I am Parvin Khalda Ansari, born on 1 November 1953. I grew up in a family of four sisters and one brother — I was the second child. My father, G. R. Ansari, worked as an executive engineer in the Rural and later the Irrigation Department of Uttar Pradesh. My mother was a homemaker, and in those days, the centre of our world. My elder brother had just started his B.Sc., and my younger sisters were still in school. There wasn’t a single doctor in the family then — though I knew, deep inside, that I was going to be one.

My early schooling was a patchwork of towns, thanks to my father’s transferable job. I began in Raebareli, in a little English-medium school started by a British lady, Miss Parsal, who had chosen to stay back in India after Independence to run her school. I can still see her — erect, kind-eyed — and remember how we would greet her sister when she came visiting from London. From Raebareli, I moved to Mahoba for my secondary schooling, and then to Balrampur, UP for higher secondary and intermediate. By the time I finished twelfth, I wasn’t even seventeen, so I enrolled in B.Sc. Part I at Rajkiya Mahila Vidyalaya, Lucknow.

Early Years & The Road to Medicine

Becoming a doctor was never really a “decision” — it was simply the only thing I ever imagined for myself. Perhaps it was those visits to hospitals with my mother, the gleaming white coats, the quiet confidence of the nurses, the smell of antiseptic in the air — all of it made a lasting impression.

In those days, the AIIMS and MGIMS entrance exams were combined. I took the test in Delhi, and also sat for the UP CPMT. I prepared with friends, not knowing until I reached the exam hall that Gandhian Thought would be part of the process. 

MGIMS was where I finally landed — though it wasn’t exactly part of some grand plan. To be honest, it was more about securing admission anywhere. We were, after all, “Papa’s dolls,” as I like to say, not entirely in charge of our destinies. My father spotted the MGIMS advertisement in the newspaper, and that set the journey in motion.

For the interview at Sevagram, my father and I made a sudden, almost emergency trip — he even had to borrow money for it, something that filled me with guilt at the time. We got down at Wardha station and my father asked a coolie where we could stay. He took us to Hotel Annapoorna, but it was full. They directed us to a big dormitory near the station. My father explained, “I have my daughter with me, we can’t sleep in the open with everyone else.” Someone took pity on us and opened a room that must have been shut for months — cobwebs everywhere. They scrubbed it clean, washed it down, opened the windows, and made it habitable. I sat on a holdall, hungry, but when I saw that little room, it felt like Jannah.

The next morning we reached Sevagram. The first thing I said to my father was, “Abbu, sans kitni achchi aa rahi hai.” The air felt light, as if it carried less weight than in Lucknow.

The Journey to Sevagram

The interview was unforgettable. The panel asked,

“Who is the Prime Minister of India?”

“Mrs. Indira Gandhi,” I replied.

“Where are you from?”

“Raebareli.”

“Who is the MP from Raebareli?”

I hesitated. “I… don’t know.”

All eleven of them burst into laughter. Suddenly, I blurted, “Oh! Our PM, Mrs. Indira Gandhi!”

One of them chuckled, “Ab to ho gaya…” and I could only grin.

We hadn’t received the postcard that informed candidates about the Gandhian Thought component or the requirement to pay fees immediately if selected. So I walked into the interview without any preparation for those questions. But somehow, it worked out.

Abbu hadn’t known we would have to deposit the admission fee on the spot if I got selected. When the clerk mentioned the amount — eleven hundred rupees — Abbu’s face stiffened. He leaned over the counter, speaking softly, almost pleading, “Give me a little time. I’ll bring it.” The clerk shook his head, eyes fixed on his papers. After some murmured discussion, they granted him one day.

We left Sevagram that afternoon, boarding an unreserved coach. The carriage was a crush of bodies and luggage, the air thick with the smell of iron rails and sweat. At Lucknow, Abbu drew the money together. He was an engineer, but he lived so honestly that even this sum needed gathering. That memory still tightens my throat.

We boarded again — thirty-six hours from Lucknow to Sevagram in another unreserved compartment. At night, Abbu persuaded the ticket conductor for a single berth. “You sleep,” he told me, tucking the shawl around my shoulders. “Wake me at midnight. Then I’ll rest.”

