“Lily, Lily, Lily!”

The chant came from behind the curtains. My heart pounded louder than the drum that beat backstage. It was February 6, 1974, and the open theatre had been transformed into a stage. The play was Kaka Kishacha, directed by Mr. Sudhakar Deshpande from Nagpur and our own Professor M.D. Khapre. I, a first-year student of MGIMS Sevagram, had been chosen as the heroine.

Mr Sudhir Deshmukh played Lavange, Alhad Pimputkar played Kishya, Shyam Babulkar played Balya Bapat, Subhash Patil played Madhu Raje, Narayan Daware played Joshi, Shirish Gode played Suman Mungi and Vrunda Khandare played Tongaonkar bai in the drama.

As the spotlight fell on me, I could see rows of familiar faces—batchmates, seniors, teachers—waiting to see whether I, usually buried in books, could transform into Lily, the character who had been rehearsed into my bones for weeks. I took a deep breath, uttered my first line, and the hall erupted in applause.

Years later, at reunions, people would still call me Lily, sometimes forgetting my real name. Even our Dean, Dr. Nitin Gangane, also a MGIMS alumnus, once laughed and said, “I may not recall every detail, but I’ll never forget that Lily you played.”

That evening on stage did not just give me a role; it gave me a place in Sevagram’s memory.

Growing Up in a Family of Doctors

I was born on 7 March 1955 in Yavatmal, at my grandmother’s house. My grandmother, Dr. Krishna Kurundwadkar, was a legend in her time—an alumna of Grant Medical College, Bombay, who had topped every examination she ever wrote, bagged five gold medals, and carved out a flourishing practice. To me, she was not just a grandmother but a symbol of what a woman could achieve if she had courage and brains.

My aunt too was a doctor—a gynaecologist trained at Lady Hardinge Medical College, who later moved to Canada. In those days, when children dreamed of being pilots, train drivers, or film stars, I, at the age of three, would say with certainty, “I will be a doctor, like Aaji.” The thought never wavered.

My father, Mukunda Madhav Kurundwadkar, worked with LIC as a branch manager. A quiet, disciplined man, he wore khadi all his life and kept close ties with Gandhians and freedom fighters. Once, Pandit Nehru himself visited our home in Yavatmal and stayed the night. That was the kind of world I grew up in—one where discipline, service, and ideals were not preached but lived.

From Schools to Science

My schooling zigzagged across towns as my father’s postings shifted. I began in Yavatmal, then studied at Hadas High School, Nagpur. When Principal Joshi opened the first Central School in Nagpur, I joined there for Classes 6 to 8. Later, my father’s transfer took us to Gondia, where I completed high school and board exams. Standing in the state merit list of the Board was a proud moment for our family.

Back in Nagpur, I studied at the Institute of Science. Fate played a mischievous trick on me when I missed admission to GMC Nagpur by one mark. It was a bitter pill. But sometimes disappointments open doors. My father, deeply drawn to Gandhian thought, suggested I prepare for the Sevagram PMT. I agreed. Sevagram, after all, was not an alien name—I had often visited Gandhi Ashram as a child, sipping sugarcane juice with my father on the roadside. The soil already felt familiar.

The Interview that Tested Innocence

I still remember my MGIMS interview vividly. The board included Dr. Sushila Nayar and Dr. Purandare, a reputed gynaecologist from Bombay. Dr. Purandare scanned my papers, looked at my surname, and asked, “Do you know Dr. Krishna Kurundwadkar?”

“Yes, Sir,” I said with pride, “she is my grandmother.”

There was a pause, then another question: “Do you have exposure to villages? Have you served in villages?”

I answered with the innocence of a girl who did not know what was expected: “Yes, Sir, during summer vacations my father would take me to Chikhaldara.”

The board exchanged glances. They knew Chikhaldara was a hill station, a picnic spot, not a village. Dr. Nayar laughed kindly, and I blushed. My first lesson at Sevagram: sincerity matters, but so does knowing the ground beneath your feet.

Sevagram Days—Khadi, Friendships, and Trains

Life at Sevagram was woven with Gandhian simplicity. Khadi, prayers, cleanliness, and self-reliance—none of these felt foreign to me. My father had already set that rhythm at home.

