I was born on 20 April 1956 in Delhi, the eldest of three brothers and two sisters. My father was an engineer, serving as a Wing Commander in the Indian Air Force. Till the third grade, I stayed at home with my parents. Then I was sent to St. George’s College, Mussoorie. From then on, my life was mostly in hostels.

After Mussoorie, I studied at Air Force School, Subroto Park in Delhi, till the eleventh grade. Then I went to DAV College, Chandigarh for my pre-medical studies, again in a hostel. By the time I arrived at Sevagram, I had become used to shifting schools, adjusting to new routines, and living with strangers. Hostel life was second nature to me.

Why medicine?

In those days, choices were limited. If you were good at studies, you either became an engineer, a doctor, or joined the National Defence Academy. I was scared of mathematics, so engineering was out. I tried for NDA but failed. My father then suggested, “There is no doctor in the family. At least one should be there.” That settled it.

My first aim was to join the Armed Forces Medical College, Pune. It suited both my ambitions: I could study medicine and then join the Army. Those days, admission to medical colleges was highly competitive. I sat for several entrance exams—Banaras, Aligarh, Pune, and Sevagram. MGIMS Sevagram asked us to study four books on Gandhi, which I had read carefully. To my surprise, I topped the Sevagram merit list. That was the only time in my life I ever stood first in an exam.

When the telegram arrived, my father was posted in Madras. I set off alone from Delhi with just enough money to buy a third-class train ticket. I lodged in Hotel Annapurna opposite Wardha station. From there, I took a cycle rickshaw to Sevagram.

The first person I met was Deepak Fuljhale, a senior from the 1974 batch. Unfortunately he died of a premature death, of a heart attack in 2001. He looked like a film hero, neatly dressed and confident. He asked me where I was planning to stay. I said I had no idea. He took me to the hostel and told me, “You are a topper. Don’t worry about money. Tonight, you are my guest.”

I told him I had an AFMC interview the next day in Pune. Sevagram was only a stopover, I thought. But fate had other plans.

AFMC dream ends

At Pune, I cleared the interview. But during the medical examination, the doctors found that I had retinal degeneration in one eye—probably from a football injury in school. Until then, I had never realized I had poor vision. The verdict was final: I could not join the Army.

Crushed, I returned to Sevagram with blurred eyes from dilating drops and hardly any money in my pocket. Still, something about Sevagram felt right—the Anna Sagar lake, the simplicity of the campus, the warmth of the people. My father, hearing of my rejection, agreed to send money for the admission fee. Mr. Gavai, the principal’s secretary, helped me tide over the first few weeks till the funds arrived.

That was how Sevagram became my home.

Student years

Our batch had 56 students, of whom only 12 were girls. Friendships formed quickly. My closest companions in the beginning were Amin, Rajesh Mishra, and Akhil Saxena. Later, I grew close to Shirish Dhande, Kolte, and Krishna Agarwal. Hostel life was lively, full of pranks, arguments, and late-night study sessions.

Slowly, a group of seven formed—Rakesh Gupta from Jhansi, Krishan Agarwal from Delhi, D.P. Singh from Benares, Rajesh Mishra from Lucknow, Surendra Shastri from Bombay, Akhil Saxena, and I.

I was steady in studies, usually among the top four, always trailing Krishna Agarwal and Kapil Gupta. I loved surgery and scored high marks in it.

The teachers left a deep and lasting impression on me.

Dr. Ramdas Belsare, a reader in orthopaedics, was among the most approachable professors I have ever known. His Marathi was rustic, his English simple, but he had a rare gift for connecting with patients and students alike. He treated us more like his children than juniors. Many times, he would take me along on his scooter to nearby villages, where he was conducting an ICMR project. Together, we administered polio drops to children.

He also owned an orange orchard in Amravati, which he fertilized with neem seeds. They were called nimboli. Every morning at six, he and I would collect neem seeds around Anna Sagar, fill a bag, and strap it onto his scooter. I never considered this menial work; to him, it was part of the bond we shared. From him, I learned that respect between teacher and student comes not from hierarchy but from trust.

Dr. Kush Kumar was the opposite—tall, authoritative, and commanding. His English was flawless, and he could read an X-ray as if it were his own handwriting. He was deeply involved in the leprosy project at Sevagram. Children with deformities would travel from distant villages to our orthopaedic department, and we learned how to correct them.

When Dr. Kush Kumar assumed leadership of the Orthopaedics Department at MGIMS, he inherited a dedicated team and a significant mission—a pioneering ICMR-funded pilot project focused on rehabilitating children affected by polio. As the chief investigator, he led a multi-institutional effort to restore mobility and dignity to these children. Dr. N.K. Kapahtia, then a research associate and MS Orthopaedics trainee from Nagpur University, played a key role in the project.

Under Dr. Kumar’s guidance, the department launched workshops to provide free orthotic and prosthetic devices—ankle-foot braces, hip supports, spinal aids, and custom footwear. Each child received personalized fittings and physiotherapy, both pre- and post-surgery. In one year alone, nearly 190 children received surgical aids, many taking their first confident steps with newfound independence.