I curled up, lulled by the rocking of the train, the rhythmic clatter of wheels. When I opened my eyes again, sunlight was spilling through the dusty window. My father was asleep on the bare floor, one arm bent under his head, his face turned towards the cold steel wall of the train.

Life at MGIMS

Sevagram had its own code of conduct — wearing khadi, joining the all-religion prayer, cleaning the campus, and abstaining from meat. I took to khadi easily, and the prayers felt natural; after all, I was already used to reciting namaz daily. Years of my father’s frequent transfers had often placed us in Hindu neighbourhoods and among Hindu family friends. Out of respect for their sentiments, we had long given up meat. So the strict vegetarian fare at Sevagram was no adjustment at all — it felt almost like home.

My first year in Sevagram was the hardest. Homesickness clung to me like a shadow, and more than once I found myself weeping quietly in Gandhi Ashram, missing the familiar rhythm of home. One day, Surinder Bawja fixed her eyes on me and said, with a firmness that cut through my tears, “Stop crying. This will not take us anywhere. We’ve got admission to a medical college — now we have to face life on our own.” Her words stayed with me.

Language was another hurdle. I had come from Lucknow, steeped in its own culture, customs, and lilting Urdu-Hindi. The local Marathi was unfamiliar, and for weeks it felt like I was always half a beat behind in understanding conversations. Slowly, I began to catch the flow of it — but the cultural divide was harder to bridge.

Our batch was strikingly heterogeneous, drawing students from across India and even beyond. While exactly half of the class—30 students—hailed from Maharashtra, the rest came from a diverse array of non-Maharashtrian states: Chandigarh (2), Delhi (5), Gujarat (1), Haryana (2), Madhya Pradesh (2), Mysore (1), Punjab (6), Uttar Pradesh (1), and West Bengal (9). Adding to this mix were one foreign student and two repatriates from Burma. Interestingly, despite this geographical variety, there were no students from the southern states of India, making the lone student from Mysore the only representative from that region.

In our batch of sixty, twenty were girls — and, interestingly, thirteen of us were from North India. Most of the boys, however, were local; only fourteen of the remaining forty came from outside Maharashtra.

Among the girls from North India, we often sensed an unspoken divide between the Maharashtrian and non-Maharashtrian students. In subtle ways — a certain tone in conversations, a look that lingered too long — there was an air of superiority from some Maharashtrian peers. At times, even teachers seemed swayed by these undercurrents, their biases slipping through in who got extra classes, or in the tone of examination questions.

The local boys, too, were often awkward around girls who came from more cosmopolitan, co-educational backgrounds. Sarcasm, sharp jokes, and sly comments sometimes replaced easy conversation. But as months passed, the edges softened. Friendships formed, misunderstandings faded, and we learned to live — and laugh — together.

Soon after, I attended the orientation camp at Gandhi Ashram. I made friends quickly and enjoyed the sessions, though sleeping on the floor took some getting used to. In the ashram stood a great banyan tree, planted by Mahatma Gandhi himself, its vast canopy offering shade even at night. On warm nights, we girls would spread our bedding on the gravel beneath it, breathing in the cool, refreshing air. But sometimes, a sudden hissing sound would jolt us awake — a cobra gliding past, blissfully unaware of our presence. Those moments were enough to send a chill down the spine, even under Sevagram’s starlit sky.

After the orientation camp, I moved into the Old Girls’ Hostel — a place many today might not have seen at all.

In 1971, MGIMS did not yet have a proper hostel for students; the new buildings were still under construction. We girls were placed in a makeshift hostel, where I shared a room with two seniors from the 1969 batch — Ratnamala and Safiya Hussain. This Old Girls’ Hostel stood barely a hundred metres from Kasturba Hospital, housing both nurses and medical students under the same roof.

Our batch adopted Kharangna Gode, Kutki and Karanji Bhoge villages. I became close friends with Medha Kulkarni, Sanjeevani Gole, Debi Sen, Dilip Jobanputra and Dilip Raichura. There was also a small cinema — films screened in the lecture hall, with benches for seats. I loved being part of the Hindi drama every year at the annual function. Those were simple days — the food, the hostel chatter, the smell of earth after rain. Sevagram had its challenges, but it also gave me friendships, memories, and the air that felt just a little easier to breathe.

