The rains were merciless the evening I first came to Sevagram. My brother and I, both dripping wet, dragged a tin trunk through the slush. When we reached the A-block hostel, a group of seniors blocked the doorway.

One of them eyed me with mock seriousness.
“From where, boy?”
“Etawah… Nagla Pathak,” I stammered.
“Etawah? Oh ho! We’ll test if Etawah boys can sing.”
Before I knew it, they were clapping. “Sing a song!”
I croaked out two shaky lines of a Bhojpuri folk song. They burst into laughter.
“Good. You’ll survive,” one said, patting my back. That was my ragging.

The next morning, I sat in the interview hall with hundreds of other boys. My palms were sweaty. One professor leaned forward and asked,
“Would you return to your village after becoming a doctor?”
“Yes,” I said.
He raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir,” I repeated.
“Fine. Go. Results at five.”

When I saw my number on the list that evening, my brother clapped my shoulder. “You’ve made it,” he said. The next morning, he left, and I was suddenly alone.

My life had never been easy. In Nagla Pathak,  our village in Post Muri in Etawah  district of UP of 700 people, there was no road, no bridge, no slippers on our feet. My father practised Ayurveda, but it was more charity than business. “One paisa for me, nine paise worth of medicine for the patient,” he would say, handing out powders and herbs.

We were six brothers. I was the first doctor in the family, the village, the block and the entire district. 

At school, the master would shout, “Goel, sweep the floor today. Tomorrow, sow seeds in the plot outside.” Learning and sweeping went hand in hand.

When I went to Phaphund for middle school, I had to cross a river daily. With no boat, I swam across. One day, a farmer saw me climb the bank dripping wet.
“Arrey, Ram Chandra! Don’t you fear the current?”
I laughed. “Not as much as I fear failing in exams.”

By the time I reached Class 10, I felt like a prince when I slipped on my first pair of slippers. That was also the year I saw a bicycle for the first time, running my hands in wonder over its shiny metal frame. For Classes 9 and 10, I moved 12 kilometers away to a hostel, sharing a room with my cousin. I had opted for science over commerce or arts, and each week I brought ghee and wheat from home by bus—the only bus that stopped six kilometers away. On rainy days, we fashioned makeshift raincoats out of plastic fertilizer sacks, trudging along with whatever we had, learning early to make do with little.

Cooking in the hostel was another battle. My cousin and I lit firewood under a mud stove. One evening, I served him aloo sabzi. He took a bite and spat it out.
“Too much salt! Are you trying to poison me?”
Another day, my rotis turned into papads. He waved one in the air. “See, it bends like a hand fan.”
But within eight months, I became an expert. Hunger is the best teacher.

For Classes 11 and 12, I studied at Rura College in Kanpur district, living with my elder brother, a cousin, and his friend. Among us, I was entrusted with cooking lunch and dinner, while my father sent me five rupees each month—one rupee for rent and four for all other expenses. Around that time, when I was in Class 10, I watched my first film, Aan Milo Sajna, an experience that felt nothing short of magical.

It was my Mausaji who first suggested that I apply to MGIMS. I sat for several entrance exams—AIIMS, BHU, the Uttar Pradesh CPMT, and MGIMS—but failed to clear the CPMT. Then came the call from MGIMS. The fees were ₹625, a sum far beyond our means. My mother, a Marwari woman of deep resolve, sold her golden mangalsutra for ₹700, and my father parted with his ring. With their sacrifices, my elder brother accompanied me to Sevagram for admission. Though I also secured a seat at BHU, the costs there were higher, and so I chose MGIMS—a decision that shaped the course of my life.

On 25 July 1975, I boarded the Dakshin Express from Jhansi, after a slow passenger train had carried me from Kanpur to Jhansi. I reached Wardha East station and quickly discovered there was no direct bus to Sevagram—I first had to get to the main bus stand. I knew no Marathi, but relief washed over me when I spotted a bus marked “Wardha–Sevagram.”

By the time my brother and I reached the boys’ hostel, torrential rain had drenched him to the skin. We found our way to A Block, where a group of seniors began their questioning—the ragging had begun. A boy from Itawa, Gaurishankar of the 1974 batch, took me into his room, where four others joined in the ritual initiation.

The next day was the interview. Six hundred students had come, all vying for just sixty seats. Professors like S.N.L. and M.L. Sharma were on the panel. S.N.L. looked at me and asked in a clipped tone, “Where do you come from? Will you go back to your village and serve there?” All I could muster was a simple “Yes.”

“Alright,” he said. “Go. You will get your result at five p.m.”

At 6 p.m., the results were announced. My number was there—I had made it. The next day, my brother left for home, and for the first time, I found myself truly alone. I went to Sevagram Ashram, where all of us new boys were placed in a single dormitory. There were no single rooms, no luxuries. Life began each day at 5 a.m. with prayer, followed by cleaning, washing our clothes, and community duties—helping in the kitchen, maintaining cleanliness, working in the goshala, or lending hands for shramdaan. We spent an hour in the fields doing agricultural work and another spinning yarn on the charkha, each of us expected to weave our own cloth. We also studied for the Sarvodaya Gandhi exam, a regular feature of our ashram life.

Our professors—Dr. B.C. Harinath, Ingle, Deshkar, and later Sutikshan Pandey—often held classes within the ashram itself. Hostel rooms were allotted not by choice but by performance in exams. I was given Room No. 5 in A Block, where Sutikshan Pandey and Naik Sir were the rectors, and Bele was the ever-watchful clerk. The recreation room stood nearby, a modest escape for students.

The monthly mess bill was about ₹90—only in the final year did it climb to ₹156. As a member of the mess committee, I had to supervise meals, which often drew sharp complaints from colleagues. Pithale satisfied the Maharashtrian palates, while rajma was a favorite for us North Indians.

