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2.6
Arrivals by Detour
Four Transfers, One Class
Not everyone in our class began medical college in Nagpur. Four of our batchmates arrived by detour, each carrying a different geography—and a different story—into the first-year dissection hall. Transfers were rare in those days; when they happened, they were noticed, remembered, and quietly admired.
Ravindra Jharia’s journey began close to home and then wandered far before circling back. He chose St. Francis De Sales College, Nagpur, for his pre-medical education and was selected as a Central Government nominee under the All-India Defence quota, his late father having served in the armed forces. The system sent him to S.S. Medical College, Rewa, in Madhya Pradesh. Ravi completed his First MBBS there and, in 1975, moved to Government Medical College, Nagpur.
By then, the Class of 1973 had already reached its sanctioned strength of two hundred students. To accommodate him, the Dean created an additional seat and assigned Ravi Roll Number 201. It was a small administrative adjustment, but a significant moment nonetheless—the first recorded inter-state transfer into a Maharashtra government medical college. Ravi arrived quietly, without ceremony, carrying with him the distinction of being an exception made official.
Pradeep Deshpande’s route to Nagpur began much farther north. Born in Hyderabad, his schooling traced a familiar Vidarbha arc—Buldhana Aided High School, Vidarbha Mahavidyalaya in Amravati, and Dharampeth College in Nagpur. When medical college admissions were announced, Pradeep found himself wait-listed at Number One for GMC Nagpur. Two options lay before him: Indira Gandhi Medical College, Nagpur, or Government Medical College, Srinagar.
He chose Srinagar.
Pradeep completed his First MBBS there and returned to GMC Nagpur in 1975. With hindsight, it proved a wise decision. Transfers between government medical colleges were administratively feasible; movement from a corporation-run institution was not. Had he chosen IGMC, he might have remained permanently anchored there. Instead, Pradeep glided back from Srinagar, his choice rewarded by the quiet efficiency of the system.
Vilas Mulay arrived from Warangal, carrying the easy confidence of someone used to moving across states. Born in Hyderabad to a father in central government service, Vilas studied at Kakatiya Medical College, Warangal, under Osmania University, before migrating to GMC Nagpur. He joined the EFGH batch of the Class of 1973 and was assigned Roll Number 203.
Vilas would later earn recognition well beyond medicine. As Lions Governor in 2002–2003, he oversaw activities across twenty-two districts of Maharashtra. He also nurtured a love for flying and travel, collecting continents with the same enthusiasm others collected degrees—Japan, Australia, New Zealand, Europe, and the United States all found a place in his logbook.
C. P. Augustine’s transfer was the quietest—and the most puzzling—of the four.
He came to Government Medical College, Nagpur, after completing his First MBBS at MGIMS, Sevagram. Beyond that, almost nothing was known about him. No one could say where he came from, who his parents were, or what became of him after MBBS. Even today, no classmate claims any enduring connection with him.
Augustine, however, was impossible to miss. He was tall, powerfully built, with thick curly hair and spectacles that bore an uncanny resemblance to those Amitabh Bachchan wore in those years. In Hostel No. 2, his heavy, shuffling gait made him instantly recognisable. His presence inspired unease more than familiarity.
A recluse by temperament, he kept to himself—in the hostel, classrooms, laboratories, and wards. He spoke little, avoided questions about his past, and offered no explanations. In the silence he cultivated, rumours flourished. Stories followed him, and mystery clung tightly to his persona. Known to be quick-tempered, he was feared for his readiness to pick a fight.
After MBBS, Augustine did not complete his internship at GMC Nagpur.
He simply vanished.
C. P. Augustine remains the lone ranger of the Class of 1973—a man who passed through our years briefly and left behind more questions than memories.
Together, these four arrivals reminded us that medical education was not always a straight road. Some reached Nagpur by design, others by circumstance, and a few by the benevolent flexibility of a system that occasionally bent its own rules. They joined us not as outsiders, but as classmates, carrying with them stories that would, over time, blend seamlessly into the shared memory of our batch.
