The Telegram That Went to the Coast

It was a sweltering day in July 1974 when a telegram changed the entire course of my life—and then, in a cruel twist of bureaucratic fate, almost snatched it away. The admission telegram from the Mahatma Gandhi Institute of Medical Sciences (MGIMS), Sevagram, was supposed to reach my village, Khair, in the Aligarh district of Uttar Pradesh. Instead, it was misread by a postal clerk and sent to Khar, a bustling suburb of Bombay.

By the time the letter was rerouted and finally arrived a week later, the admissions window had slammed shut. My father and I, desperate and clutching the late arrival, took the long train journey to Wardha. Our hearts pounded with a volatile mix of hope and dread. When we arrived, I was told I was number ten on the waiting list. My father, a man of quiet conviction, poured out our story to Badi Behenji—Dr. Sushila Nayar herself. She listened with a stillness that only those who have spent a lifetime in service possess. “If anyone withdraws,” she said softly, “you will be next.”

As luck—or perhaps destiny—would have it, a candidate from Himachal named Ravi Nangia secured a seat elsewhere. I stood ready with a ₹5,000 bond, and the seat opened. I joined MGIMS a full month late. I had missed the orientation camp, the prayers at the Ashram, and the freshers’ night where friendships are first forged. I stepped onto the campus as a latecomer, a boy who had narrowly missed the bus, unaware that this narrow opening was the door to my future.

Roots in the Red Soil of Aligarh

I was born in Khair, where my father, Shri Anand Prakash, practiced as an Ayurvedic physician. He was a man of deep local respect; patients traveled from distant villages to seek his counsel. We lived modestly, a lower-middle-class family where every rupee was weighed against the needs of three siblings. My mother, Savitri Devi, was the silent strength of our household, managing our limited resources with a grace that masked our struggles.

In the 1970s, engineering was the popular choice for many, but for me, mathematics was a formidable enemy. Furthermore, the job market for engineers was then a wasteland. Medicine appeared as a beacon of stability and respect. I failed my first attempt at the entrance exams and spent a year studying independently in my village. We couldn’t afford the coaching classes in Delhi, so I improvised. For the essay papers, I relied on my reading of Gandhi’s The Story of My Experiments with Truth. I didn’t realize then that I wasn’t just studying for an exam; I was absorbing a philosophy that would later define my clinical practice.

The Anatomy of a Latecomer

Because I arrived late, I entered the dissection hall like a man dropped into the middle of a foreign film. My batchmates had already finished the upper limb and were moving on to the complex structures of the thorax and abdomen. I didn’t even know the difference between dorsal and ventral. Every test I took was a disaster; my name was a permanent fixture at the bottom of the list.

Two young Anatomy lecturers, Dr. Sharma and Dr. Menon, saw my drowning spirit. During the Diwali vacation, they offered me a lifeline: “Stay back, and we will teach you what you missed.” I promised I would, but when the hostel emptied and the lure of home became too strong, I fled to Aligarh. When I returned, they scolded me with the sternness of older brothers, but they didn’t give up. They stayed back in the heat of the afternoon to guide my scalpel, restoring not just my knowledge of the human body, but my confidence.

The “Dirty Dozen” and the Ganesh Arches

In the hostel, I found my anchor in Arvind Garg. Soon, we were part of a band of twelve inseparable souls who called themselves “Dirnt.” We were a chaotic, joyful gang that navigated the rigors of medical school with humor and shared defiance. Coming from a Hindi-medium school in rural UP, the medical terminology in English was overwhelming. I often felt like an outsider until the first Ganesh festival arrived.

In North India, we had no tradition of public Ganesh celebrations. But my village school had taught me Krishi Vigyan (agricultural science) and craft work. I spent days creating intricate, handmade arches and ornaments for the festival hall. My friends were astonished; they saw a side of the “village boy” they hadn’t expected. Sevagram was beginning to introduce me to the vast, colorful tapestry of Indian culture beyond the borders of Aligarh.

I remember the simple joys of those years—like the time our classmate Jitender Lal received two crates of apples from his father in Himachal. The moment those crates hit the hostel floor, we descended like a swarm of bees. By the time Jitender fought his way to the front, he was lucky if a single bruised apple remained for the person whose name was on the box.

