I still remember that August afternoon when I stepped into Kasturba Gandhi’s hut for the first time. The floor was freshly coated with cow dung, giving off a damp earthy smell that seemed to ground the very air we breathed. A line of brass thalis shone in the corner, scrubbed to a mirror finish, waiting for the evening meal. Outside, the neem trees swayed lazily in the hot breeze, their shadows dancing across the courtyard. At that moment, the distance between the world I knew and this sanctuary felt vast.

“Are we really in a medical college?” Surinder, my classmate from Delhi, whispered while fanning herself with a notebook. I looked around at the simplicity of our surroundings and replied, half amused and half bewildered, “Or in an ashram.” That was my first real lesson at MGIMS—at Sevagram, the two were indistinguishable. Here, medicine was not merely a matter of stethoscopes and scalpels; it was a philosophy rooted in humility, discipline, and the quiet dignity of service.

The Daughter of an Honest Officer

I was born in Nagpur on 25th January 1954, the eldest of three siblings. My childhood was a nomadic one, shaped by the career of my father, a police officer of unbending honesty. Because he refused to engage in the corruption that oiled the wheels of many departments, he was transferred almost every year. “A man who doesn’t bribe,” my mother would sigh as she pulled the trunks out yet again, “is never allowed to stay in one place.” We children became experts at packing quickly; thirteen different schools across Maharashtra became the stepping stones to my education.

The dream of medicine, however, was an ancestral one. My grandfather had been a respected doctor in Vidarbha, and though he passed away early, his legend was a staple of our family tales. My uncles would describe how he could diagnose a patient just by looking at the clarity of their eyes. They dreamt that I would wear his mantle one day. When I sat for the MGIMS entrance exam, I felt the weight of that legacy. During the interview, a professor asked why I wanted to be a doctor. “To serve the poor,” I answered, “and because I believe Gandhiji’s ideals are still alive in Sevagram.” When I stepped out, my father squeezed my hand. “Even if I have to take a loan,” he told my mother, “I’ll make sure she becomes a doctor.” That vow became the invisible lamp by which I studied through many long, exhausting nights.

Shramadaan and the Equality of the Hammer

The girls’ hostel at Sevagram was a world governed by its own rhythm. At dawn, we walked to the prayer ground, often yawning and fighting the urge to crawl back into bed, but the moment the Ramdhun began, a strange, cooling calm descended over us. This spiritual start was followed by shramadaan—the physical labor of hauling mud, digging soak pits, or smearing cow dung on the floors to maintain the campus.

One morning, shovel in hand, I joined the boys in breaking stones for a kachcha road. They looked at me and laughed. “Arrey Sanjeevanee, this is men’s work!” I didn’t back down. “Then hand me a bigger hammer,” I retorted. “I believe in equality.” They stopped laughing when they saw the sweat streaming down my face and dust streaking my hair as I swung the hammer again and again. That grit was what Sevagram demanded. Yet, life wasn’t all toil. On Raksha Bandhan, we tied rakhis to classmates who became our surrogate brothers. During Ganesh Chaturthi, the campus became a miniature India, with Marathi aartis blending into Rabindra Sangeet and Punjabi dhol.

A Heartbreaking Lesson in Poverty

The village posting at Kharangana Gode remains etched in my heart as the moment my medical education turned into a social awakening. My allotted family lived in a state of desperate poverty that I had never witnessed up close. Once, while treating the children, I prescribed chloroquine for malaria. The mother looked at the pills and asked softly, “Madam, should we take it with water? We have no milk.”

The realization hit me like a physical blow—they didn’t even have the basic nourishment to sustain the treatment. That night, I could not eat. I carried my untouched dinner plate to their hut. For two weeks, I gave them my share of the mess food, ignoring my friends’ confused protests. When Surinder asked how many families I could possibly feed like that, I had no answer. I only cried quietly under my blanket, finally understanding that a doctor’s greatest challenge in India isn’t just the disease, but the hunger that often precedes it.

Trials in Anatomy and Physiology

Anatomy brought its own set of trials. I remember the first day in the dissection hall; the cadaver lay rigid under the harsh fluorescent lights, and the overwhelming smell of formalin burned our eyes and throats. My hand trembled as I took the scalpel. “Take the scalpel like this,” instructed Dr. Kane, his calm voice acting as an anchor. By the end of the week, the shivering had stopped. I realized that anatomy was shashwat—eternal. Human bodies had not changed in millennia, and there was a profound peace in that constancy.

Physiology, however, was a different story. The first time I was required to pithe a frog for an experiment, I fainted. When I came to, I begged Dr. Ingley to cut my marks, explaining that I could not kill a living creature, even for science. He chuckled and asked, “And you want to be a surgeon?” That question haunted me. That night, I resolved to toughen my spirit. I realized that if I wanted to save human lives in the future, I could not let the life of a frog decide my destiny.

Extraordinary Teachers and Lighter Moments

The faculty at MGIMS were more than just lecturers; they were mentors who lived the values they taught. Dr. Indurkar and Dr. Kane explained the complexities of anatomy as if they were narrating epic stories from the Mahabharata. In the physiology labs, Dr. I.D. Singh and Dr. K.N. Ingley spoke with such infinite patience that even the most difficult concepts became clear to us. Their dedication seeped into our minds like monsoon rain into parched soil.

There were, of course, moments of pure mischief that balanced the academic rigors. I remember a legendary morning when a student tied a goat to the bed of our strictest hostel warden. At dawn, the goat’s loud bleating woke the entire block. The warden stormed out, absolutely furious, while we girls buried our faces in our pillows to smother our giggles. Beyond the pranks, sports gave me immense joy. Whether it was volleyball, badminton, or throw-ball, the cheers of my batchmates during the district championships still echo in my ears.

From Sevagram to the Surgical Table

As internship approached, I began to see the divide in the medical profession. I noticed that many doctors seemed to prioritize the building of a private practice over the care of the patient. I told myself firmly that medicine must remain a service, not a trade. Because post-graduation wasn’t available at Sevagram at the time, I moved to B.J. Medical College in Pune to pursue an MS in Surgery.

In the operating theaters of Pune, the scalpel finally became my friend. With each meticulous stitch and every careful cut, I gained the confidence I had lacked in the physiology labs of my youth. And yet, throughout my surgical training, I never forgot the mud floors of Sevagram or the bhajans at the ashram. I carried with me the image of those poor families in Kharangana Gode who had absolutely nothing, yet would offer a glass of water with folded hands and a sincere smile.

A Life of Charitable Commitment

My life after graduation was defined by a commitment to the underserved. I spent twelve years working with NGOs in charitable hospitals, and decades more in similar service. Not once did I open a private clinic. Not once did I doubt the path I had chosen as a young girl standing in Kasturba’s hut.

Even today, when a patient whispers a tearful “Dhanyavaad, Doctor,” I do not take the credit for myself. I feel that I am merely a vessel for the values that were poured into me during those founding years. When they thank me, they are really thanking Sevagram, the memory of Gandhiji, and the realized dream of Dr. Sushila Nayar.