The Dakshin Express screeched to a halt at Wardha station. I craned my neck out of the window, the warm smell of coal smoke and dust filling my nose. My classmate Sarbjit and I jumped down with our fathers, clutching our suitcases. “So this is Wardha?” I asked, scanning the quiet platform with its sleepy tea stall.

A bullock cart and a couple of cycle rickshaws waited outside. We hired a tanga, and the horse clopped along a road that seemed to disappear into endless fields. “How far is Sevagram, Papa?” I must have asked ten times. He only smiled, “Bas, aa gaya… just ahead.” But “ahead” took forever. The road narrowed, tall trees leaned in like silent spectators, and the world felt far from Delhi’s noise.

By the time we saw the simple sign — Mahatma Gandhi Institute of Medical Sciences — I had already decided this was a different world. The red-tiled roofs peeked from behind neem and tamarind trees. Somewhere, a cow lowed.

The next day was the interview. But my journey here had started much earlier…

From the Capital to the Cotton Fields

I was born on 5 October 1953, a tiny, underweight baby in Nani’s home. But like many intrauterine growth-retarded babies, I caught up fast, becoming chubby enough for relatives to visit just to pinch my cheeks. My father, Bhagwant Singh, served as Under Secretary — first in the Defence Ministry, later in Food and Agriculture. My mother, Daler Kaur, came from a village in Haryana. She was the only one of seven children to survive infancy, so her parents named her “Daler” — brave. She became a Hindi teacher and my greatest cheerleader.

School life in Shyama Prasad Vidyalaya, in Lodhi Estate, Delhi  was full of colour — Saraswati Puja decorations, debates my mother coached me for, sports meets where I sprinted for my house team. I still remember the smell of marigolds on stage during our Kabuliwala play, where I was Mini, watched by none other than Dr Zakir Hussain. I loved winning — whether it was debates, fancy dress, or sports. But life had its own way of humbling me later.

Fast forward to my first attempt at medical entrances. I’d always topped school, so the shock came when I didn’t make Delhi Medical Colleges — short by just five marks. My friends who had taken tuition had an advantage; their tutors were also the examiners in practicals. My father and I were both puzzled, but I knew one thing — I’d try again.

The next year I attacked the books, joined PMT coaching at DPS Karol Bagh, and took every entrance exam in sight — AIIMS, JIPMER, AFMC. AFMC’s interview was an experience. Ten uniformed officers sat across from me, the only girl in the room. “How does the southwest monsoon move?” one asked. I tried, failed, and left thinking it was over.

The Road to Sevagram

One day at AIIMS, while filling the entrance form, a kindly clerk said, “A new college has opened in Sevagram. Fill this form too. First 50 go to AIIMS, the next 25 to Sevagram.” My father shrugged, “Why not?” and signed. I didn’t know then that this was the ticket that would change my life.

I took the combined entrance exam, wrote the exam well enough to get a call for the interview. My father and I got into the Dakshin Express, got down at Wardha east station, climbed into a tonga and it would take eternity to reach Sevagram. It was dark and deserted and barren land and the first impression of Sevagram was a rude shock to me. 

Back in Sevagram, the admission formalities began. Mr. L.R. Pandit was checking certificates. I realised my originals were still in my Miranda House file — yes, I had even joined Physics Honours there for a week. “Incomplete,” Pandit scribbled on my form, not even looking up. My heart sank.

But somehow, despite the missing papers, destiny nudged me forward.

Internship days rolled on like a river in flood — unpredictable, exhausting, but full of lessons. I learned to rush from ward to ward with case sheets under my arm, to snatch meals in ten-minute gaps, and to stay awake through the night without losing patience with a sick child or a worried mother. Dilip, always calm in the OT, had a way of making even the tensest moments feel under control. “Steady hands, steady mind,” he’d say, and I tried to remember it each time I scrubbed in.

When we left Sevagram for Pune — Dilip for his MS in Surgery and I for my own postgraduate studies — I felt a strange ache. It wasn’t homesickness exactly, but the feeling you get when you leave behind a place that shaped you. The banyan tree near the anatomy block, the rhythmic clang of the mess bell, the morning sight of nurses cycling to the hospital… they stayed with me.

Later, Nagpur became our home. Dilip joined Gandhi Medical College, and I built my private practice. Forty years in that city, and yet whenever I meet an old Sevagram face, the years fall away like they never existed. We are back in those hostel corridors, teasing each other over whose turn it was to clean the shared iron, borrowing notes before exams, or singing the all-religion prayer in a crowded train compartment.

Sevagram taught me medicine, yes — but it also taught me friendship, independence, and the quiet dignity of service. And somewhere between the physiology lectures, the village postings, and the mess dinners I never quite got used to, it also gave me Dilip — my partner in work, in life, and in laughter.

