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7.29
Leaving on My Own Terms
Knowing When to Declare the Innings
The Burnout
By the summer of 2022, I had served as Medical Superintendent for nearly 13 years. My predecessor, Dr. R. Narang, had held the post for a decade. I had surpassed him. But the numbers on the calendar were less important than the feeling in my gut. I was exhausted. The passion for overseeing budgets and managing staff had dwindled. I found myself losing connection with what mattered most: the patients and the students. Patients began to perceive me as the administrator who was “never available” in the OPD. I was no longer the physician they sought out; I was the official in the office. “Your likeability quotient has diminished,” my daughter Amrita told me candidly. She was right. The constant friction of administration—saying no to colleagues, managing egos, fighting fires—had hardened me.
The Stagnation
But it wasn’t just personal burnout. The institution itself was drifting. The trustees were aging. Dhirubhai Mehta was in his late eighties, yet there was no succession plan. The management had become complacent, content with the status quo. Faculty were leaving. Bright young doctors—Dr. Bhupendra Mehra, Dr. Akash Bang, Dr. Udit Narang—were migrating to the new AIIMS nearby. MGIMS was losing its edge. The numbers told the story. Between 2010 and 2022, our inpatient admissions grew by just 1.7% annually. We were treading water while the world moved forward. There was an elephant in the room—a paralysis of decision-making—but no one was willing to acknowledge it. I realized that for the institution to grow, the “older order” had to change. New blood was needed.
The Quote that Triggered It
Then, I stumbled upon a quote by Morgan Housel: “Those we admire most… knew when it was time to quit… Nothing diminishes past success like overstaying your welcome.” It hit me like a physical blow. I was overstaying my welcome. I had played my innings. It was time to declare.
By the summer of 2022, I had served as Medical Superintendent for nearly thirteen years. In the world of hospital administration, that isn’t just a tenure; it’s an era. My predecessor, Dr. R. Narang, had held the fort for a decade, and I had somehow surpassed him in time, if not in patience. But the numbers on the calendar were becoming less important than the persistent, heavy feeling in my gut. I was exhausted.
The passion for overseeing budgets, haggling over the price of cotton swabs, and managing the delicate egos of senior faculty had dwindled to a flicker. I found myself losing connection with the two things that had brought me to Sevagram in the first place: the patients and the students. To the patients, I was no longer the physician with the reassuring stethoscope; I was the distant official in the big office who was “never available.” I was treading water in a sea of files, and I could feel the cynicism starting to seep in like a slow leak in a boat.
But it wasn’t just my own burnout. The institution itself was drifting into a peculiar kind of stagnation. Our trustees were aging—Dhirubhai Mehta was in his late eighties—and yet there was no clear succession plan. We were content with the status quo, while the world outside Sevagram was sprinting ahead. Bright young doctors—the kind of talent that is the lifeblood of a teaching hospital—were migrating to the new AIIMS nearby. Between 2010 and 2022, our inpatient admissions grew by a mere 1.7% annually. We were a prestigious institution becoming a museum of its own past glory. There was a giant elephant in the room—a paralysis of decision-making—and I realized that for MGIMS to breathe again, the “old order” had to yield.
Then, I stumbled upon a quote by Morgan Housel that hit me with the force of a medical diagnosis: “Those we admire most… knew when it was time to quit… Nothing diminishes past success like overstaying your welcome.” It hit me like a physical blow. I was overstaying my welcome. I had played my innings; it was time to declare.
Seven months slipped by as the scorching summer yielded to the long-awaited rains, and the rains in turn gave way to winter. Despite several meetings with the management, I felt unheard. My request was gently but repeatedly brushed aside, with the reassurance that I was “irreplaceable.” But “irreplaceable” is often just a polite word for “convenient.” I decided to write again—this time with finality.
The Final Resignation: 4 January 2023
Respected Dhirubhai,
I wish to step down from my position as Medical Superintendent of the hospital.
I have already written to you on this matter and discussed it during your visits to Sevagram over the past few months. Despite these conversations, I sensed that my decision was not taken seriously. This time, however, my resolve is firm.
The cumulative weight of administrative responsibilities has taken a toll on my mental and physical well-being. I find myself losing both peace and purpose. It is time for me to prioritize health and inner equilibrium over titles and positions—a sentiment my family shares and has gently but consistently urged upon me.
After prolonged discussion, my wife, children, and daughter-in-law are unanimous that my well-being must come first. I therefore request that I be formally relieved of my duties as Medical Superintendent by 15 January 2023.
For years, I have spoken about the need to rotate leadership positions. If I do not act on that belief now, I would be guilty of hypocrisy. In 1948, Vijay Merchant famously advised, “Retire when people ask why, not when they ask why not.”
My resignation is final, and I will not continue as Medical Superintendent beyond 15 January 2023. Some decisions in life are deeply personal. I ask that you respect this one and allow me to move on.