From Hinganghat to Sevagram: A Story of Second Chances and Serendipity

The interview board was formidable, a crescent of intellectual and moral authority sitting within the historic walls of Mahadeo Bhai Bhavan in 1971. I was nervous—that familiar, cold flutter in the stomach—but I was also anchored by a stubborn sense of hope. I had stood before a similar board in 1970 and had been turned away. This time, I hadn’t come with better marks, but I had come with a fuller folder. Tucked inside were two certificates that I hoped would speak for my character: one as the secretary of the English Literature Society at Mohota Science College, and another for volunteering at a rural eye camp.

Dr. Sushila Nayar—Badi Behenji—leaned forward, her eyes scanning my credentials. She had a way of looking at a candidate that made you feel she was searching for your soul, not just your grades. She pointed to the literature certificate. “What did your society organize?” she asked. I took a breath and replied with a bluntness that perhaps bordered on the risky: “Only the inauguration function, Ma’am.” She didn’t scold me; she laughed, a soft, indulgent sound that broke the tension in the room. She moved to the eye camp certificate. “And what exactly did you do there?” I told her, with a quiet but genuine pride, that I had helped elderly patients find their way to the operating theater.

The Wit that Opened the Door

The interview took a turn toward the technical, then the personal. One interviewer scrutinized my B.Sc. marks. “Fifty percent,” I stated. He adjusted his spectacles, looking at the decimal points. “It’s actually 49.7%,” he corrected. I simply nodded; in the face of such precision, there was no room for argument. Then came the questions about Mahatma Gandhi, the spiritual anchor of the institute.

“How many sons did Gandhiji have?” the professor asked. I didn’t know the names of Harilal or Manilal at that moment, but an old patriotic refrain flashed through my mind. I looked at the board with a mischievous smile and answered, “Forty crores,” referring to the entire population of India at the time. The room erupted in laughter. It was the kind of answer that wouldn’t pass a history exam, but it perfectly captured the spirit of the institution. When they followed up by asking if I knew anything about his real biological sons, I met them with a respectful, complete silence. I had no reply.

A few days later, the news arrived: I had been selected. Roll number 27. I hadn’t made it through stellar academic standing—my 49.7% was a humble figure—but through a combination of sincerity, a quick wit, and a touch of serendipity. I was a boy from Hinganghat, a merchant’s son, about to become the first doctor in a family that valued trade but revered service.

Roots in Hinganghat and the Pull of Nagpur

I was born on 25 March 1951 in Hinganghat, a bustling market town in Maharashtra known for its cotton and its close-knit community. My father was a respected merchant, a man who understood the rhythms of the market but wanted something different for his children. We were a traditional Gujarati family—three sisters and a brother—living a life where education was respected but professional medicine was a foreign territory.

My schooling was entirely local, right up to my matriculation in Hinganghat. But since the town lacked a college, my father made the significant decision to send me to Nagpur. I moved from the familiar streets of my childhood to the sprawling academic environment of Mohota Science College. It was there, while studying for my B.Sc., that I first heard whispers of a new medical college opening in the very village where Mahatma Gandhi had spent his final years. By 1970, MGIMS was no longer just a rumor; it was a beacon for those who wanted to practice medicine with a conscience. My first attempt to enter its gates had failed, but that failure only sharpened my resolve to return in 1971.

The Ashram and the Pranami Connection

Once admitted, we were ushered into a two-week orientation camp at the Gandhi Ashram. It was a rigorous introduction to a lifestyle that many modern students would find alien. Shri L.R. Pandit, the camp organizer, and his wife treated us with a warmth that was truly parental. They didn’t just teach us about Gandhiji; they showed us how to live his values. I remember the intellectual fire of Shri Shriman Narayan, the then Governor of Gujarat, and his wife Madalsa Narayan, whose oratory skills were as legendary as her lineage.

For me, adapting to the ashram’s code of conduct felt strangely natural. I belong to the Pranami sect—also known as the Nijanand sect—a unique Hindu tradition from Gujarat. It is a faith that worships Lord Krishna but incorporates profound influences from both Hinduism and Islam, preaching a message of universal equality and harmony. Coincidentally, Gandhiji’s mother, Putlibai, was also a devout Pranami. The emphasis on simple living, prayer, and the rejection of caste barriers was something I had grown up with. While some of my classmates from the North struggled with the mandatory khadi and the vegetarian simplicity of the mess, for me, it felt like a spiritual homecoming.

Raakhi Bonds and Village Serendipity

The friendships formed in those early years were not mere professional associations; they were kinship. A group of us—Alhad Pimputkar, Dilip Raichura, Parvin Ansari, Debi Sen, and Medha Kulkarni—formed a bond so deep that we became Raakhi brothers and sisters. In a time before the internet and mobile phones, our world was small, focused, and incredibly innocent. We shared our notes, our anxieties about exams, and the simple joy of a shared meal. These bonds have remained unfrayed by the passing of fifty years.

Being a “local boy” from the region, I often found myself acting as a bridge between the college and the surrounding villages. My father, eager to support the institute’s mission, would often host the Ophthalmology and Gynaecology screening camps in our family’s small dharamshala. I remember watching Dr. Dhawan and his dedicated team performing cataract surgeries and fitting spectacles right in the verandahs of the building. It was a theater of service that lacked the sterile glitz of a city hospital but possessed a raw, life-changing power.

Gode Aunty’s Dinner and the Male Gynaecologist

These camps were a family affair. While the doctors worked through the heat of the day, my mother would be busy in the kitchen. She believed that no one should serve the community on an empty stomach. After the last patient was seen, she would serve the medical team a hearty Gujarati dinner—steaming dhoklas, kadhi, and rotlis—her own way of participating in the healing process.

I also recall the presence of Dr. Kasturi Lal, who was something of an anomaly in the rural landscape—a male gynecologist. In the conservative villages of 1970s Maharashtra, this could have been a barrier, but his gentle skill and undeniable dedication won over the local communities. Watching these pioneers work in the field, away from the comforts of the campus, taught me more about the “Art of Medicine” than any textbook ever could. For a boy from Hinganghat with a straightforward tongue and modest marks, Sevagram became more than a college; it became the place where I learned that medicine, at its best, is a form of hospitality.