The MD Trial

The winter of 1980 remains vivid in my mind. Ten of us reached that season together, having taken the MD examination as one cohort—Jayant Pande, Shriram Kane, Aziz Khan, Adesh Gadpayle, Kishore Kedar, Ramesh Mundle, Harish Baheti, Padmakar Somvanshi, Vijay Thakre, and I. We had trained side by side for years, sharing wards, night duties, textbooks, and apprehensions. Now we were walking out to bat together, each of us hoping to stay at the crease.

For months, our preparation had been steady and methodical. We practised history-taking until it became instinctive, examined patients until our hands learnt what to look for, and rehearsed differential diagnoses the way a batsman rehearses his strokes in the nets. Neurology, cardiology, pulmonology—we played them patiently: defensive when needed, attacking when confident.

The theory examination went smoothly. We wrote with the calm assurance of men who had judged the pitch correctly. The real contest, we knew, would be at the bedside.

The truth announced itself sharply during the clinical examination.

Our internal examiners, Dr. B.G. Waghmare and Dr. H.C. Attal, listened without interruption. They let us find our footing, watched us settle into the rhythm of the case, and allowed the presentation to unfold—like umpires who give a batsman time to take guard.

The external examiners changed the field.

One was Dr. Mishra from King George’s Medical College—brisk, unsentimental. The other was Dr. V.V. Shanbhag, Head of Medicine at Topiwala National Medical College. His reputation arrived before him. When he looked up from the case sheet, the room tightened, as if the bowler had shortened his run-up and the field had quietly crept in.

We reported to Ward 13 at eight in the morning. The beds were already occupied by patients brought in specially for the examination—men and women with disorders we had mostly seen only in textbooks. Many had come from Untkhana, a home for the physically handicapped. Their bodies carried inherited neurological diseases that moved, spoke, and walked in unfamiliar ways. Faces, gaits, postures—nothing looked routine.

These were our long cases.

We did our mental arithmetic automatically. Forty minutes for history and examination. Twenty more to organise notes, marshal the signs, and prepare the presentation. Tight, but possible. We had done this before—many times.

Then the examiner looked at us and said, evenly, almost casually, “You have seven minutes to present your case.”

Seven minutes.

We had trained for long formats—unhurried histories, careful examinations, presentations built brick by brick. Overnight, the rules had changed. We had prepared for a Test match; what we were handed felt like a short, sharp burst where every ball mattered.

I was allotted a patient with Friedreich’s ataxia. The diagnosis was familiar. The signs were there, waiting to be read. Yet I could not find my rhythm. I tried to play too many strokes at once, lost track of time, and before I knew it, the innings was over.

I returned to the hostel with the heavy feeling of someone dismissed early. It was like getting out for a duck—not because I did not know how to bat, but because that morning I could not judge the bowling. I had read the books, practised the signs, rehearsed the presentations. And still, I had failed to stay at the crease.

The next day brought the short cases.

This time, I took guard more carefully. The patients spoke clearly. Leaky valves murmured their stories; lungs destroyed by tuberculosis told theirs without ambiguity. I listened, examined, and responded without hurry. The bat met the ball. The confidence returned.

Then came the viva voce.

The questions arrived steadily, like a probing spell. I answered what I knew, admitted what I did not, and tried not to chase deliveries outside my reach. The examiner listened, made notes, and then delivered what felt like the last ball of the over.

“A young man develops syncope each time he urinates. What is the diagnosis?”

“Pheochromocytoma,” I replied.

“And where is the tumour located?”

“In the bladder wall, sir.”

A pause followed—brief, deliberate. The room seemed to hold its breath. Dr. Waghmare’s pen came to rest. Dr. Attal looked up, his gaze steady, the severity in his face easing into something quieter.

Across the table, the external examiners looked at each other. For an instant their eyes met over the rims of thick spectacles. One raised his brows slightly; the other allowed the faintest hint of a smile before it vanished. It was an expression rarely seen in that room—approval, measured and unspoken.

The weight of the previous day lifted without ceremony.

I knew then, without being told, that I had passed.

Not all of us did.

Relief came all at once. I was no longer a resident; I was a physician. Two letters now followed my name—MD—earned through sleepless nights, sharp rebukes from Dr. Chaubey, and long hours in the wards of GMC Nagpur.

With distance, I see the examination was less a test of brilliance than of temperament. It asked whether one could steady oneself after a falter, adapt to unspoken rules, and think clearly when time ran short.

Those seven minutes taught me a lasting lesson: preparation matters—but so do composure and the ability to endure.

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