Rafat, ek gaana suna do na! Someone called out one muggy Sevagram evening, and Rafat Khan cleared his throat, shy but willing.

Kora kagaz tha yeh man mera…

By the second line, a classmate was clapping off-beat. By the third, others had joined in. The hostel courtyard of MGIMS in the late 1970s was not a concert hall — it was a square of open sky above a circle of charpoys, lanterns guttering in the heat, the smell of khadi starch mixing with dust. But a good voice fills a space whatever the space is, and Rafat Khan had a good voice.

It had always been his passport. In school it had fetched him applause when he forgot his lines and pivoted to Mohammed Rafi mid-performance. In Sevagram, it fetched him friends, votes in student elections, and — in time — the particular attention of a young woman named Nahid.

Kamptee and the Narrow Door

He was born on 18 June 1956 in Kamptee, in his grandfather’s house. His father, Shahjahan Khan, was a mechanical engineer — precise, firm, disciplined. His mother was gentle and nurturing. A peculiarity had persisted across five generations of his family: never more than two children. Rafat had one younger brother who became a professor.

His schooling was at the Corporation School in Nagpur, then Rajendra Prasad Hindi High School in Thane after his father moved there for work. He pursued a B.Sc. in Microbiology at Chandibai College, Ulhasnagar.

Maharashtra’s education system was in the middle of its transition from 11+2+3 to 10+2+3, and the available seats in medical colleges contracted at precisely the moment Rafat was trying to occupy one. Bombay’s colleges turned him away.

His father knew Prof. S.P. Nigam, Head of Medicine at Sevagram. One telephone call, one application form, one entrance examination later, Rafat was on a train to Nagpur, clutching Gandhi’s writings and preparing for the Gandhian thought paper that everyone said could make or break your chances.

The Interview and the Hostel

He bought the four prescribed books at Nagpur station and devoured them. Gandhi unsettled him in the way moral seriousness always unsettles — how could a frail man in khadi challenge the might of the British Empire without raising his hand? During the interview, a professor asked: Patel aur Gandhi ke rishte ko tum kaise dekhte ho? He steadied his voice: Gandhi socha karte the rashtra ke liye, aur Patel, parivar ke mukhiya ki tarah, us soch ko mazboot banate the. Gandhi thought for the nation; Patel made that thought strong. The professor smiled faintly. That was enough.

“Tere dar par aaya hoon, kuch leke jaoonga — I came to your threshold and left with more than I had dreamed.”

The Ashram air carried its own fragrance: neem leaves, cow dung, the faint smoke of wood-fired stoves. Khadi felt strange on his body — ironed stiff, wrinkled by noon. For a seventeen-year-old, this metamorphosis was nothing short of a nightmare. But the rhythm took hold quickly: morning prayers, simple food, cleaning their own plates, village visits.

His first friend was Jitender Singh Rana from Rohtak. Then Shabinder Singh, a Sardar from Punjab who carried a harmonium everywhere. In the evenings Gajanan Ambulkar played sitar, Sanjay Potdar played tabla, and Rafat sang. Under Sevagram’s wide sky, these evenings felt complete.

Teachers, Rescue, and the Stage

The Anatomy faculty were strict to the point of anxiety in his telling. Yet during examinations their severity mellowed. One memory stands above the rest. In his final MBBS viva, an external examiner from Bombay worked through him methodically and Rafat faltered. Dr. A.P. Jain noticed. He quietly sent a senior to quiz Rafat on three questions in the corridor. Rafat answered correctly. When he returned, Dr. Jain repeated the same three. He answered with confidence. He was dismissed at once. He walked out with his eyes moist — not from fear, but from the gratitude of someone who has been rescued without being asked to acknowledge it.

He acted in Bade Log and Zopi Gelela Jaga Zala, sharing the stage with Sanjay Potdar, Devendra Shirole, Nita Ramteke, Harminder Kaur, Karuna Bhog, and Anjali Dhar. Once during rehearsal, he improvised a Urdu line that the audience thought was in the script and applauded. His teachers shook their heads. He was still smiling about it decades later.

Nahid and After

It was during internship that Ophthalmology cast its spell. Dr. Sanjay Srivastava had just joined as senior registrar from Bhopal — gentle, Urdu-inflected in his manner of speech, with a way of treating patients that made the work feel like art. Doctor ban’ne ka matlab sirf ilaaj karna nahi hai, he once said. Mardum-e-basar ko roshni dena hai — unke dil tak roshni pahunchana. Restoring light to the eyes, and to the people behind them. Rafat knew then what he wanted to do.

Among the many gifts Sevagram gave him, the most precious was Nahid — from Pune, bright and graceful, present at hostel functions and cultural evenings where their duets became something the campus looked forward to. In 1986, after her MBBS and his diploma, they married.

The early years were difficult. Bank loans were elusive and a hospital felt like an impossible ambition. He accepted a position in Saudi Arabia, worked for five years, and returned with the capital to build what he had imagined. He established his eye hospital in Nagpur. His son, who inherited the vocation, also became an ophthalmologist. They practise side by side.

When he stands on stage today to sing Rafi’s songs, he is transported back: the hostel courtyard, the charpoys, the lanterns, the wrinkled khadi, the laughter. Tere dar par aaya hoon, kuch leke jaoonga. I came to your threshold. I left carrying more than I had dreamed.

Dr. Rafat Khan completed his MBBS from MGIMS, Sevagram, with the class of 1978 and a Diploma in Ophthalmology from IGMC Nagpur. He worked in Saudi Arabia before establishing his own eye hospital in Nagpur, where he practises with his son, also an ophthalmologist. He and his wife Nahid — his MGIMS batchmate — were married in 1986.