The Mohalla Dream

The year was 1973. There were no mobile phones, no internet, and certainly no coaching factories producing rank-holders by the dozen. We had one landline in the house, and half the mohalla used it. Along with the telephone, we also shared our lives. Everybody knew who had failed in mathematics, who had eloped, whose son had got a government job, and whose daughter had topped the SSC.

Everybody also knew that my mother wanted me to become a doctor.

In those days, we finished SSC and then did two years of college: Pre-Degree and FY. I was a decent student, though not the sort who woke up at four in the morning to solve trigonometry problems. I preferred reading comics hidden inside textbooks.

The coaching class culture had just begun, and my mother enrolled me in one of those dimly lit establishments with rickety benches and a teacher who called himself “Professor” without producing any evidence to support the claim.

Within a few weeks, I realised that the only attractive feature of the coaching class was the girls. They wore thick glasses, wrote furiously in cheap notebooks, and looked alarmingly intelligent. Unfortunately, none of them looked at me. Since neither the teaching nor the romance showed much promise, I quietly stopped going.

My mother protested for a while and then gave up. I stayed home, studied a little, daydreamed a lot, and occasionally convinced myself that admission to medical college would somehow happen automatically.

Chitrahaar and the Uncle with the Newspaper Cutting

Pune had only one major medical college then: BJ Medical College. AFMC existed too, but that seemed meant for the children of generals, brigadiers, and other intimidating people in uniform.

We also had the only television in the neighbourhood, which meant that every Wednesday our house turned into a refugee camp before Chitrahaar. Men, women, children, distant relatives, and assorted freeloaders would pour in. By the time the programme began, the room smelt of sweat, hair oil, agarbatti, and ambition.

One such evening, as I sat in a corner pretending to study, an elderly uncle settled next to me.

“Preparing for exams?” he asked.

I gave him the kind of reply usually reserved for irritating relatives.

“Yes.”

“You should also read newspapers,” he said wisely. “They ask general knowledge questions in entrance exams.”

“I am not appearing for any entrance exam,” I replied.

He seemed disappointed by my lack of ambition.

“My nephew gave many entrance exams,” he said.

“And where did he get admission?” I asked.

“Nowhere,” he admitted cheerfully. “But maybe you will have better luck.”

The following week, just before Chitrahaar, the same uncle arrived with a dirty yellow newspaper cutting in one hand and his finger inside his nose with the other. He handed me the cutting as though he was passing on state secrets.

It was an advertisement from a Delhi agency promising guidance for MBBS admissions all over India for the princely sum of Rs 150.

I thought it was a scam, but my mother thought it was destiny. The next morning, she marched me to the post office and made me send a money order.

The Mysterious Envelope

A few weeks later, a fat envelope arrived.

Most of it was junk: brochures, booklets, and advertisements for impossible guidebooks. Buried in the middle, however, was one useful sheet listing all the medical colleges in India that admitted students through all-India entrance exams.

There was AFMC, of course. There was Vellore, Ludhiana, Pondicherry, Banaras Hindu University, AIIMS, and one name I had never heard before: Mahatma Gandhi Institute of Medical Sciences, Sevagram.

The Delhi people kept sending reminders about deadlines and entrance dates. Like a robot obeying instructions, I filled forms and posted applications across the country.

Then came bad news. AIIMS, Banaras, and MGIMS would no longer have a combined entrance exam, and each would conduct its own. So I applied to all three.

Most entrance exams had the usual subjects: physics, chemistry, biology, and English. MGIMS, however, had one additional paper—Gandhian thought.

This struck me as deeply unfair.

Until then, my knowledge of Gandhiji came mainly from badly printed school textbooks and the occasional speech on Gandhi Jayanti. Suddenly I was expected to know about Sarvodaya, trusteeship, village industries, and other matters that no coaching class in Pune had prepared me for.

So I bought Gandhiji’s autobiography along with a few other books and began reading them with the desperation of a man trying to learn swimming after falling into a well.

Nagpur, Wardha and Apna Ghar

I travelled all over India for entrance exams: Bombay, Delhi, Ludhiana, Varanasi, and Nagpur.

