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2.25
The Fine Art of Standing Aside
What I Did Not Do at GMC
Surrounded by Excess Talent
The Class of 1973 at GMC Nagpur had no shortage of talent. In fact, it had more than it could comfortably contain. Had talent been a physical substance, the campus would have needed wider corridors. Everywhere you turned, someone was excelling—on sports fields, in auditoriums, at debating podiums, in hostel verandahs, and coffee houses. Someone was always running faster, speaking better, singing louder, or performing with an ease that made the rest of us wonder how they found the time.
Cricket alone produced an impressive roster—Sanjeev Chandorkar, Avinash Deshmukh, Ravi Kasat, Vikas Chitnavis, Sanjay Warhadpande, Dilip Tikkas, Pradeep Desai, Rajendra Phadke—names that sounded at home on a scorecard. Hockey had Thomas Chacko, Nasrin Gangriwala, Archana Srivastava, Allison Girling, and Shobha Dani gliding across the field. Basketball belonged to Suhas Jajoo, Avinash Deshmukh, Vikas Chitnavis, and Arun Deshmukh; volleyball had C. S. Sonkusare, Harish Baheti, Sanjay Gadre, and Viraj Tandale. Badminton courts were claimed by Ravi Kasat, Ajit Pradhan, Ashok Badhe, Sujata Savangikar, and Alka Desai. Even handball and kho-kho had a dependable champion in Avinash Deshmukh, who seemed to treat sport as a full-time posting.
The arts were no less formidable. Deepak Bahekar moved easily between oil, ink, acrylic, collage, and pencil, producing portraits and rangolis that looked less like hostel decorations and more like exhibitions. Debate had Vivek Kulkarni—Tillya—whose booming laughter and command of language made him impossible to ignore. He read editorials when the rest of us skimmed film listings, listened to AIR while we waited for songs, and won national competitions while most of us were still learning to organise our thoughts.
This was the class I belonged to.
And Then There Was Me
I did none of this.
Not out of protest or principle. I simply did not participate. I was neither a sportsperson nor a debater, never took part in music, drama, or art, and never drew a rangoli that could be confidently identified as such. Over eight long years at GMC Nagpur, my extracurricular record remained spotless through absence.
I did, however, receive one certificate. It awarded me second prize for best handwriting in a pan-MBBS competition. Second prize. Best handwriting. Among doctors. I have always regarded this with suspicion. Given our profession’s reputation for illegibility, a handwriting competition feels like an act of misplaced optimism. I never discovered who won first prize, or whether their handwriting required magnification.
That certificate remains my sole documented non-academic achievement.
Cricket, Carefully Modified
We did play cricket, though in a version designed to minimise risk. In Hostel 4, a large open gallery between rooms served as our stadium. The ball was tennis. Fielders stood close enough for conversation. Everyone fancied himself Eknath Solkar. Athletic excellence was optional; reflexes and self-preservation were sufficient.
I was one of the fielders. The ball rarely travelled far enough to test stamina or technique. My only boundary in a proper match came much later, in a game between Bhadrawati and Chandrapur at Ballarshah—and even that was accidental. Bat and ball met more by coincidence than intent.
It remains my solitary contribution to cricket.
Romance, Observed from Afar
Romance bloomed all around me at GMC. Deepak Bahekar married Alka Mehta. Arun Deshmukh married Hema Deoras. Many classmates found partners in junior batches, conducting courtships in the Coffee House and library, punctuated by stolen glances and meaningful silences.
I never fell in love with anyone. Part shyness, part because such thoughts never quite formed. While others wrote letters and planned futures, I was—actually, I am not sure what I was doing.
Probably nothing worth recording.
The Glamour I Successfully Avoided
Hotels were visited sparingly—usually for MD pass parties at Ashoka or Moti Mahal in Sadar, or to finish theses under mild deadline pressure. Otherwise, luxury remained theoretical. In the summer of 1975, when the mess closed and most classmates went home, Om Singhaniya and I stayed back in the hostel. We survived on ₹2.50 joint dinners at Hotel Alankar—two people, one plate, no discussion.
Movies were no more frequent. During house job, eight or ten of us would occasionally walk from GMC to Shankar Nagar to watch a film at the newly built Saroj Theatre. Cinema served several purposes—entertainment, exercise, and social bonding. Efficiency, though unnamed, guided us.
There was another form of participation I avoided, one far more common and more insistently offered.
Smoking and drinking arrive early in youth, almost as if they are part of the informal syllabus. Medical hostels treat them as extracurricular activities conducted without supervision. You are away from home, in your teens, and surrounded by peers who assume abstinence is temporary.
I still wonder how I stayed away from cigarettes and beer. It was not moral resolve or lofty principle. It simply happened. Cigarettes never reached my lips, and liquor never travelled down a throat that remained stubbornly parched. This abstinence survived medical college and later, more determined assaults—conference cocktails where generosity was never scarce.
I was not entirely alone. There were a few of us—so few that we could be counted on fingertips. I remain mildly surprised that this is one habit I never acquired. In a profession where illegibility is expected and indulgence forgiven, lifelong teetotalism feels less like a virtue and more like a clerical oversight that somehow went uncorrected.
An Education Without Applause
While my classmates accumulated reputations—as sportspeople, artists, musicians, debaters—I accumulated something quieter. I attended, observed, studied, and stayed. I learnt discipline from seniors, patience from patients, and humility from medicine itself. My education arrived through repetition: ward rounds, lectures, libraries, hostels, examinations, failures, and slow understanding.
I did not stand out. I did not shine. I remained present.
My eight years at GMC Nagpur were a prolonged exercise in doing just enough. And yet, I emerged with something valuable: a degree, certainly, but also a front-row seat to watch truly gifted people flourish.
This, then, is my legacy from those years: the man who did nothing while surrounded by people who did everything. The invisible student. The forgettable classmate. The one whose greatest triumph was finishing second in a handwriting competition.
It is not much. But it is mine.