Taking the Helm

Thursday and Saturday

By February 1993, I had been an MD for nearly a decade. In medicine, ten years is a long time to remain the fellow who is always “helping” and never quite leading. I was a Reader in Medicine by then—experienced enough to know my way around the wards, yet still functioning as a dependable second-in-command.

The work was steady. The days were full. But somewhere inside, a small restlessness had begun to tap its foot.

The turning point came at a wedding, not in a ward. I was in Pune for the wedding of Sujata Bajaj—Radhakrishnaji Bajaj’s daughter—to Rune Larson. It was February 1993. The hall was buzzing in that familiar Indian way: loud greetings, relatives searching for chairs, photographers shouting instructions, and people eating as if the baraat might snatch away the food.

In the middle of that cheerful chaos, I found a quiet moment with Mr. Dhirubhai Mehta. He had joined the Kasturba Health Society in 1982 and had the rare ability to understand both files and feelings. I decided to be honest with him.

“Dhirubhai,” I said, “I’ve been here for years. I have the degree and the experience. But I’m still working in someone else’s shadow, and it is slowly dampening my zeal. If I don’t get the independence to run a unit, I fear I’ll stop growing.”

He listened without interrupting, the way good administrators sometimes do—silently, but with attention. He didn’t promise anything. He didn’t even say much. But I had a feeling he had heard me properly.

A few weeks later, back in Sevagram, the wheels began to turn.

On March 1, 1993, a notice appeared on the department board: a new unit was being created for me. For a few seconds I felt relieved, almost boyishly pleased. Finally, I thought, a unit of my own.

Then I read the rest.

The administration had divided the department into “Major” and “Minor” units. Units I and II were given two OPD days each. Units III and IV—the newer units—were given only one OPD day each. On paper, it was just a timetable. In real life, it meant something else. In a teaching hospital, patients are our textbooks. Fewer OPD days meant fewer patients, fewer discussions, fewer opportunities for residents to learn by seeing and doing.

A “minor unit” was not a minor thing.

There was another line that made me uncomfortable. The notice said I would share OPD duties with Dr. Ulhas Jajoo—my senior colleague and close friend. To accommodate this new arrangement, Ulhas had been asked to give up one of his OPD days. I stared at the notice for a while, hoping it would rewrite itself out of politeness.

It didn’t.

It felt unfair in two ways. My unit would start with less clinical material, and Ulhas would lose a day despite years of service. I knew the intention was not unkind. It was simply the usual administrative jugglery—three balls in the air and one landing on someone’s head.

I could have accepted it quietly. Many people would have. After all, even a “minor unit” was better than none. But I also knew that if I began my independence by accepting something that didn’t feel right, I would spend the rest of my career adjusting and compromising, and calling it maturity.

That evening, I went home and pulled out my Brother portable typewriter. Its clack-clack-clack filled the room, making my protest sound louder than it actually was. I wrote to our Head of the Department, Dr. O.P. Gupta. I kept the tone respectful and the argument simple. I said the “Major–Minor” divide would breed resentment among junior faculty and create second-class units inside the same department. I also wrote clearly that Ulhas did not deserve to lose an OPD day after serving the institute for so long.

Then I suggested a solution that even a tired resident could understand: distribute OPD and indoor work equally across all four units.

After I signed the letter, I sat for a moment, feeling my heartbeat a little too loud for a man who had only typed a page. In medical colleges, questioning a notice is not considered a hobby. It is treated like a mild infection—people watch it carefully.

To my surprise, Dr. Gupta did not take offence. He did not call me in for a scolding, and he did not make me feel like an overconfident junior. He did something far better. That very day, he withdrew the earlier notice and issued a revised one. The “Major” and “Minor” labels disappeared. The work was redistributed evenly. And I was given full independent charge.

My OPD days were fixed: Monday and Thursday. My emergency duty was set for Thursdays and every fourth and fifth Sunday of the month. I read the new roster twice, as if it might vanish if I blinked too hard. It didn’t.

That evening I felt something loosen inside me. I wasn’t just relieved. I was quietly grateful—first to Dhirubhai for listening, and then to Dr. Gupta for responding with fairness instead of ego.

I also learnt a small professional lesson that has stayed with me: competence is important, but sometimes you must speak up—politely, clearly, and on time. If I hadn’t spoken in Pune, and if I hadn’t typed that letter in Sevagram, I would probably have continued doing my work with a smile on the face and a grumble in the heart.

Instead, I finally had a unit of my own to run—and no reason to keep looking over my shoulder.

---