“Have you ever been to a village before?” asked Dr. Sushila Nayar, her voice firm yet not unkind.

I still remember how my throat went dry. I was only seventeen, nervous, my palms sweating, sandals slipping against the cool floor as I faced the imposing panel. Half a dozen men and women sat in a semicircle, but it was she who towered above the rest.

“Yes,” I managed to whisper, “my family belongs to Karnal. Many of my relatives are still in the villages there. Some are schoolteachers. Whenever I visit, I go and see them.”

She leaned forward, “And what do you think of the health problems in villages? Why do they occur?”

I swallowed, my voice steadier now. “Madam, the villages are dirty… there is no proper sewage disposal. I feel it is these environmental problems that cause many diseases.”

That was all. A few more questions followed, but those lines remained etched in my memory forever. I had walked into the interview hall in a stiff green khadi kurta—my father’s choice. He had ignored my wish to wear the stylish Rajesh Khanna collar shirts that every boy in Delhi flaunted. “Khadi will suit Sevagram,” he had said, adjusting his spectacles in that matter-of-fact way of his.

By evening, the suspense was unbearable. In front of the principal’s office, Mr. Gawli the clerk climbed onto a stool, a sheet of paper fluttering in his hand. He read aloud the names of the selected students. When my name came, I felt the ground steady beneath me. My father, who had already carried a cheque from Delhi “just in case,” deposited the fees without delay. That night, back at Annapurna Hotel—the lone refuge for medical aspirants and their anxious parents—we ate our dinner in silence, both knowing our lives had just changed.

From that day began my Sevagram story. The very next morning, I was taken to Gandhiji’s Ashram for orientation camp. My father left, and I suddenly found myself surrounded by strangers—soon to become my family for years. The air smelled of neem and khadi; the ashram bells rang at dawn; our days were filled with prayers, self-service, and simple meals.

I remember Raksha Bandhan in the ashram. One of my classmates, Gauri Tuli, looked forlorn—she had three sisters back home but none here to tie a rakhi. “Sunil,” Narinder Sandhu nudged me, “why don’t you let her tie one?” I stretched out my hand, and soon many rakhis adorned our wrists, binding us not just as classmates but as brothers and sisters. Even the ashram inmates joined in. What might have been awkward in another setting felt natural in that world of simplicity.

There was one man who left a deep mark on me during those days—L.R. Pandit, our camp in-charge. He was gentle, fatherly, always with a kind word. One evening, he walked me to Kasturba Hospital, when I had fainted in the ashram. Months later, when he himself lay gravely ill in Medicine Ward, battling cancer and diabetes, I went to see him. As I stood quietly by his bedside, he opened his eyes and asked in a faint whisper, “Are you okay? Did you faint again?” His concern, even in suffering, overwhelmed me. I touched his feet. That moment remains etched like a soft lamp burning in the dark corridors of memory.

Life in Sevagram was austere but never dull. From Annapurna Hotel to Boys’ Hostel A-Block, friendships bloomed like tamarind trees after rain. I still recall the laughter of Anil Gombar, the simplicity of Vasant Dhage, the earnestness of V.K. Gupta, the brilliance of Ashok Bansal, and the quiet charm of Atul Deodhar. We were young, restless, and full of dreams.

My destiny, however, took its first decisive turn during my internship. My mother had been admitted for a hysterectomy. Dr. Archana Acharya, a graceful and soft-spoken gynaecologist, performed the surgery. One evening, as I was walking with my mother in the hospital corridors, Dr. Acharya passed us, offering a gentle smile. After she left, my mother turned to me and asked, “Can you become like her?”

I laughed nervously. “Ma, I cannot be even a shadow of Dr. Acharya,” I said. But somewhere, in the folds of my heart, the seed was sown. A seed that would one day make me a gynaecologist.

Everyone believed I would take up surgery—I had topped my batch, after all. Professors like Dr. Karunakar Trivedi and Dr. Ravindar Narang themselves hinted so. But I kept my little secret close, like a gambler with an ace up his sleeve. I knew where my heart was leading me.

Unfortunately, in Sevagram there was only one postgraduate seat in Obstetrics and Gynaecology. My batchmate, Dr. Nitin Gupte, took it. Dr. Shakuntala Chhabra, ever encouraging, asked me to wait six months. “Another seat may open for diploma,” she said. But I wanted an MD. The decision was clear—I would try my luck in Nagpur.

