Arre D.P. tu pass ho gaya!” I still remember Dr. Ullas Jajoo’s words as if they were spoken yesterday. My throat had gone dry that afternoon in the medicine ward, when Dr. H. N. Khatri, the internal examiner in Medicine practical exams,  had looked at me coldly and declared, “You are cheating. Somebody has told you the diagnosis. I won’t take your viva.” He simply walked away, leaving me trembling with fear. I had imagined the worst—years of effort collapsing in a moment, a stigma of failure that would follow me forever. It was Dr. Ullas, newly joined as a young lecturer, who leaned in and whispered reassuringly, “Don’t worry. Dr. A. P. Jain is the co-examiner. You’ve done well in spotting, and you’ll pass.” Those words steadied me. Without Dr. Jajoo that day, my story might have taken a very different turn.

I was born on 31 March 1958 in Bhaura, a small village in Jaunpur district, about forty-five kilometres from Varanasi. My father taught chemistry at Varanasi College, where he later rose to head the department and even became the dean. But my childhood was far removed from such lofty titles. Like most families in eastern Uttar Pradesh, our home was a joint nest, often bursting at the seams with cousins and relatives who came to study in Varanasi.

I did my early schooling in the village and then joined Uday Pratap College for my intermediate education. I wrote both the BHU and UP-CPMT exams, securing admission at MGIMS Sevagram. 

It was 1975. The Emergency year. I believe it was my destiny to join MGIMS in 1975.

I had almost dropped the idea. A senior had casually given me the address of Sevagram, and I was too nervous to travel alone to Delhi for the interview. I gave up. But fate intervened—a few days later, I ran into the same senior again, and this time, I got his company and courage. I went.

I was selected for the interview round. Since I was confident of securing a seat through the UP CPMT, I came to Sevagram just to try my luck—not desperate, not expecting much.

On the train, I met another senior from Varanasi. His presence reassured me. I reached Sevagram with a sense of curiosity, not anxiety.

The interview board was intimidating—10 or 11 people. When they heard I was from Varanasi, only Dr. Sushila Nayar spoke. She asked me everything about my hometown: Banaras, Kashi, its famous sarees, mangoes, the Kashi Vishwanath temple, BHU, and even the market near the BHU gate—Lanka. I answered honestly.

That night, around 9 pm, the results were declared in front of the Principal’s office. To my surprise, I was selected. What struck me most was the sheer fairness of the process.

But I was just 17 years and 3 months old—a minor. The next day, I couldn’t pay the fees because I wasn’t legally allowed to sign the ₹5,000 bond. The office superintendent scolded me for coming without a guardian and gave me two days to get it sorted. I sent a lightning telegram to my father, who rushed to Sevagram and signed the bond.

Then came the orientation camp in the Ashram. I felt comfortable from the very beginning. Having studied in a village school and grown up in a middle-class family, I easily connected with the spirit of the place. I enjoyed every activity.

Two weeks later,  came a telegram—my selection at Allahabad confirmed. The final decision loomed: MGIMS or Allahabad Medical College? I held both offers in my hand like two diverging paths. Some of the waitlisted candidates, desperate for a place, even approached me quietly, offering to pay my bond money, fees, and travel expenses if only I would give up the MGIMS seat. The pull was strong: it was closer to home, set in a world where the language, food, and culture would be mine.

And yet, Sevagram had already begun to seep into me. I had spent a fortnight there—first at the Gandhiji Ashram orientation camp, then in the hostel. The simplicity of the village, the discipline that shaped daily life, the quiet dignity of its code of conduct—something in that soil clung to me. When I tried to imagine leaving, it felt as though I would be wrenching myself away from more than a campus.

Allahabad promised familiarity, but Sevagram offered purpose. My mind was made up.

I chose MGIMS—so far from home, at such a young age, with nothing but a Hindi-medium schooling behind me—and I have never once regretted that decision.

Life there was simple. Khadi was compulsory, and I soon realised its quiet advantage. Since everyone wore khadi from the same Bhandar, students from humble backgrounds like mine never felt dwarfed by those who could afford branded shirts and jeans. In khadi, we were all equals. Food too posed no problem for me. Many students from Delhi, Punjab and Haryana grumbled at the sight of watery dal and boiled rice, but I relished it. It was the very food I had grown up eating in my village.

In the beginning, though, I was shy—a Hindi-speaking boy from a modest background, unable to mix easily with the confident, convent-educated students from Delhi and Bombay. 

