Kuchh Khatta, Kuchh Meetha: My Journey Through Sevagram

Now that I am in my seventieth year, I often find myself looking back at the journey of my life with a mixture of nostalgia, amusement, gratitude, and, yes, a few regrets. Time creates a certain distance from the events that once seemed overwhelming, and allows one to revisit them with greater understanding. Some memories still bring a smile, some still carry a trace of pain, but each of them has contributed in some way to shaping the person I eventually became.

Before Sevagram: A Dream That Almost Slipped Away

I completed my matriculation—the eleventh standard in those days—in 1972, when I was a sixteen-year-old trying to make sense of the future. Careers were decided much earlier then; by the ninth standard, students had already chosen between science and arts, and those entering science had further divided themselves into mathematics and biology streams.

I joined SFS College, Nagpur, for my BSc with Biology, Physics, and Chemistry, carrying the same dream as lakhs of young students across Maharashtra—to enter medical college the following year. The admission process was very different then. Students applied to medical colleges in their state of domicile and were selected on the basis of first-year BSc marks, although a few centrally administered institutions conducted their own entrance examinations. In 1973, AIIMS, BHU, and MGIMS Sevagram had a common entrance examination.

I tried both routes, but neither worked. I could not secure admission through my BSc marks, nor did I succeed in the entrance examination.

This was not easy to accept, especially because I was the eldest son of a successful general practitioner in Nagpur. My father, an MBBS graduate from Amritsar Medical College’s 1948 batch, naturally hoped that I would follow him into the profession. Medicine, however, seemed to have other plans for me.

Strangely enough, a part of me felt relieved. With the pressure gone, I moved to Arts in my second year of college and chose Economics, Political Science, and English Literature as my subjects. Becoming a lawyer became the new goal—which, in those days, was often the destination for those who had not quite figured out what else they wanted to do!

I enjoyed that year thoroughly. Academics took a back seat while billiards, swimming, parties, friends, and the general pleasures of college life occupied centre stage.

After eight months of this carefree existence came a conversation that changed everything. One night, at about 1.30 am, as I quietly tried to enter home after a late-night party, my father was waiting. He gave me a reality check that I remember even today. In clear but caring words, he told me that if I wanted to achieve anything meaningful, I needed to bring my head down from the clouds and plant my feet firmly on the ground.

The message was received.

A Second Attempt and the Road to Sevagram

I returned to my science books and began preparing again for medical entrance examinations. This time, MGIMS conducted its own independent entrance examination, while AIIMS and BHU continued to ignore my existence! Fortunately, Sevagram did not.

I received an interview call from MGIMS and joined the 1974 batch through the Maharashtra quota, a year later than originally planned. Looking back, I have always believed that the interview and the section on Gandhian thought helped me secure admission—somewhat ironic considering that my lifestyle until then had been anything but Gandhian.

What followed was a decade-long association with Sevagram. From entering MGIMS in 1974 to completing my MD Pediatrics in 1984—with a one-year break in between for my DCH at Rohtak—the institution watched us grow from carefree youngsters into responsible adults. Those years took us from the security of our families to professional independence, from the innocence of student life to the responsibilities of becoming doctors, spouses, and parents.

The Ashram: Our First Introduction to Sevagram

Our first experience of Sevagram did not begin in lecture halls, laboratories, or hospital wards. It began in Gandhiji’s Ashram.

Sixty young students—forty boys and twenty girls from different regions, languages, and backgrounds—came together for an eighteen-day orientation programme. For most of us, it was a culture shock. Even the journey from Wardha to Sevagram in cycle rickshaws and horse-drawn tongas suggested that we had arrived in a world very different from the one we knew.

The days were spent sweeping floors, washing utensils, helping in the kitchen, serving food, cleaning toilets, learning to spin the charkha, drawing yarn from cotton, and ending each evening with sarva-dharma prayers and bhajans. At that moment, none of these activities seemed remotely connected with becoming a doctor.

Only later did we understand their purpose.

The Ashram quietly broke barriers. It dissolved differences of region, language, and background and helped sixty strangers begin the journey of becoming one batch. Friendships were born there—friendships that would survive examinations, careers, distances, and decades.

As part of community orientation, each pair of students was assigned four or five families in nearby Warud village. We continued visiting these families regularly for five years, and some of my batchmates maintain those relationships even today.

Hostel Days: Anatomy, Friendships, and Growing Up

After the Ashram came hostel life, and with it came our formal initiation into medicine.

The anatomy dissection hall introduced us to our first teachers—the silent ones. Ten cadavers were shared among sixty students, six students around each table. For many of us, it was our first encounter with death at such close quarters. Some could not eat properly for days, some struggled to sleep, and a few felt physically sick. Slowly, however, hesitation gave way to curiosity, and discomfort gave way to learning.

Hostel life brought its own rituals and memories—the white khadi clothes, black shoes with white laces, clean-shaven faces, interactions with seniors, endless conversations, and friendships that slowly deepened. Some ragging crossed limits and caused distress, but many seniors eventually became friends, mentors, and protectors.

The mess had its own stories: the competition for hot chapatis, the predictable tur dal, the complaints that never ended, and the conversations that mattered more than the food itself. Trips to Wardha for late-night movies were treasured adventures, even if they sometimes ended with a five-kilometre walk back to campus because no rickshaw driver was willing to make the journey for what we could afford.

Festivals brought the campus alive. Ganesh Chaturthi, Diwali, Rakhi, and especially Holi were celebrated with enthusiasm, and Dr M L Sharma’s jokes during these gatherings became events everyone eagerly awaited.

Those years gave us far more than medical knowledge. They taught us adjustment, friendship, resilience, humility, and the ability to live with people very different from ourselves.