Even today, when I close my eyes, I can hear the temple bell from the ashram, smell the earth after the first rain, and see my younger self — a nervous girl from Delhi chasing a tonga, calling out “Papa, don’t go!” — not knowing then how much this little village in Maharashtra would give her.

Lessons Beyond the Classroom

Those first mornings at the ashram remain among my clearest memories. A single bell would cut the dawn and we would gather for the all-religion prayer. We learned to fold our hands together the same way, whether we were from Delhi, Punjab, or Wardha. I would close my eyes and sing with my whole chest. The sound of those voices — low, steady, ordinary — felt like home. The prayer filled the empty places inside me that city life had left raw.

Orientation was simple and plain. We lived in the hostel, ate at the mess, and learned the rules of Sevagram which were more felt than written. Food was the first shock: thick brown rice, oil-floating vegetables and the local arhar  dal I had never seen at home. I missed basmati  rice and my mother’s light dals, but I learned to eat without complaining. What I loved most was the prayer and the slow evenings under the neem trees when we would talk and laugh until the mess bell called us in.

Village Life and Community Spirit

A few weeks into term we were sent to the village for community postings — a month living with local families to learn public health from the ground. Kharangana Gode village was just two miles from Sevagram and our batch was allotted this village. The allotment system had its surprises. Many of the girls from Delhi were lodged in a godown with a trench latrine that made our city mouths gasp. I remember the sight and smell; I remember thinking none of this could be fixed quickly. We knocked on doors, begged for use of a proper toilet, and asked for an extra room where four of us could sleep. People surprised us with their generosity. Dilip Gode’s uncle opened his home to us. He had a solid house; he let us bathe and store our small things. Those small kindnesses taught me that hospitality can happen even where poverty lives.

Village life was a lesson in contrasts. In Punjab the fields I had known were noisy with tractors and machines; here, people worked with their hands. Women in Punjab spun yarn at home and sold it to the Khadi Bhandar. I remember the roughness of that yarn in my fingers and the pride with which Dadi gave me a small bundle of handspun daris. I still keep those pieces somewhere safe. I also noticed how people in Sevagram could sit long hours by the roadside, smoking or chatting — a world away from the constant bustle and industry back home. I told my father that perhaps the lack of mechanisation explained some of the poverty. He only smiled and ruffled my hair; he had come to accept that different places work differently.

A day after I was admitted to the college, my father said he would go back home. He hired a tonga near Gandhi ashram, climbed into the tonga and as his tonga started crawling towards Wardha, I ran towards him, loudly crying, : Papa, do not go.” 

Friendships grew fast. We were eleven girls in my batch and in the early days we would all cry together — not from sorrow, just because everything felt new and fragile. I found Sanjeevanee, Madhu, Megha, Nirmala, Jyotsna and others who would stay as anchors through the years. From the older batches came Jaya Deshmukh, Lata Chaudhary and Shalini; from 1970, Kamaljeet, Madan, Anu, Kuldeep and Renu — many from Delhi, many who shared my long trips back to the city.

The Rigors of Medical Training

The MBBS years were hard in a way I had not known before. Anatomy and physiology and biochemistry arrived like waves — beautiful, huge, and merciless. I had always trusted my memory, but Gray’s Anatomy taught me humility. I read and read and felt the facts slip away. Before the first MBBS exams I was a bundle of dread. I told my father I might fail — partly to soften the blow for him. He only put his hand on my cheek and said, “Beta, MBBS is a long road. A stumble is not the end.” The results were posted in the local paper. I remember the walk to Maharashtra Emporium with my father; when I saw my roll number there, I shouted, “Papa — I passed!” He tried to hide his joy with a small, steady nod. That nod meant everything.

We learned from our teachers much more than medicine. Dr. M. L. Sharma taught pharmacology like an artisan at his craft. His notes, written in a precise and clipped style, were models of clarity. He showed us how to present answers — bullet points, neat headings, crisp diagrams. I still pass on that very method to my own students.

Dr. R. V. Agrawal seemed to breathe pathology. After I failed a practical in the term exam, he called me into his chamber and asked gently, “What’s wrong?” I admitted that I had grown a little casual after passing my first MBBS. “If I start now, will I pass?” I asked. “Why not?” he reassured me. “You are such a good student — of course you will.”

His faith in me worked like a jolt of energy. That very evening I began studying at seven and rose from the chair only at six the next morning. I slept in short bursts, returning again and again to my books. By the time the exam came, I was ready — and I cleared pathology with very good marks.