Of the sixty students in the batch, ten were from Uttar Pradesh and nineteen were from Delhi, Punjab and Haryana belt.Two thirds of the students came from rural backgrounds. There were only a dozen girls, a fifth of the student strength/ So, for six months, I simply chose silence, observing everything around me. My first friend was Akhil Saxena from Kota, and then Bipin Amin from Nagpur joined the circle. Slowly, a group of seven formed—Rakesh Gupta from Jhansi, Krishan Agarwal from Delhi, Madhu Kant from Ghaziabad, Rajesh Mishra from Lucknow, Surendra Shastri from Bombay, Akhil Saxena, and I.

Among them, smaller subgroups emerged. With Pardeep Handa, Harish Parashar, Vikas Jain, and later, during internship, with Ramchandra Goyal, I formed deeper bonds. Ramchandra’s marriage to Baby, a staff nurse, was a bold Hindu-Muslim union in those days. When he faced opposition and legal hurdles, I stood by him. “D.P., will you hold all the money and gifts during my wedding?” he asked me once, his voice tense. I agreed without hesitation. Baby’s kindness also drew me close—she often sent us meat dishes secretly from the nursing hostel. For a boy who loved non-vegetarian food, her generosity was unforgettable.

Hostel life carried its own charm. I began in Block A, Room 40, then shifted to Block C, Room 17. Ragging was absent in our early years because it was the Emergency (1975–77). Dr. Sushila Nayar had taken refuge in Sevagram, fearing arrest, and her presence kept the atmosphere disciplined. Still, when ragging did rear its head in later batches, strict action followed. I recall Sunil Dargar from ’74 being suspended for six months after complaints along with four others but the four were sent home only for a month or two before they were permitted to join the institute.

I was no sportsman, nor did I participate in drama or debates. Yet, I was a permanent member of Sargam, our music group. My role was peculiar—I never sang. Instead, I sat late into the night, listening to the likes of Mukunda Oak, Surendra Shastri, and Harish Parashar, offering critiques in my rustic, untrained way. “Bhai, audience ko thoda halka gaana bhi chahiye,” I would say, and surprisingly, they valued my words.

Exams were another story

Anatomy under Dr. M.S. Parthasarathy was a nightmare. He had just joined as the department head and seemed determined to stamp his authority by setting impossible standards. During practicals, his sharp eyes darted across the room, as if searching for weakness. A student fumbling with a scalpel or misnaming a nerve would be dismissed with a withering remark. Rumours spread like wildfire—he might fail half the batch. In the end, fourteen of us were declared unfit, and a quarter of the class was pushed back by six months. For us, it was not just a failure in an exam; it meant watching friends move ahead while we sat on the margins, nursing humiliation. Even the principal, Dr. M.L. Sharma, was disturbed by the outcome. Within months, Dr. Parthasarathy resigned and left MGIMS, leaving behind a trail of demoralised students.

Later, in final MBBS, fresh anxieties awaited. Dr. H.N. Khatri, deputed from PGI Chandigarh to head Medicine, was a brilliant bedside teacher, a stickler for discipline, and an authority on cardiology. But brilliance did not make him fair. His classroom was a theatre of favourites and outcasts. Some basked in his approval; others, like me, endured his cold disdain. Once, I went with my friend Bipin Amin—his blue-eyed boy—to see an English movie in Nagpur. Fate played its trick: we ran into Dr. Khatri outside the theatre. The next morning, he looked at me with an icy smile. “You’re more interested in movies than medicine. You’ll never pass.” Then, turning to Bipin, his voice softened: “So, how was the movie?” The contrast was brutal, and as young students, we could not make sense of such arbitrary affections.

His judgments were public and merciless. Six months before the Nagpur University final MBBS exams, he declared openly that he would pass only 21 out of 42 students, naming the ones doomed to fail. “You’ll never pass,” he told me, his words cutting deeper than any scalpel. Living under that shadow was torment—the sense that one’s future depended less on competence and more on a teacher’s whims. Yet, against those odds, with the support of Dr. Ullas Jajoo and Dr. A.P. Jain, I scraped through. Survival in medical school often hinged not just on study and skill, but on the moods of the men who judged us.

