Weekends at Shankar Nagar

In the early 1970s, my days at Government Medical College, Nagpur, ran on a strict timetable—lectures, dissection hall, hurried meals, and long evenings bent over thick textbooks. I was new to the city and still learning its pace. Nagpur felt bigger than Wardha in every way: louder, faster, less forgiving. Hostel life had its own discipline too—early mornings, tired eyes, and an unspoken competition to see who could study the longest and complain the least.

Through the week, one thought kept me steady: Saturday evening, and my sister’s home. Pushpa and Tarachandji lived near Shankar Nagar Square, close to Hadas High School, with their children, Mamta and Manoj. Those visits became my small reward for surviving another week of anatomy, physiology, and the relentless pressure to keep up.

The moment classes ended on Friday, I would set out for Shankar Nagar Square, about eight kilometres from the hostel. I rode my bicycle along a route I could have taken with my eyes half-closed—through Dhantoli, past Panchsheel Square, along Canal Road, and then North Ambazari Road. By late afternoon the streets were often quiet, and Nagpur seemed to slow down, as if it had decided to let me pass without fuss.

I looked forward to that ride. The wind on my face, the soft whirr of the cycle chain, a birdcall from a tree I never stopped to identify, a stray dog trotting across the road—small things, but they made me feel free. For those few kilometres, I was not a medical student chasing lectures and deadlines. I was simply myself, riding home.

At my sister’s house, the welcome never changed—and it never grew old. The door would open to a burst of voices, and in moments the children would surround me, speaking at once, eager to report everything that had happened in the week. My sister’s face lit up the way only an elder sister’s face can. The tiredness of the hostel and the strain of the week fell away without being announced.

Tarachandji would join us soon after, and the conversation would find its own pace—easy, unhurried, and pleasantly ordinary. No one asked me what chapters I had finished. No one tested me on anything. For a few hours, I did not have to prove that I deserved my place in medical school.

Meals in that house were never modest. My sister cooked as if I had returned from a long famine, not a hostel. The kitchen smelled of ghee, jeera, and ajwain, and the table filled up quickly—dal baati churma, gatte ki sabzi, ker sangri, panchmel dal, bajre ki roti with a thick smear of homemade white butter, khichdi with kadhi, and a bowl of chaach that always tasted better at home. There would be papad, achar, and something sweet—moong dal halwa, or churma laddoos—as if she didn’t trust dinner to do its job alone.

Evenings slipped by in card games—Rummy, Teen Patti, and Bluff (I Doubt It)—with small jokes, family gossip, and laughter that came without effort. In that home, time did not race. It rested

Leaving was the hardest part. Sometimes the children tried their best to delay it—hiding my shoes, running off with my cycle keys, or inventing some urgent story just as I stood up. Their mischief was obvious and affectionate, and I played my part by searching slowly and pretending to be mildly fooled. It made me stay a little longer, and I was grateful for the excuse.

The ride back to the hostel was always quieter. I felt a small ache at leaving, but I also carried something back with me—steadiness, warmth, a sense of being held in place. I returned to my books less burdened, as if those few hours had repaired something that the week had worn down.

When I look back now, what I remember most is not the food or the games, but the ease of that love. It did not demand anything from me. It simply made room for me. My sister’s home was not a break from medical school—it was my refuge from becoming only a medical student.

Those weekends are still with me. Today, Shankar Nagar Square, North Ambazari Road, and West High Court Road are so crowded that even walking there feels like a battle. In the 1970s, my five-year-old nephew Manoj could run along those same roads while we watched him with easy confidence, not fear. Life moved slowly then; now the streets are packed—honking vehicles, restless traffic, and a blur of shops and restaurants. Yet the feeling remains unchanged: the warmth, the simplicity, and the quiet certainty that, in Nagpur, for two days each week, I belonged.

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