At Government Medical College, Nagpur, fate smiled again. My hard work and good ranks carried me through, despite the complicated rules of MARD and the reservation of seats for other medical college candidates. Thus began my formal journey into gynaecology.

Looking back, I often smile at the irony. My Taiji in Karnal had once dreamed I would be an engineer, and had almost enrolled me in Regional Engineering College, Kurukshetra and Delhi College of Engineering. My cousins became civil engineers and later settled in America. But I—who rebelled against engineering—found myself drawn into the world of childbirth, surgeries, and women’s health. Perhaps life has its own architecture, one that no human engineer can design.

When I joined GMC Nagpur for my postgraduation, my world expanded in unexpected ways. My guides were Dr. Deshmukh Madam. Dr. Shastrakar, and Dr. Bhattacharya Madam—stalwarts were on the verge of retirement. Under her watchful eyes, I learned the craft of my trade: delivering babies, conducting hysterectomies, and performing caesarean sections. For three years, I lived in those labour rooms and operation theatres, learning not only the science but also the quiet art of reassurance, of standing steady in the storm of childbirth.

But Nagpur gave me something more than an MD degree. It gave me Rukmini. She was a staff nurse—compassionate, graceful, with a quiet strength that I found irresistible. Between late-night duties and hurried meals in the canteen, friendship grew into love. On 2 December 1984, my MD results were declared—I had passed. Just a fortnight later, on 13 December, Rukmini and I were married. Life had woven my professional success and personal joy into one unforgettable month.

By January 1985, I was back in Delhi. Dr. Rohit Bhatt from Gujarat invited me to join his setup, but something within me resisted. Instead, I walked through the gates of Moolchand Hospital, the most prestigious hospital in South Delhi at the time. The place glittered with private practice, polished corridors, and consultants who were already celebrities.

Yet, I found myself ill at ease. The culture of private hospitals—the relentless chase for money, the subtle compromises in ethics—did not appeal to me. Dr. Sheela Mehra, a senior consultant, and one of the richest doctors in Delhi then, would often tease me, “Sunil, stay here. I’ll make you a lakhpati in no time!” A lakh in the 1980s was a fortune, but my heart remained unmoved. I knew I wanted something else, though I could not name it yet.

So I began applying—everywhere. Sriharikota Space Centre. HMT Watches, Srinagar. Indian Railways. Government M.C. Delhi. Kasturba Hospital near Jama Masjid. And the Armed Forces.

One night, while I was on duty at Moolchand, my father walked in quietly, carrying three envelopes. “These came today,” he said. I looked at the postmarks. “Which one arrived first?” I asked him. He pointed to the Armed Forces letter. Without any logic, without even opening the other two, I declared, “Then that’s the one I’ll take. First come, first served.” And so, by that simple principle, I joined the Army Medical Corps.

The army life unfolded like a long train journey across the country. I was given family stations, three years at a time, perhaps because I was a male gynaecologist—a rare breed in uniform. From Arunachal’s misty hills to Ranchi’s dusty plains, from Jalandhar to Bhutan, Kota to Assam, Roorkee to Ambala—each posting carried its own rhythm, its own lessons.

I rose to the rank of Colonel, then Brigadier, commanding a unit in Roorkee. My final posting was in Kolkata in 2017. On my way back, I halted in Varanasi to meet friends when the phone rang. “This is the principal of a new private medical college near Faridabad. Will you join us?” he asked. I paused. Retirement had just set in, but the call of teaching was irresistible. And so, I began my second innings as a medical consultant at Al-Falah Medical College, in Dhauj, Faridabad, near Delhi.

Sevagram, however, never left me. Its memories visit me like old companions—some funny, some profound.

I remember how, long before yoga became fashionable across India, Nagpur University had already made it compulsory in medical colleges. Our sports teacher, Mr. Tupkar, doubled up as yoga instructor, assisted by a teacher from Nagpur. For our final evaluation, we assembled on the football ground near Dr. Chhabra’s residence. But students being students, mischief was never far. One day, the Nagpur Yoga instructor made a mountain out of a molehill, pretending injuries from yoga practice. Dr. Sushila Nayar, furious at what she thought was indiscipline, threatened expulsion. Suspensions followed—three months for Shivender Singhal, shorter terms for others. Even in punishment, Sevagram taught us discipline.