Academically, the department flourished. Dr. Madhu Kant researched the management of plantar ulcers in leprosy, while Dr. Kapahtia evaluated foot and ankle deformities in poliomyelitis. Dr. Kumar’s tenure was marked by a dual focus on compassionate clinical care and rigorous academic inquiry.

The department balanced clinical compassion with academic rigor. My own research was on the management of plantar ulcers in leprosy, while my colleague Dr. Kapahtia studied foot and ankle deformities in poliomyelitis. Beyond individual theses, the project also undertook a community survey to identify children under five with poliomyelitis in both rural and urban settings. Our wards reflected the entire spectrum of the disease, and treatment extended far beyond surgery. Each brace, each artificial limb was carefully custom-made and given free of cost. For us, the greatest reward was watching children reclaim their childhood.

Between Dr. Belsare’s humility and Dr. Kush Kumar’s brilliance, I found my balance as a student. Their contrasting yet complementary styles shaped my learning, and under Dr. Kumar’s guidance, I completed my thesis on plantar ulcers in leprosy, while Dr. Kapahtia focused on polio rehabilitation.

The MS exam

By the time our MS examinations arrived, both Dr. Kumar and Dr. Belsare had left Sevagram. Staff transitions were frequent in those years—Dr. S. A. Faruqui went on deputation to Saudi Arabia in 1982, and by 1984, Drs. Wasudeo Gadegone and Naresh Kumar Agrawal had also departed. Left without a recognized guide in our department, Dr. Kapahtia and I had no option but to appear for the examination at Government Medical College, Nagpur.

We were outsiders there—“foreign” students in an unfamiliar setting. Four students from GMC Nagpur and the two of us from Sevagram sat for the MS Orthopaedics examination. The weight of being guests on another campus pressed heavily on us; we felt out of place, uncertain of what lay ahead.

The external examiner was Dr. S. M. Tuli from Banaras, one of the most respected orthopaedic surgeons of his time. Dr. Kush Kumar, our teacher at Sevagram, had obtained his MS in Orthopaedics at the Institute of Medical Sciences, Varanasi, under Dr. Tuli’s mentorship in 1976. For us, it was heartening to know that the man sitting across the table had once trained our own mentor.

On that day, Dr. Tuli traveled from Banaras to Nagpur, officially to examine the candidates, but also with the anticipation of meeting his distinguished former student again. Dr. Kush Kumar, then based in Karad, made the journey to Nagpur as well. He knew his boys—nervous, uncertain, pacing the corridors—needed him. His arrival was a turning point. Just seeing him there, smiling, steady, and reassuring, calmed our frayed nerves.

The atmosphere in the examination hall was tense. The GMC students already knew the diagnoses of their allotted cases, a privilege we did not share. That made us anxious. At first, it felt like a handicap, but as the viva progressed, it became a strange advantage. With no preconceived answers, we had to think aloud, argue logically, and justify every conclusion. What began as a trial by fire soon turned into an opportunity to display clarity of reasoning.

By the end of it, our fears gave way to cautious hope. The examiners seemed to appreciate our honesty and our willingness to reason things through, rather than recite rehearsed answers. Against my own expectations—I had given myself no better than a fifty–fifty chance—we both passed.

That night, in our modest home in Kabir Colony, Sevagram, we lay awake, replaying each question and answer, gripped by restlessness and doubt. Then, close to midnight, came a knock on the door. It was Dr. Kush Kumar himself, having ridden across town on a scooter, bottle in hand. He had come to celebrate with us. That moment has never left me—the relief of success, the warmth of friendship, and above all, the image of a teacher who cared enough to share in his students’ triumph.

Life after Sevagram

I married Anita, my classmate at MGIMS. She went on to do her MD in obstetrics and gynaecology. We moved to Delhi. From 1984 to 1987, I worked as a resident at Hindu Rao Hospital. Thereafter I was offered a GDMO’s job but turned it down.

Around that time, I met the administrators of the Delhi Council for Child Welfare. They ran an adoption program and wanted to introduce a program  for handicapped children, especially those disabled by polio. They asked if I could help. I told them I had trained at Sevagram, where polio and leprosy surgeries were routine. That was how my journey with handicapped children began.

At first, we worked from a small clinic. Later, with donations, the NGO built a 28-bed hospital in Janakpuri. Over the next 20–25 years, I operated on nearly 10,000 children with deformities. Every Sunday, I would go out with the team to villages in Haryana, Uttar Pradesh, and Uttarakhand. We screened children, brought them for surgery, corrected their deformities, and then trained them in skills to live independently.

We did not stop at surgery. The girls were trained in sewing and running beauty parlours. The boys learned shoe-making, tailoring, block printing, and computer skills. I knew then that medicine was not just about repairing bones and joints. It was about restoring dignity.

Looking back

When I think back, I sometimes wonder what life would have been if AFMC had accepted me. I might have worn an Army uniform, not a surgeon’s gown. But perhaps it was destiny that sent me to Sevagram. It was there that I met teachers like Dr. Belsare and Dr. Kush Kumar, who showed me the meaning of service. It was there that I learned surgery not as a trade but as a calling.

Sevagram taught me to look beyond myself. The lessons I carried from those years gave me the courage to dedicate my Sundays, my skills, and my energy to children who would otherwise have lived in despair. If thousands of them now walk straighter, live better, and hold their heads high, I owe that to Sevagram.