Success is usually presented as a photograph: a smile, a certificate, a stage, applause. But its real beginnings are far less glamorous. They are often found in the dark, quiet hours when the rest of the town is asleep and only the determined are awake.
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For Amrita, those beginnings were in Wardha.
After doing well in her tenth standard, she enrolled at Jankidevi Bajaj Science College. College, however, was only the baseline. The real work happened elsewhere—at tuitions, in notebooks, and in the daily discipline of showing up even when you didn’t feel like it. I still carry a vivid image from those years: Amrita and her friend Anvi, bundled up against the winter chill, riding a moped through the pitch-black streets to reach Professor Chaudhary’s chemistry class.
The roads were deserted. Stray dogs owned the silence. Streetlights were patchy. Yet day after day, the two girls navigated those empty lanes with the single-mindedness of people who know that effort is not optional. It was not bravery in the dramatic sense. It was routine bravery—the kind that goes unnoticed because it repeats itself every morning.
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Nagpur: A Rented Room and the PMT Life
When the time came for the Pre-Medical Test (PMT), Amrita moved to Nagpur. She stayed in a rented room at Chhatrapati Square with Anvi and Rutuja Gangane. They lived the spartan life that serious students live without making a fuss about it. They rented a cooler and a fridge for Rs 500. They ate tiffin food. They studied until their eyes blurred and their backs ached. Their world shrank to textbooks, test papers, and the constant anxiety of time running out.
When the results came, there was an irony that still makes me smile.
Amrita had mastered calligraphy—her answers looked beautiful, as if handwriting could charm examiners into generosity. She scored brilliantly in the science group. But in the Gandhian Thoughts paper—the subject that our institute takes seriously, almost as a moral signature—she barely scraped through: 26 out of 60.
She was heartbroken. I tried to console her with the standard adult line: exams are subjective, marks don’t always reflect knowledge, life is bigger than one paper. She wasn’t interested in philosophy. She was interested in fairness. Fortunately, her science scores were strong enough. She secured admission to MGIMS. The news spread fast, as good news does in Wardha. My little girl was going to be a doctor.
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The Professor’s Daughter
Medical school is hard. It becomes harder when your father is a professor in the same institute.
Like Ashwini before her, Amrita walked the corridors of MGIMS with an invisible backpack full of expectations. She was constantly watched. If she did well, there were whispers: “She is Dr. Kalantri’s daughter—of course she’ll do well.” If she slipped, the whispers would have been worse.
So she did what sensible children of professors learn to do early: she worked harder than necessary. Throughout MBBS, she consistently ranked among the top three in her class. She didn’t argue with gossip. She answered it with marks.
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Return to Your Roots
Amrita was not only a student with good grades. In 2012, during her internship, she surprised me with a feat that felt almost unreasonable for a 23-year-old. She decided to organize Medicon 2012, a national research conference for undergraduates.
Organizing a conference in a metro city is one thing; organizing it in Sevagram is an exercise in sheer willpower. But Amrita didn’t just want to host an event; she wanted to make a statement. The theme she chose was “Return to Your Roots,” a challenge to young doctors to look beyond textbooks and understand the ground realities of Indian healthcare.
The War Room at HIS
For months, our lives revolved around the Hospital Information System room near the Obstetrics gate, which had been converted into her “War Room.” She led the MGIMS team as the Organizing Secretary, but in practice, she was the CEO, the diplomat, and the crisis manager all rolled into one.
She rallied her batchmates and the students from the 2010 batch, transforming a group of tired interns into a fiercely efficient workforce. The atmosphere was electric. They worked with the frantic, joyous energy of a family preparing for a wedding. They secured computers, haggled with printers, designed brochures, and turned a quiet corner of the hospital into a buzzing headquarters.
Giants on Campus
The guest list was intimidating. Amrita was coordinating with legends: Dr. Vinay Kumar (the editor of Robbins Pathology, a name every medical student reveres), Dr. Abhay Bang, Dr. Binayak Sen, and Dr. Sanjay Nagral.
I watched her interact with them—not as a fan, but as a host. She managed their schedules, their travel, and their expectations with a poise that I, even after decades of teaching, found enviable. When Dr. Vinay Kumar walked the corridors of MGIMS, it wasn’t the faculty who were running the show; it was Amrita and her team.
