If my lack of musical or athletic prowess was a public affair, my real education was a private, almost monastic pursuit. While the stars of the Class of 1973 were winning trophies, I was busy building an internal architecture that would eventually support a four-decade career in medicine. At sixty-nine, I realize that what I “did” wasn’t flashy; it was simply the relentless application of discipline to the mundane.

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The Discipline of the Desk

I was a creature of the library. While others possessed the “Socratic spark” that allowed them to shine in spontaneous debates, I relied on the slow, grinding accumulation of knowledge. I discovered early on that I had a high tolerance for the “thick book.” I didn’t just read Harrison’s Principles of Internal Medicine; I lived in it.

I developed a habit of taking meticulous notes, which brings me back to that second-prize handwriting. It wasn’t just about the aesthetics of the script; it was about the discipline of the hand. Writing things down—summarizing a patient’s complex history or the specific pathophysiology of a renal lesion—forced me to organize my thoughts. In an era where “Poverty of thoughts and bankruptcy of ideas” was the greatest sin one could commit in front of Dr. Chaubey, my notebook was my shield.

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The Art of the “Long Round”

While I wasn’t on the basketball court, I was on the ward. I became a student of the “Long Round.” I realized that if I lacked the natural clinical instinct of some of my peers, I could compensate with sheer volume of observation.

I stayed late. I talked to the ward boys, the dhobis, and the patients’ relatives. I learned that a patient’s story often changes between the formal morning round and the quiet of the evening. This habit of “lingering”—of being the last person to leave the bedside—taught me more about the human condition than any lecture ever could. It was during these quiet hours that I moved from seeing “cases” to seeing “people.” I didn’t realize it then, but I was practicing the very “shared moment of silence” I would later write about in my preface.

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The Teetotaller’s Perspective

My decision to stay away from the “informal syllabus” of cigarettes and alcohol—while social suicide in some hostel circles—gave me an unintended advantage: time and clarity. While my peers were nursing hangovers or navigating the social complexities of the late-night drinking session, I had a clear head.

This wasn’t born of a “holier-than-thou” attitude; I was simply too shy to join the fray. But that shyness acted as a filter. It allowed me to stay focused on the rhythm of the Vidarbha roads and the Himalayan treks I would eventually undertake. It taught me that one can be in a culture without being of it. This internal independence would later become crucial when I had to stand my ground as a Medical Superintendent, often making unpopular decisions in the name of ethical medicine.

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The Habit of Handwriting

My obsession with my own handwriting, which earned me that solitary certificate, became a clinical tool. In a profession where a doctor’s scrawl is a cliché, my legible, sweeping notes became a mark of respect for the next person in the chain—the nurse, the pharmacist, the resident. It was my first lesson in “Systems Thinking.” If I wrote clearly, the system worked better.

Even today, when I write a referral, it isn’t just a communication; it’s a craft. Dr. Saurabh Varshney- the Nagpur based cardiac surgeon- Facebook post about my script was more than just a compliment on my penmanship; it was a recognition of a doctor who took the time to be precise. In medicine, precision is often the difference between a cure and a catastrophe.

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The Long-Distance Mindset

Finally, I developed the “marathon” mindset. I realized that medicine is not a sprint; it’s a forty-year trek. I didn’t need to be the fastest student in 1975; I just needed to be the one who didn’t stop walking. This grit—this “spectacular persistence”—is what allowed me to go back to school at forty-seven at UC Berkeley and to start long-distance cycling at sixty.

Looking back, those eight years at GMC Nagpur weren’t about the applause I didn’t receive. They were about the scaffolding I built when no one was watching. I emerged from GMC as an “invisible student,” but I left with a foundation that was deep, solid, and entirely my own.