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7.30
The Sevagram Send-off
A Tearful Room and the Institutional Silence
A Tearful Room and the Institutional Silence
The end, when it finally came, was a study in contrasts. On one hand, there was the “work family”—the people in the trenches who actually keep the hospital breathing. The office superintendent, the matron, the biomedical engineers, and the pharmacy chief organized a modest send-off in the MS Office on January 21st.
I spoke in Marathi for twenty minutes, trying to thank everyone for standing by me through the thickets of administration. I was determined not to get emotional. I wanted to leave with the stoic poise of a Sevagram Boy. That resolve did not last long. My colleagues spoke next, sharing memories of midnight emergencies and quiet victories. Shaily presented me with a beautifully crafted frame—a collage of photographs capturing my years in office. I was deeply moved to learn that Manish, the office attendant, had stayed late into the night at the Wardha bus stand to help assemble it. Their thoughtfulness overwhelmed me.
I sent a final announcement to the faculty, using the cricket metaphor that had come to define my view of the job.
Email to the Faculty: 21 January 2023
21 January 2023
This morning, I hung up my boots and stepped down as Medical Superintendent of MGIMS Hospital.
Twelve years ago, I had taken on this role with reluctance. I was a physician–teacher with no prior experience in hospital administration, and the early days were daunting. It felt like being thrust into Test cricket at Sabina Park without ever having played first-class cricket.
The pitch was treacherous, the skies overcast. Some deliveries bounced unexpectedly; others spun sharply from wide of leg to clip the off stump. It took time, but gradually I began to understand the game. Over weeks, I learnt where my off stump was. Months later, I found my confidence—starting cautiously in the “V” before, eventually, learning to hook and pull without fear.
With time came a wider view. The challenges were immense. Patients, increasingly empowered, demanded care that was more convenient, effective, and affordable. Healthcare professionals, meanwhile, sought more staff, larger budgets, better equipment, and modern infrastructure. Balancing these competing expectations with limited resources often felt like walking a tightrope.
As Medical Superintendent, I experienced both success and failure. Not every idea worked as I had hoped, though some exceeded expectations. Along the way, I received more bouquets—and brickbats—than I probably deserved. Yet this journey allowed me to translate several ideas into reality. Modestly, I believe the hospital became more responsive to the needs of the community during my tenure.
At times, I may have been petulant, taciturn, or unreasonably demanding. Even then, my colleagues stood by me. Their support was my bedrock, and I owe them a deep debt of gratitude.
There were occasions when I did not perform well, even when conditions were favourable and opportunities abundant. I feared disappointing them. Instead, they accepted my shortcomings with grace, and their forbearance carried me through the most difficult moments.
Why did I step down? Many wondered; few asked. The answer is simple: I was growing stale. It was time to hand over the reins to someone younger, brighter, and filled with fresh zeal. I believe, sincerely, that this change will serve MGIMS well in the years ahead. As Tennyson wrote, “The old order changeth, yielding place to new.” Or, as Vijay Merchant once advised, “Retire when people ask why, not when they ask why not.”
What holds true in cricket holds true in healthcare as well.
I feel profound gratitude and respect for the institution where I have spent so many years. My colleagues and staff trusted me, overlooked my flaws, and rarely interfered. They stood by me through good times and bad, granting me the freedom to lead.
When I reflect on my years as Medical Superintendent, I am reminded of Charles Dickens’ words in A Tale of Two Cities:
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times; it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness…”
Few lines capture the contradictions of this journey better.
This morning, as my colleagues bid me a tearful farewell, their affection overwhelmed me. I cannot thank them enough for their trust, support, and camaraderie over the years.
What lies ahead? With administrative responsibilities behind me, I hope to return fully to teaching and patient care—particularly palliative care. I wish to rekindle my engagement with research, immerse myself once again in reading and writing, and spend more time with my family—especially with my grandchildren, Diti, Nivi, and Krit.
I look forward to this new chapter, hoping it brings clarity, calm, and the space to rediscover myself.
SP
However, as I walked out, there was a stark contrast. There was no formal send-off from the top management. No official acknowledgment from the institution I had served for four decades. The silence was disappointing; it hurt more than I expected. But it taught me a final, vital lesson: In the end, institutions have short memories. They are grateful for the sweat, but they have no time for the tears of the departing.
It is not the official farewells that matter, but the relationships you built in the trenches. I walked out of the MS Office, leaving behind the title, but taking with me the memories of 10,000 kilometers cycled and a hospital that was a little better than I found it. The “SP” bookshelf remained. The letters on the door changed. And I was free.