Another vivid memory is of the Ganesh festival. Alongside cultural programmes, there was always a debate competition on 2nd October. My classmate V.K. Gupta cornered me one day: “Sunil, you must team with me.”

“Me? I’ve never spoken on stage!” I protested.

“Don’t worry, I’ll steady you,” he said with a grin.

He argued for the motion, I against it. To my surprise, words flowed, confidence came, and we won. Our victory surprised even seniors like B.B. Gupta from the 1974 batch, who accused me jokingly of lying about being a novice. From then on, the stage became my ally. With Vijendra Chauhan, I formed another team, and together we collected debating trophies across Nagpur University.

The stage gave me yet another gift—acting. In my first year, I played the role of an Urdu poet in Teen Pagal. Ashok Mehendale was my co-actor, and the play was directed by Dr. K.K. Hariharan and Dr. Sutikshna Pandey, our Physiology professor. Later came Aurangzeb ki Aakhri Raat, directed by Dr. Sutikshna Pandey and Dr. M.D. Khapre. But my proudest moment was directing the first English play in Sevagram, performed by the 1979 batch. I distinctly recall the 1979 batch students- Atul Agarwal, Nagesh Mandapaka, Raghavendra Goswami, and Varinder Singh Bedi. We even took it to Maulana Azad Medical College in Delhi, representing MGIMS in an inter-medical college drama festival.

Sevagram also taught me politics—the kind I never wanted. In those early years, student elections were marred by bitterness between Maharashtrian and non-Maharashtrian groups. Friends became foes overnight. For three years, Maharashtrian students had swept the elections, often with manipulation. In my year, the consensus was: let a neutral, non-controversial candidate lead. Somehow, I fit the bill.

We won hands down, but the aftermath was ugly. Violence broke out in the hostels, inquiries were ordered. I was summoned last before the committee—Dr. K.K. Trivedi, Dr. O.P. Gupta, and Colonel Chatterjee. Dr. Trivedi looked at me sternly. “Why did you get into this dirty politics, Sunil? We expected better from you.”

I lowered my head, ashamed. But they offered me a way out. “Why not make rules to prevent this Maharashtra versus non-Maharashtra rivalry forever?” they suggested.

I sat down and drafted a set of guidelines that shifted elections from open fights to selective, consensus-based choices. Few know this today, but the student council elections at MGIMS still follow those very rules.

And then there were the field lessons. During internship, Professor B.K. Mahajan launched an innovative Anganwadi programme. Could these grassroots workers reduce malnutrition among under-fives in tribal areas? Three institutions—MGIMS, AIIMS Delhi, and the National Institute of Nutrition—collaborated. From my batch, Dr. Singhal and I were sent to Dharni, a tribal belt 300 km away.

We collected data, weighed children, distributed supplements, asked questions in huts where smoke stung our eyes. It was my first exposure to research, though I did not know the word then. What I knew was that medicine was not just about hospitals and textbooks—it was about listening, counting, caring, and learning from people who had nothing yet taught us everything.

One final memory lingers. A young lecturer had just joined MGIMS—Dr. Ulhas Jajoo. Fresh from GMC Nagpur, brilliant, charismatic, brimming with ideas. More than his knowledge, it was his vision that captured us. He led us, often at dawn, into nearby villages—on bicycles, on foot, carrying nothing but stethoscopes and notebooks.

We sat in mud huts, spoke to families, prescribed what little we could, and in the process discovered the essence of medicine: empathy, compassion, and humility. These were lessons not found in Harrison’s or Williams’ textbooks. They were carved into our hearts in Sevagram’s red soil.

Even today, when I close my eyes, Sevagram comes back like an old black-and-white film reel: the neem-shaded ashram, the clang of steel plates in the mess, the laughter in hostel corridors, the earnest voice of Dr. Sushila Nayar in the interview hall, and the gentle smile of Dr. Archana Acharya. Those small, ordinary moments shaped me as much as textbooks and surgeries ever did. Decades later, whether in an army hospital, a private ward, or a teaching classroom, I find myself guided by those early lessons. If I still pause before writing a prescription, if I still remind myself to listen before I speak, it is because of Sevagram.

And for that, I shall remain forever indebted.