The Chorus at Bapu Kuti

The bhajan still rings in my ears—slow, soft, unhurried—floating in the evening air of Sevagram. We sat cross-legged in Bapu Kuti, our voices uneven and our claps sometimes falling out of rhythm, yet there was a strange beauty in that chorus. “Why are you singing so softly?” a senior would ask with mock sternness. “Sing like you mean it! Bapu himself should hear you.”

The orientation camp in the summer of 1971 plunged us into an unfamiliar rhythm. Mornings were for shramdaan—cleaning pathways, carrying buckets of water, or sweeping the endless carpet of dry neem leaves. By noon, we were sweaty and tired, but the cool water from the ashram well always tasted like a reward. I was a girl from the restless, dusty towns of Uttar Pradesh—Jhansi, Mathura, Gorakhpur—suddenly dropped into Gandhiji’s village. In Sevagram, silence stretched long, but life pulsed with a different, more intentional intensity.

Childhood Wanderings and the Dream of Jhansi

My father, Babu Lal Sachan, was an Income Tax officer whose career was a series of transfers. My childhood was scattered like beads across the map of Uttar Pradesh. There were no doctors in our family; my eldest brother was buried in engineering books, and my younger brothers were still wrestling with schoolbags. The dream of medicine was my father’s gift to me. He would say, “Manju, you should serve people. Become a doctor.”

I initially tried a conventional path, studying Maths, Zoology, and Botany at Bipin Bihari Degree College in Jhansi. But equations weren’t enough. I wanted the white coat. I heard of MGIMS through the reputation of Dr. Sushila Nayar, who was also from Jhansi. When the call for the interview came, my father and I traveled to Sevagram on a scorching summer day. I remember fumbling when a professor asked what Gandhiji would do if he were alive today, but they must have seen a spark of sincerity behind my hesitation. Soon, I held the admission letter that would change my life.

Whispers Under the Mosquito Nets

After the orientation camp, I moved into the women’s hostel. The rooms were bare—just two cots, a table, and a grudgingly whirring ceiling fan—but they quickly filled with life. My roommate, Madhugandha Patwardhan, became a lifelong friend, alongside Sanjeevanee Gole, Karuna Thapar, and Renu Ghai. We whispered under our mosquito nets late into the night, our sentences punctuated by giggles and the shared secrets of seventeen-year-olds.

One of our earliest and most profound duties was the community adoption program. Our batch adopted Kharangna Gode, the home village of our classmate Dilip Gode. Walking there under the relentless sun and listening to the villagers’ struggles was the first time medicine walked out of the textbooks for me. We weren’t just learning anatomy; we were learning the social fabric of health.

The Bow of a Pathologist and the Energy of Pharmacology

If the hostel shaped our hearts, the classrooms shaped our discipline. Dr. R.V. Agarwal of Pathology was a brilliant teacher who carried himself with a gentle, almost shy dignity. If you greeted him, he would bow his head in return, a gesture of humility that we all admired. His slides were precise, and his logic was impeccable.

In contrast, Dr. M.L. Sharma filled Pharmacology classes with an explosive energy. I remember times when we would sigh with relief as the bell rang, only for Dr. Sharma to smile and open a new chapter because there were five minutes left. “Why waste time?” he would say briskly. His passion left no room for laziness, and he taught us that a doctor must always be ready to learn.

Dosa Competitions and the Qawwali Incident

Life in Sevagram had its small rebellions and “canteen adventures.” We held legendary dosa-eating competitions where plate after plate arrived, each larger than our appetites. But not all entertainment was so innocent. I remember an evening when Mukund Oke sang Jhoom Barabar Jhoom Sharabi. Dr. Sushila Nayar, seated in the front row, stiffened and walked out in protest of the “drinking song.” The hall froze, and for a day, the campus buzzed with fear for poor Mukund. Thankfully, after some apologies and the intervention of senior professors, her anger softened.

Badi Behenji’s presence was everywhere. Her room was just outside our hostel, and she would often remind us to wear khadi. “Girls, wear khadi,” she would say. “This is Gandhiji’s place.” During my internship, I remember the stir of a student protest against her. It was a time of questioning authority across India, and even the quiet lanes of Sevagram were touched by that restless spirit.

Weaving the Quilt of the 1971 Batch

Decades later, the fragments of those years shine more brightly than ever. The bows of Dr. Agarwal, the relentless lectures of Dr. Sharma, and the dust of the walk to Kharangna Gode have become pieces of a lifelong quilt. I took it upon myself to create our batch’s WhatsApp group, painstakingly tracking down members across oceans and decades. Finding everyone was like hunting for lost treasure in a dusty bazaar.

When we finally gathered online, the years melted away instantly. If someone asks me what I gained from MGIMS, I tell them it taught me to belong to something larger than myself. I was the daughter of an officer from UP with no medical background, but Sevagram claimed me and gave me a way of seeing the world. Late at night, I can still hear that chorus from Bapu Kuti—faint, imperfect, but eternal.