My marks in the final examination were respectable but not spectacular. In those days, toppers got around 80 to 82 percent. I got 78, which meant that I missed BJ Medical College by one mark.

My mother was devastated, while I behaved bravely, mainly because sons are expected to behave bravely when their mothers are devastated.

Then came a letter from AFMC calling me for an interview. I went wearing a new coat and answered questions about English and general knowledge. A week later, I got selected.

My mother was thrilled, but I was less enthusiastic. The AFMC letter contained a terrifying list of uniforms, shoes, ties, socks, blazers, sportswear, and other military accessories. It sounded less like joining a medical college and more like preparing for a parade.

Then, suddenly, a telegram arrived from Sevagram informing me that I had been shortlisted for an interview.

My mother and I boarded a train to Wardha.

Just before the station, some passengers pointed to a group of pink buildings in the distance.

“That is the medical college,” they said.

I was surprised because, with a name like Mahatma Gandhi Institute, I had expected mud huts, spinning wheels, and perhaps a few goats.

Wardha itself was a disappointment. After Pune, it felt like a dusty, overgrown village with cattle on the roads, paan stains on walls, and cinema halls that looked as though they had survived a minor earthquake.

The only accommodation available was a crumbling lodge called Apna Ghar.

Its owner, a Marwari gentleman named Champalal Bumb, knew everything about everyone within an hour of their arrival. He sat like a village astrologer predicting futures.

“There are only fifty seats,” he announced dramatically. “Half for Maharashtra. Half for outside Maharashtra. Half reserved. So maybe eight or ten seats for people like you.”

This was not encouraging.

Then he lowered his voice and revealed that our interview number contained our merit rank.

I looked at my form. The last four digits were 0004.

My mother was delighted.

I remained unconvinced.

That night I slept badly because of mosquitoes, nerves, and Mr Bumb’s statistics.

The Great Interview

The next morning, we squeezed ourselves into overloaded cycle rickshaws and reached Sevagram.

The office buildings were simple, low structures with red tiles. Candidates sat cross-legged on mats on the floor, which was our first lesson in Gandhian austerity.

I was seated according to merit rank. Number three was a handsome, confident fellow named Karan Kapoor.

He looked around the room with mild contempt and said, “What a bunch of idiots.”

I was impressed. While the rest of us were sweating and trembling, Karan behaved like a man who had come to inspect the college rather than seek admission.

“I am going to tell them inside that these interviews are a waste of time,” he whispered. “They should just select us by marks and stop this drama.”

He said this with the easy confidence of somebody who had never doubted himself in his life.

Finally my turn came.

Inside sat Sushila Behen in the middle, with four others around her.

The first question was simple.

“Where else have you applied?”

I proudly told them that I had already been selected at AFMC.

This impressed them, but it also made them suspicious.

“How do we know you will not leave us and go there?” one of them asked.

“If I wanted to join AFMC,” I said, “I would not have come here.”

One gentleman then smiled slyly.

“Who is the President of Cyprus?” he asked. “The one who recently survived an assassination attempt.”

For one terrifying second my heart stopped. Then, by some miracle, I remembered the newspapers and replied, “Archbishop Makarios.”

They looked startled.

Sushila Behen smiled and said, “You may go now.”

It was the shortest interview of my life.

As I left, I heard someone murmur, “At least he was not oversmart.”

Only later did I realise that this was not intended as a compliment for Karan Kapoor.

 

The Results and the Hero’s Welcome

The hours following the interview were a blur. We ate idli at a tiny eatery called Madras Hotel, sitting on rickety benches over a cow-dung-swept floor. At 5:15 PM, a pair of cyclostyled sheets were pasted on the columns. The crowd surged. I pushed through until I saw it: Kishore Shah. I was in.

My mother cried and hugged me, and I felt a surge of pride. I saw Karan, who claimed the examiners “missed a golden opportunity” by not selecting him. We returned to Wardha to a hero’s welcome. Mr. Champalal Bumb was strutting proudly—three of his inmates had made it! He celebrated as if we were his own children, ordering wadas and bhajias for everyone. That night, as I lay in Apna Ghar, I realized a new chapter was beginning. I was going to be a doctor.