Simple Pleasures and Hostel Bonds

Money was tight. My father sent a monthly money order of ₹200. The mess bill was only a part of it — maybe eighty rupees — leaving the rest for clothes, soap, snacks and the occasional movie in Wardha. We learned to be careful and clever. Joshi’s shop near A1 Taylor,  at Sabzi Mandi became famous among us for samosas; Nirmal Bakery meant bread and eggs; simple pleasures that cost little and tasted like freedom.

Transport was another small adventure. There was only one tonga in town. No rickshaws, no autos. The college ran a weekly jeep to Wardha; all the eleven girls from our batch would crowd in, pay a small fare of 90 paise per girl and go to see a movie, buy groceries or just breathe city air for a day. 

Train journeys became our theatre of youth. We would travel to and from Delhi in a pack — Jyotsna, Mamta, Vasundhara, Madhu and I — and in the evenings we would sing the all-religion prayer taught at the ashram — loud, off-key, and unabashed. Once a passenger shouted, “Girls, stop that singing!” We only laughed and sang a little louder. It made the hours pass.  It was how we kept fear and homesickness from swallowing us. 

The parcel culture was another joy of hostel life. Parents from Delhi often brought food and sweets, and when a parcel arrived, everyone pounced before it was even opened. My mother would send me dry mutton, carefully packed in a five-litre Dalda tin, which I gladly shared with all the girls in the hostel. I can still picture Anita Chadha’s parcel vanishing into a dozen eager hands before she even reached the hostel gate.

What Sevagram taught me

Sevagram taught me three quiet lessons and they stuck. It taught me to decide — trunk calls would take hours to mature  and letters could take days, and you had to act without asking permission. It taught me to be independent — to cook, wash and mend. And it taught me that no work is too small; I learned to scrub plates and clean toilets and I’ve never thought any honest work beneath me since.

Final MBBS brought a different pressure. I loved clinical subjects — medicine, surgery, paediatrics — and was less eager for social medicine. In the PSM final theory paper, a question on the applied nutrition programme landed like a trap. I had little idea what they meant; I wrote from what little common sense I had and feared the worst. For the practical, Dr Sushila Nayar — whom we all called “Behenji” with affection and a bit of awe — was the internal examiner. She sat across the table and asked me about my theory paper. I admitted my fear about the nutrition question and then answered, steady and clear. Her face softened. Later she gave me grace marks that helped me pass that subject. I will never forget that moment: her look turned my fear into a small, bright certainty.

Surgical wards taught me courage. Dr Chhabra was the one who took my hand in the Ob Gy theatre and taught me to make a bold incision. The first time she let me perform a Caesarean section alone, she waited outside the operating theatre, calm and trustful. “You know what to do,” she told me. I did — and I remember the baby crying and the flood of relief that ran through me.

By the time internships ended, the place that had once frightened me felt like family. Every corridor, every clatter of plates, every late-night case carried its memory. 

A Life Transformed by Wardha

And in that living, breathing college I found Dilip. Dilip Gode to be more exact, for there were four Dilips in our class. The small, steady ways in which we shared work and jokes and tired evenings made us certain. We married simply, with both families’ blessings, and later moved for studies and work — to Pune, to Nagpur. We built lives there, but Sevagram never left us.

The day we decided to marry, Sevagram looked different to me. The red laterite paths we had walked for years together seemed to smile knowingly. The neem trees that lined the road from the hostel to the hospital swayed gently in the warm evening breeze, as if giving their blessings. By then, Dilip and I had spent enough time together to understand each other’s silences. There were no dramatic proposals, no flowery speeches — just a quiet certainty that we belonged together.

“You realise,” Sanjeevanee teased, “if you marry a local boy, you’ll never get away from Sevagram!”

I laughed, but inside I knew she was right. Sevagram had already stitched itself into my life — in the early morning prayer songs, the dust-streaked corridors of the hospital, the taste of thick brown rice in the mess, and the long jeep rides to Wardha for groceries and samosas.

Our wedding was simple, almost like the college’s ethos itself. No pomp, no grandeur — just friends, laughter, and that peculiar sense of family that Sevagram gave its students. Both our families, despite coming from such different worlds — my Sikh roots in Punjab and Dilip’s Maharashtrian upbringing — accepted us without hesitation. There was warmth in that acceptance, a blessing without conditions.

Even after decades of practice and ordinary life, I sometimes close my eyes and hear the ashram bell. I smell the dust after rain, the oil from the mess, and the ropey handspun yarn Dadi gave me. I remember running after my father’s tonga and shouting, “Papa, don’t go!” — and I know now which of those moments shaped the rest of my life. Sevagram gave me medicine, yes. More than that, it gave me independence, endurance, and the person I married — and for that I remain forever grateful.