A Quiet Fire: The Journey to the Gold Medal

The turning point of my life occurred at the end of my first MBBS. I had barely passed Anatomy, though I managed to stay in the top ten through sheer grit. During the annual function, I sat in the back of the hall and watched Dr. Yogendra Mathur and Rita Madan walk up to the stage repeatedly to collect their medals. The thunderous applause echoed in my ears and sparked a quiet fire in my chest. “Next year,” I whispered to myself, “that clapping will be for me.”

I began my second MBBS with a discipline I had never known. I studied from day one. I slept eight hours a night, even before the most grueling exams, believing that a rested mind was a sharper tool. That discipline bore fruit. I topped the second MBBS, and then the final MBBS, winning gold medals in Pathology, Pharmacology, Gynaecology, and Community Medicine. The applause I had longed for was finally mine, but more importantly, I had proven that a latecomer could lead the race.

Choosing Medicine Over the Risk of Libya

After my internship, I initially wanted to specialize in Pediatrics. However, a chance encounter near the old library changed my path. I met Dr. (Mrs.) Chaturvedi, and in a moment of rare candor, she whispered, “Don’t tell anyone, but I am leaving for Libya.” I knew then that the department would be in flux. I shifted my focus to Internal Medicine and joined the MD program.

I pursued my MD under Dr. A.P. Jain, researching tropical pulmonary eosinophilia. This was an era before the luxury of CT scans or MRIs reached Sevagram. We had only our stethoscopes, our eyes, and our ability to listen. Under the mentorship of Dr. O.P. Gupta and Dr. Ulhas Jajoo, I learned the art of history-taking and physical examination—skills that are becoming a lost art in the age of digital diagnostics. I failed my first MD attempt, a blow that stung deeply, but I cleared it six months later in June 1983. Soon after, I married Anju, an intern who would become my life partner and a skilled gynecologist.

The Open Fields of Pitampura

In 1985, Pitampura in Delhi was not the urban jungle it is today; it was a landscape of open fields and a few scattered houses. I bought a small plot and opened a modest clinic. Over the years, that clinic grew into a 15-bed hospital. It was a pioneering center in the area—the first to perform laparoscopic surgery in Pitampura. We were the “village doctors” for a neighborhood that was rapidly transforming into a city.

By 2000, the geography of Delhi had shifted. The city had become divided by social and logistical barriers. Families in South Delhi wouldn’t dream of marrying into the North, and the daily commute for basic needs became a burden. We eventually closed the Pitampura chapter and moved to South Delhi. It was the end of one journey and the beginning of another.

Bonsai: The Patience of the Second Calling

While medicine was my profession, bonsai became my second calling. The seed was planted back in Sevagram by my friend Ravindra Bahl, a Botany enthusiast who told me of the Japanese art of growing ancient trees in tiny pots. In 1986, I attended an exhibition by the Indian Bonsai Association in Delhi, led by Dr. Leela Dhanda. I was captivated.

Bonsai is not just about gardening; it is about the intersection of time, art, and biology. It requires the same clinical patience I used in the medicine wards. You must understand the tree’s history, anticipate its growth, and intervene with a gentle hand. In 2000, I traveled to Japan to study the art at its source. Today, I am recognized as one of the few experts in India, spending hours trimming branches and shaping life.

Final Reflections under the Neem Tree

Looking back, I see a life shaped by the “grace of the glitch.” If that telegram had reached Aligarh on time, I might have led a perfectly ordinary life in a different college. Because it went to Khar instead of Khair, I ended up in Sevagram—a place that gave me the teachers who became my mentors and the friends who became my family.

From a village boy who failed his first anatomy tests to a gold medalist physician in the capital, every turn of the road has been a lesson in resilience. Today, when I sit quietly in my garden tending to my bonsai, listening to the songs of Jagjit Singh or Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, I am at peace. I am the boy from Aligarh, the student from Sevagram, and the caretaker of miniature giants. Destiny, it seems, knew exactly what it was doing when it misdirected that telegram.