Years later, during my first Diwali break, I returned home. The mohalla gathered at our house for Chitrahaar. I spotted the uncle who had given me the newspaper cutting and touched his feet. He looked embarrassed, took the cutting back to give to someone else, and went back to picking his nose and enjoying the flickering images of Dilip Kumar. He had already forgotten the miracle he had brokered.

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The Stage and the Scalpel

My years at MGIMS were defined as much by the stage as by the stethoscope. Before joining, I had already acted in five Marathi films, including Chal Majhya Payat and Pakhru. I often sneaked away to Kolhapur to shoot, even once filming just before my first-year final exams. Ironically, I managed to secure a gold medal in Physiology despite the dual life.

In Sevagram, drama was a sacred tradition. During the Ganesh festival, we staged one-act plays and SARGAM orchestra performances. But the grand event was the annual gathering—four days of full-fledged three-act plays by Acharya Atre or Pu La Deshpande. After a professional director we hired disappeared, I took the reins myself. From then on, every Marathi drama, starting with Chilkatraj Jagannath, was under my direction.

The stage was my laboratory for leadership. In 1974, I acted in Dil Ka Doctor and Taruni aani Rahasya. By 1976, I was both acting and directing in plays like Kayapalat and Dinuchya Saasu Bai Radha Bai. In 1978, our play Hunger Strike won Best Actor and Best Director at the intercollegiate competition. But the crowning achievement was 1979’s Moruchi Maushi. It is still remembered by the local community today—a riot of color and comedy that brought the entire campus together.

Looking back, those years were about storytelling, creativity, and the “missed heartbeats” of the wait for results. They shaped the physician I became—one who knows that medicine, like drama, requires empathy, timing, and a deep understanding of the human story. I owe everything to that yellowing newspaper cutting and the red soil of Sevagram.

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Lights, Camera, Action!

Till 1975–76, my passion for performance extended beyond the college stage into Marathi cinema. I acted in films such as Chal Majhya Payat and Pakhru, often sneaking away to Kolhapur to shoot whenever the schedule allowed. On one memorable occasion, I was filming just before my first-year final university exam. Ironically, despite juggling shoots and studies, I managed to secure a gold medal in physiology. By the time I joined MGIMS, I had already acted in about five Marathi films, which gave me an early taste of performing before a camera, complementing the theatrical experiences I was about to embrace on campus.

Marathi drama had a strong tradition in Sevagram even before we joined in 1974.

The format was this. During the Ganesh festival, one act plays were enacted. Usually one Hindi, one Marathi and some songs by SARGAM, our orchestra. 

As this was a low budget, low key and low time affair, the plays were all self directed by students and songs were arranged by the singers/ musicians.

The major event would be a 3 or 4 days gala event during the annual gathering in January or February. One day would be reserved for Marathi drama. One day was for Hindi drama. Sargam got one day. And one day was for miscellaneous entertainment like fish ponds and mimicry.

The dramas during the gathering were full fledged 3 act professional plays usually written by stalwarts like Acharya Atre and Pu La.

These were directed either by staff members or some professional guy. 

In those days, Dr M.D. Khapre and Dr B.V. Deshkar looked after Marathi dramas. Dr Hariharan, the dentist, usually saw the Hindi drama management. Later the Hindi side was taken over by Dr Sutikshna Pande.

The drama Kaka Kichasha was enacted a few months before we entered Sevagram. It starred Alhad Pimputkar 72 as one of the Kakas. Dr M.J. Khan (Akola) of 73 batch was Kisha.

This was basically a farce about trying to get a false Kaka in order to impress some girl. And due to some misunderstanding, suddenly 3 Kakas turn up together.

That drama was a superhit. We kept hearing tales about it. 

Marathi drama had a rich tradition in Sevagram even before I joined in 1974. During the Ganesh festival, one-act plays would light up the college halls—usually one in Hindi, one in Marathi, and songs performed by our student orchestra, SARGAM. Everything was low budget, low key, and low on time, yet brimming with creativity. Students directed the plays themselves, and musicians and singers arranged the songs.