A Royal Encounter

It was 1972, and the campus buzzed with anticipation — Prime Minister Mrs. Indira Gandhi was visiting Gandhi Ashram and then our medical college. I was serving as the Ladies’ Representative that year, and to my delight, I had been chosen to garland her. 

The ceremony was in the Adhyayan Mandir — the old lecture theatre, the only one in the medical college then. Mrs. Gandhi stood on a wooden platform, elegant and poised, while I, small in stature, stood barefoot on the floor below. After placing the garland around her neck, I applied a tilak to her forehead, then, as tradition demanded, gently tossed a pinch of rice over her head. 

But my short reach had its mischief — instead of showering down, a few grains flew straight into her eyes. She blinked rapidly, caught off guard, and for a moment, the solemn air dissolved into laughter. Even the dignified Dr. Sushila Nayyar joined in, her eyes crinkling in amusement. I stood there, a little embarrassed, but also secretly pleased that I had brought an unexpected sparkle to the occasion.

During our Sevagram days, the four of us — Dilip Raichura, Dilip Jobanputra, Debi Sen, and I — became inseparable, like rakhi brothers and sisters. By the time internship came around, Raichura and Debi had moved elsewhere, leaving just Joban and me in Sevagram. Many afternoons, we would ride his Bajaj scooter to Hinganghat, where his mother — a gentle, devout Gujarati lady — would welcome us with steaming plates of fragrant, home-cooked vegetarian fare. I must have eaten at her table dozens of times, each meal tasting of warmth and kindness. 

Joban’s family had a tradition of hospitality. Whenever Dr. Dhawan, the hospital ophthalmology head,  organised an eye camp, they would open their home to our entire batch and the teachers. After long hours at the camp, we would gather for a lavish Gujarati lunch — fresh, generous, and unforgettable. Even today, the memory fills me with gratitude, and I can never thank Joban enough for those moments of care and camaraderie.

Beyond the Gates of Wardha

By the time I completed my MBBS, my father had been transferred to Aligarh, Uttar Pradesh. After finishing my internship, I left Sevagram and began my house job at J.N. Medical College and Hospital, Aligarh Muslim University — six months each in Obstetrics and in Gynaecology. I later enrolled in the DGO program. Between the house job and DGO, I got married and had my son, which created a brief gap in my training.

I was married on 4th November 1978. After completing my DGO, I joined Dr. RML Hospital in New Delhi, working in the Department of Gynaecology and Obstetrics — first as a Medical Officer, and later as a Senior Medical Officer. I served there until 1995, when I resigned to move to Saudi Arabia with my husband and children. In Riyadh, I worked for five years as a Gynaecologist at the Military Base Hospital, Al-Kharj.

New Horizons in Canada

In 2000, we applied for Canadian immigration and, upon receiving it, returned to India briefly before relocating to Canada. In June that year, we moved to St. John’s, Newfoundland, where my husband had a close friend and a former professor at the university. That marked the beginning of a new struggle.

I initially enrolled in a Master’s in Community Health, but later switched to a Diploma when I realised the field did not match my expectations — my real interest lay in Epidemiology. At the same time, I began preparing for the Canadian medical licensing pathway, which required passing the Evaluating Exam, then Qualifying Part I, and later, during residency, Part II. I passed the Evaluating Exam while also completing an MPH from the University of Waterloo, Ontario.

For my MPH practicum, I travelled to Labrador — home to the Inuit and Innu peoples. I lived among them through temperatures as low as –50°C and –60°C, working at a primary health centre and sub-centre. Their way of life, traditions, and resilience left a deep impression on me — a story in itself.

Despite these efforts, I could not secure a medical position in Canada. Perhaps it was fate. I turned instead to extensive volunteer work, continuing to serve in whatever capacity I could.

When I moved to Newfoundland and Labrador in 2000, my husband was working there as a government engineer. I lived in St. John’s from 2000 to 2011, but with limited job opportunities in NL — and my son having already settled in Calgary in 2005 — I relocated to Calgary in 2011. My husband joined us after his retirement, and since then, Calgary has been home.

Finding the Artist Within

It was only later in life that I first picked up brushes and a canvas. The moment I began to paint, I discovered the depth of what I could create. From that day to today, my journey has taken my paintings into art galleries, and I have even earned a Diploma in Art Therapy.