Science College

The D-Section and the Morning Sprint

In 1972, when I was fifteen, I walked into Jankidevi Bajaj Science College. Everything depended on the BSc Part One exam. If I did well, I could hope for Government Medical College, Nagpur. I was given Roll Number 562 in Section D. Section D had a name of its own.

Sections A and B were the “good” sections. Section D was different. Many boys came from local business families. They knew more about their father’s shops than about Zoology. There were a few troublemakers too. Still, I kept my head down. I wanted to do well. My days were filled with Botany, Zoology, Chemistry, Hindi, and English, with Physics thrown in as an extra burden.

The classrooms tested our patience. April was cruel. Two small fans on opposite walls spun as if they were working hard, but they only pushed hot air from one side to the other. We sat packed in a room of a hundred students, sweating through our shirts. There was always a low hum of talk. No teacher could silence it completely.

That winter I became obsessed with fitness. Instead of studying in the mornings, I would ride my bicycle to the college grounds. I loved the speed. Sometimes I even rode with my hands off the handlebar. It felt like freedom. Three classmates joined me. We walked fast, ran in circles, did squats and push-ups. We gripped the iron double bars until our fingers went numb in the cold, and still we held on.

I might have ruined my year if my friends had not stopped me. After two months, with the exams only eight weeks away, one of them looked at me and said, “We are boys with no future. But we don’t want to spoil yours. You are the youngest and the brightest. Stay home and study. We don’t want to see you on the ground anymore.”

I listened. I left the bars. I went back to my books. I sat at my desk.

***

The Guardians of Science

The college was run by Principal Vasudeo P. Damle, a man you noticed at once. He had sharp blue eyes, a neat French beard, and a Gandhi cap that sat square on his head. He lived just behind the college. When the seven o’clock bell rang, he would appear on campus, as if the bell had summoned him. No student or teacher dared to be late under his gaze.

He and his wife, Mrs. Kamla Damle, both taught Botany. Damle Sir could spend ten classes on photosynthesis and still keep us listening. He spoke of light turning into energy as if it were a miracle we should not take for granted. Mrs. Damle taught us Algology, the study of algae. She had a long life and a sharp memory. She lived to be 102 and died in 2020.

The Botany department felt like a small India. Kamalnayan Bajaj wanted Wardha to have that mix. Mr. Sathianathan had come from Chennai. He had a deep, booming voice that filled the lecture hall when he spoke of mosses and ferns. I met him again in 2023, and in my mind I could still hear that voice.

Mr. R.S. Acharya, another Craddock alumnus, taught Plant Morphology. He was quiet, but he made the subject interesting. He did not take private tuitions. He believed the classroom was enough. In the practical lab, Mr. C.D. Zamvar guided us. I could never cut a clean transverse section of a sunflower stem. My blade would go blunt and my cuts would slant. When Zamvar Sir saw my diagram, he said, “Kalantri, is this a microscopic stem, or a cricket pitch—with a bowler at one end and a batsman at the other?”

***

The Longest Word and the Final Stretch

Our English master, Mr. V.K. Pande, treated the language like a playground. He could make even a dull editorial from The Times of India sound alive. Once I asked him for the longest word in English. He smiled and said, “floccinaucinihilipilification.” Twenty-nine letters. It meant treating something as worthless. For a schoolboy, it felt like a small miracle. A word like that was a mountain. I wanted to climb it.

In those days, the faculty lived simply. A teacher earned about Rs 633 a month. It could buy a bicycle, but not much more. Only two teachers owned scooters. One was Professor Maheshwari from Zoology. The rest of us moved through Wardha on pedals. Students and masters rode the same roads, in the same heat, on two wheels.

***

The Newspaper at Six A.M.

The university exams in April 1973 were hard. The heat sat on our heads. Hearts beat fast in the hall. I walked out thinking I had done well. But student certainty means little in an office.

One summer morning in 1973, my father and I sat on the lawn at six. The air was still cool. He turned the pages of the newspaper and found the BSc Part One results.

“What is your roll number?” he asked.

“562,” I said.

We ran our fingers down the small print. Once. Then again. My number was not there. We did not speak for a while. My father looked at the paper as if it had lied to him. He had never imagined I could fail.

We searched again. We found it at last, under “Withheld.” A clerical mistake had held back my result.

The next weeks were a blur of visits to the university. There were forms, counters, and waiting. When the marksheet finally came in a crisp envelope, I tore it open. My hands shook.

Seventy-three percent.

It was enough. I had my seat at Government Medical College, Nagpur.

The house filled with sugar and laughter. My mother made kilos of pedhas and sent them to the neighbours. I was going to be the first doctor in our family.

When I packed my bags for GMC Nagpur, I was joining a group of about twelve—Suhas Jajoo, Rekha Sapkal, Avinash Joshi, Rajan Bindu, Narayan Dongre, Pramod Mahajan, Prabhakar Patil, Laxmikant Rathod, Ashok Gambhir, Nandkishor Taori, and Maya Khati.

I felt a rush in my chest. We were young and sure of ourselves. We wanted to do well. We did not yet know about the long nights, the hard days, and what medicine would ask of us.

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