The real spectacle was the annual gathering in January or February—a four-day celebration. One day for Marathi drama, one for Hindi, one for SARGAM, and one for miscellaneous entertainment like mimicry or fun competitions. The full-length three-act plays staged then, often by stalwarts like Acharya Atre or Pu La Deshpande, were professionally directed by staff. Dr. M.D. Khapre and Dr. B.V. Deshkar supervised Marathi productions, while Dr. Hariharan and later Dr. Sutikshna Pande looked after Hindi dramas.

Before I joined, the farce Kaka Kishacha had taken Sevagram by storm. Alhad Pimputkar (’72) and M.J. Khan (’73) starred in it, creating comic chaos with three Kakas on stage at once. We heard tales of its hilarity for months.

Our first attempt to recruit a professional director for our own plays failed—Mr. Dharashivkar disappeared after a single visit. Left to our own devices, we students co-directed the plays. That experience convinced me that creativity thrives best when you trust your own vision. From then on, all Marathi dramas, starting with Chilkatraj Jagannath, were officially under my direction.

My journey began on stage in 1974 with the Hindi play Dil Ka Doctor, acting alongside Arvind Garg and Purushottam Lal, and the Marathi production Taruni aani Rahasya, sharing the stage with Vandana Oak, Mukta Khapre, and Pradeep Joshi. Mime acts and monoacts taught me to convey story and emotion without words.

By 1975, I acted in Ratra Thodi Songa Phar with Vidya Rajwade, Vandana Oak, Mukta Khapre, Pradeep Joshi, Mukund Karambelkar, Sadanand Joshi, and Sucheta Patil. Govind Gopal, performed in front of a visiting president, included a memorable bathroom-themed monoact with MJ Khan. I also acted in Karayla Gelo Ek alongside Alhad Pimputkar, Vandana Oak, Sucheta Patil, Pradeep Joshi, and Mukund Karambelkar.

In 1976, I began directing as well as acting. I directed Kayapalat, mentoring MJ Khan, Shobha Lauthare, Nitin Gupte, Mamta Jawlekar, and Mridul Panditrao, and Dinuchya Saasu Bai Radha Bai, with Ashok Mehendale, Atul Deodhar, and Aruna Mutha. That year, I also directed Ghetlay Shingawar, featuring Aruna Mutha-Birbal, the late Mamta Jawadekar, Kaustubh Patil, Santosh Prabhu, Ashok Mehendale, and Mridul Panditrao.

I continued with Chilkatraj Jagannath in 1977, collaborating with Mukund Karambelkar, Kaustubh Patil, and Ravindra Bhatnagar. In 1978, Hunger Strike, which I both acted in and directed, won Best Actor-Director at the intercollegiate competition, starring Pradeep Joshi, Mukund Karambelkar, Navin Sejpal, and Devendra Shirole. That year, I also directed Hercules Ke Chamatkar, featuring Rafat Khan and Anil Gomber, and Zopi Gelela Jaga Zhala, with Rafat Khan, Mishra, and Alka Deshmukh, all from the 1978 batch.

By 1979, I directed and acted in Moruchi Maushi, a Marathi drama still remembered vividly by MGIMS teachers, staff, and the local community, starring Suchitra Pandit, Anjali Ingley, Ramakant Gokhale, Kaustubh Patil, Ravindra Bhatnagar, Sanjay Dachewar, and Darshana Samant. I also wrote, directed, and staged the multilingual one-act Police Ke Hath Are Very Lambe, starring Amulya Nadkarni, Fali Langdana, and Monica Ahuja.

Beyond the stage, I occasionally lent my voice to SARGAM, performing songs like Aankhon Mein Kya Ji and O Hasino. Those years at MGIMS were about more than medicine—they were about storytelling, leadership, and creativity. They shaped the physician I became, and they remain some of my most treasured memories. 

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Looking Back

Today everything is online. There is NEET, counselling, websites, passwords, OTPs, PDFs, scanned documents, and WhatsApp groups full of rumours.

Perhaps the system is fairer and more transparent.

Even so, I sometimes wonder whether today’s students will ever meet characters like Karan Kapoor or Champalal Bumb. Will they know the agony of waiting for a cyclostyled result sheet? Will they understand what it meant when a mother silently hugged her son outside a dusty college building in Wardha?

And will they ever believe that sometimes, a random uncle at Chitrahaar can change the course of a life?