The winter of1980 remains vivid. Ten of us walked out to face that season together—Jayant Pande, Shriram Kane, Aziz Khan, Adesh Gadpayle, Kishore Kedar, Ramesh Mundle, Harish Baheti, Padmakar Somvanshi, Vijay Thakre, and I. We had trained side by side for years, sharing wards, night duties, dog-eared textbooks, and our deepest apprehensions. Now, we were stepping onto the field together, each of us hoping to stay at the crease.

For months, our preparation had been steady and methodical. We practised history-taking until it became muscle memory; we examined patients until our fingertips learnt to see what our eyes might miss. We rehearsed differential diagnoses the way a batsman rehearses strokes in the nets—playing Neurology and Cardiology patiently, defending when unsure, attacking only when the line was clear.

The theory examination went smoothly. We wrote with the calm assurance of men who had judged the pitch correctly. But we knew the real contest—the one that would decide our fate—awaited us at the bedside.

***

The Field Changes

The truth announced itself sharply during the clinicals. Our internal examiners, Dr. B.G. Waghmare and Dr. H.C. Attal, were like familiar umpires. They listened without interruption, allowing us to find our footing and settle into the rhythm of the case. The external examiners, however, changed the field. One was Dr. Mishra from King George’s Medical College—brisk and unsentimental. The other was Dr. V.V. Shanbhag, the Head of Medicine at Topiwala National Medical College. His reputation had arrived long before he did. When he looked up from a case sheet, the room seemed to tighten, as if the bowler had shortened his run-up and the fielders had quietly crept into a catching position.

We reported to Ward 13 at eight in the morning. The beds were occupied by patients brought in specially for the day—men and women from Untkhana, the home for the physically handicapped, whose bodies told complex stories. They carried inherited neurological diseases that moved, spoke, and walked in unfamiliar ways. There was nothing routine about their gaits or their postures. These were our “Long Cases.” We did our mental arithmetic: forty minutes for history and examination, twenty to organise notes. It was tight, but we had done it a hundred times.

Then the examiner looked at us and said, evenly, “You have seven minutes to present your case.” Seven minutes. We had trained for test matches—unhurried histories, careful examinations, presentations built brick by brick. Overnight, the format had switched to a T-20. Every ball suddenly mattered.

I was allotted a patient with Friedreich’s ataxia. The diagnosis was familiar, the signs waiting to be read. Yet, the time pressure dismantled my rhythm. I tried to play too many strokes at once, fumbling through the history and rushing the signs. Before I knew it, the innings was over. I returned to the hostel with the heavy, sinking feeling of a batsman dismissed for a duck. It wasn’t that I didn’t know how to bat; it was that I hadn’t judged the pace of the bowling. I had read the books and practised the signs, yet I had failed to stay at the crease.

***

The Second Innings

The next day brought the short cases. This time, I took guard more carefully. The patients spoke clearly. Leaky valves murmured their stories; lungs destroyed by tuberculosis told theirs without ambiguity. I listened, examined, and responded without hurry. The bat met the ball. The confidence returned.

Then came the viva voce. The questions arrived steadily, like a probing spell of bowling. I answered what I knew, admitted what I did not, and refused to chase deliveries outside my off-stump. The examiner listened, made notes, and then delivered what felt like the final ball of the over.

“A young man develops syncope each time he urinates. What is the diagnosis?” “Pheochromocytoma,” I replied. “And where is the tumour located?” “In the bladder wall, sir.”

A pause followed—brief but heavy. Dr. Waghmare’s pen came to rest. Dr. Attal looked up, the severity in his face easing into something quieter. Across the table, the external examiners exchanged a glance over the rims of their thick spectacles. One raised his brows; the other allowed the faintest hint of a smile. It was an expression rarely seen in that room: approval.

The weight of the previous day lifted without ceremony. I knew then, without being told, that I had passed.

Not all of us did. But as I walked out, relief washed over me. I was no longer a resident; I was a physician. Two letters now followed my name—MD—earned through sleepless nights, Dr. Chaubey’s sharp rebukes, and the long, unforgiving hours in the wards of GMC Nagpur.

With distance, I see now that the examination was less a test of brilliance than of temperament. It didn’t just ask if you knew medicine; it asked if you could steady yourself after a stumble, adapt to unspoken rules, and think clearly when the clock was ticking. Those seven minutes taught me a lasting lesson: preparation matters, but so does the ability to endure.