Paths That Diverged
Four students from the Class of 1973 left Government Medical College, Nagpur, after the First MBBS examination. Each went on to shape a life in medicine that began elsewhere, but remained linked to that early departure.
Rajan Bindu (Roll No. 50) was a man of the soil long before he became a man of the microscope. His roots in Wardha ran deep; his father served as the city’s Civil Surgeon in the early 1970s. Before GMC Nagpur beckoned, Rajan and I shared the benches of Jankidevi Bajaj Science College in Wardha.
Eventually, Rajan swapped the GMC Nagpur for the pathology labs of GMC Aurangabad. He completed his MD and eventually rose to head the Department of Pathology. He retired in 2019, having spent decades in a windowless world of slides and stains.
Hari Paranjpe (Roll No. 71) pursued an MD in Obstetrics and Gynaecology at KEM Hospital, Mumbai, and continues to practise in Chembur.
Anil Sharma (Roll No. 81), the son of Dr K. D. Sharma—then Professor and Head of the Department of Pathology at Government Medical College, Nagpur—left GMC soon after clearing First MBBS and moved to Grant Medical College, Mumbai. He went on to specialise in cardiology, earned a DM, and built a distinguished private practice at Lilavati Hospital. Over his career, he performed more than 20,000 angiographies and 8,000 angioplasties, witnessing at close quarters the rapid evolution of cardiology in Mumbai.
Though Anil spent barely two-and-a-half years in Nagpur—one at the Institute of Science and eighteen months at GMC—he never lost touch with old friends. He shared a particularly close bond with Shashikant Khaire, and many from his batch remained in regular contact with him.
Gifted with sharp wit and an infectious sense of humour, Anil wore his heart on his sleeve. He once defended the older generation of cardiologists with a line that captured him perfectly: “Good reasoning, like fine wine, may even improve with age.”
Four years before his death, when I called to wish him on his birthday, he spoke candidly—and comically—about his metastatic prostate cancer, describing how the disease was “merrily wandering” through his body. There was no trace of self-pity. He joked, laughed, and lived fully.
Anil fought his illness with courage, humour, and grace until his death on 17 August 2018—leaving behind admiration, affection, and laughter that outlived him.
Jaya Seolekar (Roll No. 89), or Jayashree Apte as she is known post-marriage, took the standard medical route: an MD in Anaesthesiology from BJ Medical College, Pune. She found her niche in Neuroanaesthesia and her life partner in Dr. Charudatta Apte, a neurosurgeon with a formidable reputation.
For years, Jayashree held the reins as CEO of the Sahyadri Group of Hospitals, a position she navigated with quiet authority. Her professional arc reached a corporate crescendo in July 2025, when Manipal Hospitals acquired Sahyadri in a massive ₹6,400 crore deal—one of the largest handovers in Indian healthcare.
But fame is a fickle beast. Despite her boardroom victories and medical degrees, Jayashree has discovered that in the public eye, she has been demoted to a secondary title: Radhika’s mother. Her daughter, Radhika Apte, has traded the sterile white of the hospital for the arc lights of cinema, becoming a versatile star in films like Andhadhun, Pad Man, Badlapur, and Parched. It is a classic irony—the CEO of a hospital empire eclipsed by a daughter who decided that acting, not anaesthesia, was the better way to get under people’s skin.
As I write these lines, a quieter, heavier thought intrudes. Twenty-five of my classmates are no longer with us. When we entered medical college in 1973, each of us carried promise—some clearly defined, others still unformed—and time, which rearranged our roll numbers so casually, has been far less gentle in its final accounting.
Their absence is felt not in dramatic moments, but in small ones: in reunions where a familiar face does not appear, in conversations that end with a pause, in memories that now belong only to those who remain. Careers were cut short by cancers, heart attacks, strokes, accidents, and suicides, and yet when I think of that batch I still see them as they were then—young, noisy, invincible—walking into the dissection hall, unaware of how quickly life can change.