I completed house jobs in Ophthalmology and E.N.T., and then, in need of a roof over my head in the boys’ hostel, requested Dr. K. K. Trivedi, the Medical Superintendent of the hospital, for a senior residency. He kindly agreed. At that time, MGIMS did not offer postgraduate training in Ophthalmology because there was no recognized guide in the department. I therefore had to look beyond Sevagram and turned my eyes to GMC and IGMC Nagpur, hoping that my performance at MGIMS would help me secure a coveted seat in Ophthalmology. That search, however, drew me into the world of litigation. Two court cases, fought at different stages, would go on to change the course of my life and shape my professional career. The first was a landmark judgment that expanded opportunities for medical graduates across universities in Maharashtra; the second was a personal battle that secured my place in the postgraduate program I had long aspired to join. Together, they opened doors—first to a Diploma and then to a Degree in Ophthalmology—that might otherwise have remained firmly shut.

The First Case: A Legal Wind of Change

In 1980, the legal climate in Maharashtra was shifting. A topper from Indira Gandhi Medical College, Nagpur, challenged an entrenched rule that restricted postgraduate admissions to graduates of the same institution. His argument was simple yet powerful: the examination was conducted by the same university, with the same theory papers and the same external examiners. If he had topped the entire university, why should he be denied a seat at another college within the same university system—specifically, Government Medical College, Nagpur?

The High Court agreed with his reasoning. In a historic judgment, it directed that 25% of postgraduate seats be reserved for “outsiders” from other colleges within the same university. That ruling changed the map of opportunity for many of us. It was because of this case that I secured admission to the Diploma in Ophthalmology at Indira Gandhi Medical College, Nagpur—a stepping stone that gave direction and focus to my future career.

The Second Case: A Personal Battle for MS

The second case was far more personal, and without it, my journey in Ophthalmology might have ended with the Diploma. After completing my Diploma, I sought admission to the MS Ophthalmology program at Government Medical College, Nagpur. To my dismay, my application was turned down—not by an Ophthalmologist, but by the Professor of Physiology, who also happened to be the chief of the postgraduate admission cell. No reason was offered for the rejection. It was arbitrary, and it closed the door on my aspirations.

With no other recourse, I knocked on the doors of the court. In this struggle, I found unexpected allies. Mr. Deshpande, a kindly senior lawyer in Wardha, took me under his wing and treated me like family. I was often welcomed into his home, where his wife, despite the language barrier between her Marathi and my Hindi, bridged the gap with gestures, smiles, and lovingly prepared meals. Their warmth sustained me during those anxious days.

One evening, Mr. Deshpande handed me a sealed envelope and asked me to deliver it to a young advocate in Nagpur, Shridhar Ane. Ane read the letter, looked at me, and without a moment’s hesitation agreed to fight my case. We won. The local newspaper The Hitavada carried the news, and with the court’s intervention, I secured my MS Ophthalmology seat at GMC Nagpur.

When I went to thank Mr. Ane, awkwardly offering to pay his fee, he only smiled. “Do you remember who wrote that letter for me? Mr. Deshpande. That is your fee.” He refused to accept a rupee. His generosity, like Deshpandes’ kindness, left an indelible mark on me.

Looking back, I realize that these two court cases did more than determine the trajectory of my career. They taught me how deeply the law, chance encounters, and human kindness can shape a life. Without them, I might never have become an Ophthalmologist. With them, I was able to move step by step—from Diploma to Degree—into the profession that became my calling.

I joined the MS Ophthalmology program under Dr. S. K. Dhawan, a strict but fair mentor. When I visited him on 10 January 1984, he said, “Join now, D.P. The postgraduate batch will begin only on the first of February. If you start today, you can choose me as your guide.” I did not hesitate. Though feared by many, I soon became his “blue boy.” Dr. Dhawan ran the department with military discipline, sparing no one for the slightest mistake and never suffering fools gladly. Yet with me, he revealed a completely different side. He was warm and encouraging, often taking me to the college canteen for breakfast—and always paying for it—and making me his companion on the eye camps in Gadchiroli. Few would have believed these two sides of Dr. Dhawan’s personality. Under his mentorship, I completed my MS in Ophthalmology in 1984.

From there, destiny carried me further. With Dr. Dhawan’s recommendation, I joined Sitapur Eye Hospital in 1985 as a surgeon, then served in Allahabad and Gonda, even as Medical Superintendent. On 7 September 1989, I resigned to start my own practice. I named my clinic Sanket Netralaya after my son, born in 1987. 

Life gave me success, patients, and recognition. But it also dealt a cruel blow. In the summer of 2025, I lost my wife to a brain tumour. That void can never be filled. And yet, when I look back—from Bhauara village to Sevagram, Nagpur, Sitapur, and beyond—I feel destiny gave me more than I ever dared to ask. Sevagram, especially, shaped my roots and my wings. Without its soil, its khadi, its simple dal-chawal, and its uncompromising teachers, I would not be who I am today.