An Ethical Stand
Perhaps the moment that made me proudest happened before the conference even began. Organizing a four-day event for 400 students requires money. The easiest path is always the Pharmaceutical Industry, which is usually eager to sponsor such events in exchange for visibility.
Amrita and her team said no.
They made a deliberate, ethical choice to reject Pharma sponsorship. Instead, they raised funds through delegate fees, the Forum for Medical Students’ Research (INFORMER), and institutional support from MGIMS. They secured grants from the Lady Tata Trust and the BMJ Group. They negotiated prizes and travel grants from ICRAG (International Clinical Research and Global Health). They proved that you could run a world-class academic event without compromising your independence.
The Four Days in July
From July 11 to 14, 2012, Sevagram transformed. Over 400 students from across India descended on the campus. The air was thick with ideas—stem cell research, public health debates, Clinical Pathological Correlations (CPC), and fiery panel discussions.
I stood at the back of the auditorium, watching Amrita move through the crowd. She was everywhere—solving technical glitches, greeting delegates, ensuring the food was ready, and keeping the timeline ticking. She looked exhausted, yes, but she also looked completely in her element.
That was the moment I realized she had outgrown the label of “student.” She was no longer just learning medicine; she was shaping the conversation around it. She was becoming a leader.
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A Speech Written Between Stations
That same year, she gave me another glimpse of her temperament. She was selected for the MVPM Scholar Award—one of only five students from the community to receive it. The ceremony was in Pune.
As we settled into the AC compartment of the Nagpur–Pune Express, I began worrying like an anxious parent who cannot stop himself. Amrita hadn’t prepared a speech.
“You need to rehearse,” I urged her.
She brushed it off, put on her headphones, and looked as calm as if she were going for a picnic. I spent the night tossing and turning, imagining her freezing on stage. In the morning, as we took a taxi to the auditorium, I saw her typing furiously on her iPad.
“What are you doing?” I asked. “Writing my speech,” she said casually.
My heart sank. Last minute. The worst kind of planning. The kind that gives fathers hypertension.
But when she took the stage, she was effortless. She didn’t read; she conversed. “I cannot tell you what to do… because I don’t have a clue either,” she told the audience. “But here I am. So I must have done something right.”
She quoted Maya Angelou. She spoke of resilience. She held the room in the palm of her hand. The hall erupted in applause. I sat there with the familiar mixture of pride and embarrassment that fathers experience when their children prove them wrong. She knew exactly who she was.
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Residency: The Hard Part Nobody Celebrates
Marriage to Sahaj took her to Delhi, but it did not soften her ambition. If anything, it sharpened it.
She entered the demanding world of DNB residency, choosing Radiology at Mata Chanan Devi Hospital. She hoped for work–life balance, but the balance came with a price. She was the only candidate. There were no peers to exchange notes with, no lively group discussions after duty hours, and teaching support was sparse.
Many people would have complained. Amrita did what she usually did: she found a way around the problem. In the evenings, she went to Ganga Ram Hospital and the Army Base Hospital to learn MRI and CT reporting. She became, in effect, a self-taught radiologist—built not by a perfect system, but by stubborn effort.
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The Gold Medal
Then came the final test: the DNB examination. The passing rate is notoriously low, and the practical exam has a reputation for being a black box. You walk in prepared and walk out uncertain.
When the results were declared on 22 September 2018, I was stunned. Amrita hadn’t just passed. She had secured the First Rank in India. She was the Gold Medallist.
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Vigyan Bhavan
How does a father react when his daughter achieves something that feels almost unreal? Do you announce it loudly? Do you stay silent and savour it privately?
Bhavana and I sat in the audience at Vigyan Bhavan, flanked by Sahaj and his parents. When Amrita’s name was announced and she walked up to the stage to receive the medal from the Health Minister, time seemed to slow.
I thought of the girl riding a moped through the dark lanes of Wardha. I thought of the intern running a national conference. I thought of the young woman typing a speech in a taxi, unconcerned by my panic. I thought of her long, lonely evenings in Delhi, chasing skills because the system had not offered enough teaching.
And then she stood there, holding the gold medal.
My eyes filled. Not because it was a piece of gold, but because it carried the weight of her journey—every early morning, every small sacrifice, every quiet decision to work harder than necessary. The spotlight was brief. But the work behind it had taken years.
And that, I realized, is how success is really made.