My training began not in a lab, but in Gandhiji’s Ashram. For a fortnight, we lived the life of an initiate. Mr. L.R. Pandit, a man of strict but kind discipline, taught us the sanctity of food—how wasting a single grain was an insult to the farmer. We woke for the sarva dharma prayers, the chants of all religions mingling in the pre-dawn air. This wasn’t just orientation; it was a rewiring of our moral compass.

Initially, the language was a barrier. Coming from the Hindi heartland, the rapid Marathi of the wards was a blur. I gravitated toward the “North Indian circle”—friends like B.K. Behl from Kanpur, Sunil Taneja, and Jitendra Tiwari. But Sevagram had a way of breaking down these silos. The most powerful tool for this was the Family Adoption Programme.

The Chaudharys: A Bond Beyond Medicine

I was assigned to Warud village, specifically to the family of Shri Chaudhary. At first, it was a clinical exercise—I went there to fill forms and collect data on nutrition and sanitation. But the human heart has its own geometry. Soon, the data points were replaced by faces. When a member of the Chaudhary family fell ill, I didn’t just note it in my journal; I brought them tea from the hostel, sat by their hospital bed, and navigated the bureaucracy of the wards for them.

Over the years, the student-doctor relationship dissolved into a kinship that defies geography. The Chaudharys traveled all the way to Gorakhpur for my wedding. I, in turn, became a fixture in their family milestones. When their daughter married in Bangalore, my parents were there. When their younger daughter married in Mumbai, I was there for three days, working as a brother would. When their son married, I spent a night on a bumpy bus from Wardha to Dhule to ensure the ceremony went smoothly.

This program taught me a lesson that no textbook could: that a true doctor does not treat a “case”; he treats a family member. It taught me that beyond the pharmacology and the surgery, it is empathy and human connection that truly define the art of healing.

Fifty Years of the Sevagram Spirit

Looking back five decades later, I realize that MGIMS did not just give me a degree; it gave me an identity. The boy who sat on mats in Gorakhpur learned that the highest form of education is to recognize the suffering in another and to move toward it with a willing heart. The lessons of L.R. Pandit and the warm hospitality of the Chaudhary family shaped every prescription I have ever written.

Sevagram’s power lies in its ability to turn strangers into family and students into human beings. That spirit—the one that believes to serve people is to serve God—is the greatest medicine I ever learned. It is a spirit I have carried with me from the wards of Wardha to the busy streets of Gorakhpur, and it remains as vibrant today as it was when I first stepped onto the red soil of the Ashram in 1974.