2.12
The Final Verdict
Relief, disbelief, and quiet pride
Teachers, terrors, and a quiet triumph
The Final MBBS curriculum was a hydra-headed beast. Five major subjects, each demanding a different kind of stamina. Medicine—the queen—came with Paediatrics, Dermatology, and Psychiatry as part of her royal entourage. Surgery was the action department, with Orthopaedics and ENT tucked under its wing. Then there were Obstetrics and Gynaecology, Ophthalmology, and the often-neglected stepchild, Preventive and Social Medicine—PSM.
But a medical college is not built on syllabi. It is built on teachers.
In the seventies, Government Medical College, Nagpur was not merely an institution. It was a galaxy of stars—men and women of formidable calibre, frighteningly disciplined, and completely devoted to the hospital. They did not treat teaching as a job. They treated it as duty.
And they were full-time. In those days, no professor rushed through a lecture because a private clinic was waiting. Their world began at the college gate and ended in the wards. That single-mindedness gave them a moral authority we did not question. We simply obeyed, learnt, and tried not to look foolish.
In Medicine, we grew up under the gaze of Dr. B.S. Choubey, who walked the wards like a man who owned not only the department, but also the air around it. With him were Dr. Nawaz, Dr. Bhagwat, and the sharp Dr. P.Y. Deshmukh. Dr. Lata Patil and Dr. S.M. Patil taught us the grammar of diagnosis—how to listen, how to look, how to suspect. Dr. H.C. Attal and Dr. G.K. Dubey reminded us that observation often beats theory. And behind them stood a strong department: Dr. A. Jeevane, Dr. A. Barua, Dr. V.W. Adbe, Dr. Mr. and Mrs. Salkar, Dr. Khurana, Dr. S.R. Tankhiwale, Dr. D.V. Doifode, Dr. B.G. Waghmare, Dr. Jayantibhai Waghela, and Dr. B.R. Maldhure.
Paediatrics had the gentle steadiness of Dr. A.M. Sur, Dr. Vibhawari Dani, and Dr. Mrs. Hussain. Surgery belonged to Dr. Vikram Marwah and Dr. M.L. Gandhe, supported by Dr. P.H. Soni, Dr. N.K. Deshmukh, Dr. Johrapurkar, and Dr. R.R. Deshmukh. In the theatres we watched, half-awed and half-terrified, as Dr. R.N. Das, Dr. K.B. Golhar, Dr. Yadkikar, Dr. S.R. Mitra, Dr. Rewale, Dr. Kamble, Dr. B.P. Deshraj, and Dr. M.B. Shende made clean decisions with sharp instruments.
Obstetrics and Gynaecology was led by Dr. Mrs. Nirmala Mokadam, with Dr. Asha Deshpande, Dr. Venu Shastrakar, Dr. Leela Dubey, Dr. Agrawal, Dr. Survey, Dr. Jawade, Dr. Sarode, Dr. Shobha Gurtu, Dr. Bhattacharya, and Dr. Meena Deshmukh. Orthopaedics was handled by Dr. Saxena, Dr. Wankar, and Dr. Ganeriwal. Ophthalmology had Dr. Ishwarchandra Kamra, Dr. Tehra, Dr. Mala Kamble, Dr. S. Karandikar, Dr. S.U. Joshi, and Dr. Rohidas. ENT was helmed by Dr. M.N. Mahore and Dr. Kumar. Anaesthesiology had its quiet guardians—Dr. R.K. Pradhan, Dr. Hema Mankeshwar, Dr. Malti Phadke, and Dr. B.M. Sahay—who taught us, without drama, the value of pain relief and calm hands.
And then came PSM—Dr. Ketkar, Dr. Ingole, Dr. N.D. Vasudeo, Dr. M.B. Fulare, Dr. M.C. Pathak, Dr. Prabhu, Dr. P.C. Dubey, and Dr. P.G. Deotale—guardians of public health, trying to teach a roomful of young men and women who were still intoxicated by the romance of wards and operation theatres.
To list these names is not an exercise in nostalgia. It is an act of gratitude. We learnt because they insisted we must.
Bhande Plot: Our “Posting” and Our Picnic
PSM arrived in final year, perhaps to remind us that India did not live only in wards and operation theatres.