Friendships bloomed quickly. Meena Kanetkar, daughter of Dr. Vasanti Kanetkar, became close. Then there were Rajshri Ratnaparkhi, Pramila Chaudhary, and above all, Saeeda Suzy Vali. Saeeda came from a prosperous Nagpur family that ran a pharmaceutical business. Every weekend, we would take the passenger train together—sometimes to her home, sometimes to mine. On Mondays, we returned, bags heavier with textbooks and gossip.

Saeeda had a habit of carrying Gray’s Anatomy everywhere. That book was a monster. Her bag felt like it carried bricks. Half the time I lugged it for her, scolding, “Why bring Gray’s to Nagpur? Let it rest in the hostel for two days!” She only laughed and refused. Looking back, those train journeys carry more warmth than all the classrooms put together.

The Drama of Studies and Stage

Our play rehearsals, under Professor Khapre’s indulgent eye, became a talk of the campus. Some classmates teased me: “You’re doing this only to get good marks in Pharmacology!”

Embarrassed, I once confessed this to Dr. Khapre. He roared with laughter. “Tell me the names of those students. I’ll see they pass, and you fail!” His laughter broke my tension. He was too generous to ever misuse power.

Academically, I held my ground. In my first MBBS, I topped in Physiology, stood second in Anatomy. In second MBBS, first in Pharmacology, second in Pathology. In final MBBS, first in Obstetrics and Gynaecology and Ophthalmology. My position was always steady—second in class, never slipping lower.

Love in Sevagram

Love crept into my life in an unexpected way. During second MBBS, a senior, Poonam Kohli from the 1972 batch, seemed aloof and withdrawn. A classmate asked me, “Can you look after her?”

I tried. For the first time in my life, I made tea. It turned out awful. Poonam drank it silently and later told me, with a smile, that it was the worst tea she’d ever had. Yet, she didn’t throw it away. That kindness linked us.

Through her, I came to know Dr. J.P. Sharma, also of the 1972 batch. J.P. had a gift for teaching. He could stand in a corridor and explain Medicine, Surgery, Gynaecology, Ophthalmology—anything—with clarity. We began as classmates, grew into companions, and by internship, became inseparable.

Once, during internship, Professor S.P. Nigam asked me to list causes of oedema. Nervous, I blurted, “Toxaemia of Pregnancy.”

He banged the table. “You girls! For you, every answer is pregnancy!” Sharma laughed and later said gently, “Next time, think of kidneys and heart too.” Love often begins in shared laughter.

We sought advice from Dr. Ullas Jajoo. “If you know each other well and wish to make it lifelong,” he said, “don’t delay. Marry.”

So, on 23 June 1978, during internship, we did. A simple Delhi wedding, followed by a reception at Nagpur’s LIC Hall. Our wedding card was unusual—it carried our own names, not our parents’, inviting everyone. No family resisted. A Marathi girl and a Hindi boy—our union felt natural.

Becoming a Gynaecologist

From childhood, my dream was clear: I wanted to be a gynaecologist, like Aaji. I did house jobs in Ophthalmology and Obstetrics and Gynaecology. I was proud to be the first student enrolled in MD Obstetrics and Gynaecology at MGIMS. Under Dr. Mrudula Trivedi’s guidance, I trained with Dr. Acharya, Dr. Hariharan, Dr. Samal, and above all, Dr. Chhabra.

Dr. Chhabra was young, kind, and motherly. If we were scolded in class, she would invite us in the evening for tea and pakoras, softening the day’s bruises. Dr. Jajoo too often brewed tea when hostel tea turned undrinkable. These little gestures stitched affection into discipline.

After MD, Dr. Sharma and I moved north, eventually settling in Bijnor, Uttar Pradesh. We began our practice there and slowly built our lives.The Circle Continues

Sevagram did not end with us. My daughter Pooja joined MGIMS in 1998 and later became an MS in Surgery. My nephew Mohit, from the 2006 batch, went on to specialize in Paediatric Nephrology. The bond stretched across generations.

Looking Back

Now, nearly fifty years after I entered Sevagram as a 17-year-old girl, I look back with gratitude. Sevagram was not just a medical college. It was a crucible where ideals, discipline, and relationships shaped us. It gave me a profession, a partner, and a lifelong purpose.

I sometimes remember that innocent girl in the interview room, telling the board that her village exposure was Chikhaldara, a picnic spot. They laughed, but they still admitted me. And I became what I had always wanted to be—what my grandmother had once been: a doctor, a gynaecologist, a woman rooted in service.

Sevagram gave me more than a degree. It gave me my life.