Quiz Day on a Shoestring

1999 was a year of change for the country. For us at MGIMS, it was a year of tight belts. I was a Reader in Medicine then, with a lively group of residents. Two of them—Dr Prabhat Goel and Dr Ravi Sautha—were especially bright, the kind who asked good questions on rounds and worked even harder after that. Their enthusiasm was abundant. Their money, like most of ours that year, was not.

For two months, the institute hadn’t paid salaries. In Sevagram, that wasn’t a small inconvenience. There were no credit cards to fall back on, and most of us didn’t have savings sitting quietly in a bank. We managed on patience, borrowed time, and the goodwill of the local shopkeepers.

It was during this dry spell that Dr Sudhir Bhave from Nagpur called me. A psychiatrist with a sharp academic streak, he was helping organise the annual medical quiz of the Academy of Medical Sciences, Nagpur.

“We want a team from MGIMS,” he said. “One teacher and two residents. Will you lead it?”

I looked at Prabhat and Ravi. They were already drowning in ward work, and I was buried in teaching schedules. None of us had prepared for anything beyond the next emergency call. Still, the idea of a day away from Sevagram—plus the possibility of a free lunch—was too tempting to refuse.

So we said yes.

Third class, first spirits

We travelled the way unpaid doctors travel.

No taxi. No special arrangements. We pooled whatever cash we had, squeezed into a shared auto to Wardha station, and bought tickets for the unreserved compartment—what we still called “third class,” without any shame.

The train was crowded and warm, full of elbows, cloth bags, and people talking over each other. We stood for part of the journey, clinging to the steel rod, smiling like schoolboys on a picnic. Between Wardha and Nagpur, we quizzed each other—half-serious, half-laughing—throwing questions like paper balls.

“What’s the triad in…?”
“Don’t ask me triads. Ask me something we actually see!”

At Ajni station we got down, partly to save time, partly because we didn’t want to look too lost at the main station. From there we walked to the venue—about a mile and a half—under the sun, our shirts slowly turning into damp towels. By the time we arrived, we were dusty, sweaty, and strangely cheerful.

We had come with no preparation and no expectations. That is a very light way to travel.

The quiz hall and the outsiders

Inside, the atmosphere was different.

Teams from the big Nagpur colleges sat in neat groups, looking fresh and confident. They had the calm faces of people who had revised, slept, and eaten breakfast properly. We were the rural cousins who had arrived after a long walk.

But once the quiz started, all that disappeared.

Medicine doesn’t change its rules because you work in a city. A question is a question—whether you read it in a textbook or meet it in Ward 23 at midnight.

The questions came quickly. Prabhat and Ravi were sharp, quick to connect clues. Their advantage wasn’t coaching—it was the daily grind of Sevagram, where you see everything and you learn fast or you sink. We worked well as a unit, whispering, debating in seconds, correcting each other without ego.

By the end, we were no longer “outsiders.” We were contenders.

Then the results were announced.

We had won.

₹100 that felt like a bonus salary

The organisers handed us a trophy, certificates, and a cash prize: ₹100 each.

Today, that note won’t buy you much more than a coffee and a samosa. But in 1999, with two months of delayed salary behind us, it felt like a princely sum. Not because it made us rich, but because it arrived at exactly the right moment—like an unexpected IV line when the vein has been playing hide-and-seek.

And yes, we were absurdly happy.

Lunch followed—proper lunch. We ate like men who had walked miles for it, and we enjoyed every bite. The food tasted better because we had earned it.

A win you couldn’t announce

On the way back, the trophy sat on my lap like a child that needed guarding. We took an auto to the station and boarded the train home, tired but talking nonstop—replaying every question, every close call, every lucky guess we pretended was pure knowledge.

There were no smartphones then. No WhatsApp group to flood with messages. No photograph to post with a caption like “Proud moment!” We couldn’t tell anyone until we reached Sevagram.

Oddly, that made the win sweeter.

It stayed between the three of us, safely wrapped in laughter and train noise. We carried it home the way people once carried good news—inside themselves, without broadcasting it.

When we finally reached and told our families, their smiles completed the day.

We had left Sevagram on an unreserved ticket, unpaid and unprepared. We returned with a trophy, ₹100 in our pockets, and the lightness that comes from a small victory at the right time.

For one day, we felt like kings.

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