We were posted to the Urban Health Centre at Bhande Plot, Bapunagar—barely three kilometres from the college. Each student had to “adopt” five families, monitor their health, understand their living conditions, and act as a kind of primary doctor. Usually Dr. Khobragade accompanied us, translating the community into something we could understand.
The diseases of the seventies were different too. Diabetes and hypertension were not the daily background noise they are today. Instead, we saw the older enemies: polio, tetanus, rabies, diphtheria, typhoid, tuberculosis, leprosy. Scabies was everywhere. Jaundice came and went like a seasonal visitor.
These visits should have made us humble.
But we were twenty.
For us, Bhande Plot was not a lesson in social medicine. It was a sanctioned escape from the suffocation of college. We walked those three kilometres laughing, talking, enjoying the open air. I confess I do not remember the advice I gave those families, or whether I made any lasting difference. Public health felt slow and ordinary, while wards felt urgent and heroic.
Only later did I realise we were walking through the heart of Indian healthcare—and calling it a picnic.
The PSM Paper: An Ambush
Our Final MBBS examination began with PSM.
We prepared for it with the casual confidence of soldiers expecting a small skirmish. Then the question paper arrived, and the mood in the hall changed. The questions were obscure, twisted, and oddly specific—designed, it seemed, to dismantle our confidence.
We wrote what we could, driven by panic and momentum, and walked out stunned.
Back at the hostel, the atmosphere was funereal. The usual post-exam chatter vanished. From the girls’ hostel, we could hear someone crying. Then more than one. The sound travelled across the campus and sat in our hearts.
That evening, we gathered in the common room—a council of war in pyjamas.
We did not study. We consoled. We reassured. We made a pact: One bad paper cannot ruin five years. And without using any lofty words, we discovered something simple—that the first duty of a doctor is to offer hope, even when he has none himself.
The remaining papers passed in a blur: Medicine, Surgery, Obstetrics. We wrote, revised, slept in fragments, woke up anxious, and wrote again. When the last bell rang, relief came like a physical sensation.
Two Practicals and a Small Miracle
Theory tests memory. Practicals test nerve.
Medicine was my sanctuary. I loved the logic of it—the detective work, the satisfaction of a diagnosis that clicks into place. My long case was Malabsorption Syndrome. My examiners were Dr. S.M. Patil and Dr. Mrs. Lata Patil—strict, but fair.
At the bedside, something steadied inside me. The history flowed. The signs made sense. The differential diagnosis lined up neatly. Even the viva questions landed gently. I walked out feeling lighter than I had in weeks.
I scored 141 out of 200—a distinction-level score that would later open the door to my MD.
Obstetrics and Gynaecology was another story.
I had never been comfortable with the mechanics of labour. The instruments terrified me. I still remembered one labour room posting when I was asked to conduct a delivery. My hands shook so badly that the slippery newborn almost slid out of my grasp. A nurse caught the baby with reflexes faster than my career.
So I entered the Ob-Gyn practical with dread.
And then, as if the gods wanted to laugh, I got a case of Placenta Previa—a textbook diagnosis, heavy on understanding, light on mechanics. No confusing rotations. No forceps nightmares.
I spoke with confidence I did not feel. I explained antepartum haemorrhage, danger signs, and why Caesarean section would be needed. The examiners—Dr. Mrs. Dubey and Dr. Sule—listened kindly.
When the marks came, I stared.
141 out of 200. Again.
I still call it a miracle. Plain and simple.
The Notice Board
Six weeks later, the results were pinned to the notice board. A crowd gathered. Boys pushed. Someone shouted. Someone laughed too loudly. Someone looked ready to faint.
I found my roll number.
1031 out of 1600.
64.4%.
Today, in the era of inflated marks and polished CVs, it may not look extraordinary. But in those rigorous halls of GMC Nagpur, it felt like a triumph. I had cleared Medicine theory with 59 and practicals with 62. My examiners—Dr. Mohgaonkar, Dr. Bharaswadkar, Dr. Doifode, Dr. Dekate, and the Patils—had signed off on my competence.
I looked at the mark sheet and felt a deep, quiet peace.
I had done it.
I was no longer a student.
I was Dr. S.P. Kalantri.
And in those simpler times, there was no mad scramble for postgraduate seats, no feverish race that begins before the finish line. We were content. We had climbed the mountain.
And the view, for a moment, was beautiful.