One day, while serving in the mess, a fellow student grumbled, “Why always pithale? Can’t we have rajma like in North India?”
I snapped, “Then stand here and cook for yourself!”
Later we laughed about it, but those were the small fires of hostel life.

Discipline was strict under Behenji, who oversaw everything with quiet but firm authority. Khadi was compulsory—curtains, bed sheets, and clothes all had to be hand-spun. In Sevagram hostel, we woke at 5 am for prayers, swept the dormitory, spun cotton on the charkha, and worked in the fields. Behenji tolerated no breaches of discipline. If she found a heater, it was confiscated at once. She even tracked down students who smoked, inspecting the oxidation ponds for telltale stubs and confronting the culprits without hesitation.

Our professors left an indelible mark on us. Dr. Moghe in Pathology—stern yet kind—would remind us, ‘You must see the patient, not just the microscope slide.’ Dr. Parthsarthi brought a military discipline to the anatomy dissection hall. And Dr. Harinath, in Biochemistry, enlivened the Kreb’s cycle with stories from his days in the USA. 

A unique feature of the hospital at that time was the GOPD—General Outpatient Department. Managed by the Department of Community Medicine, it functioned as a replica of a primary health centre within the hospital. Interns and students were regularly posted there under the supervision of PSM faculty. Every patient first reported to the GOPD, from where we would escort them to Medicine, Surgery, or Paediatrics OPDs, or take them for investigations in Pathology or Radiology. We were expected to follow each patient throughout the process. In whichever OPD we accompanied them, the physicians would pause to teach us how to approach diagnosis and treatment.

Each patient had to be escorted to pathology, radiology, everywhere. “A doctor must never abandon his patient halfway,” they said.

After my MBBS, I did my first house job in Ophthalmology under Dr. S.K. Dhawan, with Dr. Praveena Kher and Dr. Sanjay Shrivastava as faculty. My second house job was in Surgery. I had always dreamt of becoming a surgeon, but to qualify I needed prior experience in an allied subject—not in Community Medicine. When I sought Behenji, Dr. Sushila Nayar’s advice about applying for Surgery, she smiled and asked, ‘Have you heard of community ophthalmology?’ With that question, my career path changed. Though I had secured seats in Ophthalmology and Surgery at GMC Nagpur, I could not refuse her. And so, I entered Community Medicine.

At that time, the department was led by stalwarts—Dr. Sushila Nayar herself, Prof. B.K. Mahajan, Dr. Mohan Gupte, Dr. K.K. Ghuliani, and Dr. Naresh Tyagi. Each morning began with duties at the GOPD; afternoons were devoted to postgraduate sessions. In Community Medicine, there were only two of us—Agrawal from the 1974 batch and myself. The unwritten rule was whispered often: only one would make it through.

When my final exam came, the panel was formidable—Dr. R.N. Srivastava from Jhansi and Dr. P.V. Sathe from Pune as externals, with Dr. K.K. Ghuliani and Behenji, Dr. Sushila Nayar, as internals. Behenji fixed her gaze on me and said, ‘I will ask you four questions. Answer them, and you pass. Fail them, and you are out.’

I answered all four. She smiled. And with that, I had passed.

Behenji was also my thesis guide. For my MD thesis, I studied how healthcare was delivered in three villages under the Talegaon Primary Health Centre in Wardha district. I would quietly watch the anganwadi workers and ANMs as they worked, noting what they did, without them knowing I was assessing their performance. 

Our training under her was rigorous. We would sit outside Prerna Kutir, her Sevagram home, at 9 a.m., waiting for her to call us in. Often, she summoned us only by 5 p.m. She would go through our drafts line by line, correcting spellings—especially since many of us had studied in Hindi medium. Just as I was preparing to submit, Behenji asked me to cycle through villages and collect fresh data on malnutrition in under-five children. Dutifully, I revised and rewrote my thesis.

There were no computers then—everything was typed manually by Mr. Bawase, the typist. After countless corrections and retyping on a manual typewriter, she finally approved my thesis. 

On 30 July 1983, the very last date for submission, she asked me to meet her at Nagpur airport before her flight to Delhi. There, standing near the boarding gate, she signed my thesis. I rushed to get it bound and submitted it just in time to Nagpur University.

Somewhere in between, love entered quietly. She was a young nurse in Orthopedics in Sevagram. Her name was Baby. Our first encounter was not pleasant.
“Please fix this IV,” I asked wearily after a long surgery. I was an intern then.
She glared. “That’s your job, not mine.”
I muttered, “Then what are you here for?”
For fifteen days, we did not speak.

But later, when I fell ill with renal colic, she brought me food, medicine, and comfort. Slowly, affection grew. One evening, over tea from the tapri across the hostel, I confessed,
“I have no money, no support. And our religions are different.”
She looked me straight in the eye. “All I want is honesty. The rest doesn’t matter.”

In 1983, we married in a hostel room at Kabir Colony. Professors came—Dr. Sharma, Dr. Chatterjee, Dr. Khapre. Behenji herself supervised the dinner, asking each guest personally, “Have you eaten?” Watching her, tears welled in my eyes. My friends pooled money to buy household essentials. It was a wedding of love, not luxury.

Now, when I look back, I remember the kindness of strangers: Babulal, the helper who stayed by us always; Chhotu, the bread-seller who never asked for money; and my parents, who sold their jewellery to send me here.

I, the barefoot boy who once swam across rivers to attend school, had become Dr. Ram Chandra Goel. And sometimes, when villagers call me Doctor Saab, I still hear the voice of that professor asking long ago, “Will you go back to your village and serve?”

And my answer remains the same: “Yes.”