Dr. K.K. Pruthi

Dr. K.K. Pruthi was a retired orthopaedic surgeon, formerly head of orthopaedics at S.N. Medical College, Agra.
He practiced at Pruthi Orthopedic Care Centre in Agra, with over 30 years of experience.
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Research suggests he was known for clinical acumen and surgical skills, especially in complex cases.

Professional Background
Dr. K.K. Pruthi holds an MS (Ortho) and has a long history with S.N. Medical College, Agra, where he served as the head of the orthopaedics department. He has retired from the college, as he is no longer listed in their current faculty, and now focuses on private practice.

Current Practice
Dr. Pruthi used to practices at Pruthi Orthopedic Care Centre, located at No. 22/1 A, Ring Road, Agra 282004, Uttar Pradesh, India. The centre aims to provide the best results using experience and scientific technology, and he is noted for handling complex cases.

Reputation and Expertise
Dr. Pruthi was highly regarded for his clinical acumen and surgical skills, with over 30 years of service, particularly in managing complex orthopaedic cases.

Professional Qualifications and Experience

Dr. K.K. Pruthi holds an MS (Ortho), a standard qualification for orthopaedic surgeons in India, indicating specialized training in orthopaedics. His experience was extensive, with sources indicating over 30 years of service to the residents of Agra and surrounding areas. Notably, he is described as a former head of the Department of Orthopaedics at S.N. Medical College, a position that underscores his seniority and expertise. Colleagues and students have vouched for his clinical acumen and surgical skills, particularly in managing complex cases.

CategoryDetails Qualifications MS (Ortho) Experience Over 30 years, former head of orthopaedics at S.N. Medical College Known For Clinical acumen, surgical skills, handling complex cases

Association with S.N. Medical College, Agra

Dr. K.K. Pruthi’s association with S.N. Medical College is well-documented, with multiple sources confirming his role as the former head of the orthopaedics department. This position suggests he played a leadership role in academic and clinical training at the institution. However, a review of the current faculty list on the college’s official website (Sarojini Naidu Medical College, Agra – Faculty) did not list Dr. K.K. Pruthi, indicating he may no longer be actively involved in teaching or has retired. This lack of current listing does not diminish his historical significance but suggests a shift to private practice.

The song that he wrote

S N Medical College song

https://www.facebook.com/share/v/1AZvjkDp5F/?mibextid=wwXIfr

एस. एन. मेरा अद्भूत सुन्दर है। एस. एन. मेरा सबसे प्यारा श्रुश्रत भर्त हरि का मन्दिर हिप्पोक्रेट का गलियारा सरस्वती की ज्योति यही है ज्ञान श्रोत भण्डार यही वृजमण्डल का धाम निराला सब के हित का रखवाला जन मानस को दे उजियारा एस. एन. मेरा सबसे प्यारा एस. एन. मेरा अदभुत सुन्दर है…………………. दूर दूर तक इसकी गाथा महिमा का कोई पार ना पाता इस पर नत मस्तक हो करता जीवन ज्योति अलख वो करता इसका पंछी कहीं न हारा एस. एन. मेरा सबसे प्यारा एस. एन. मेरा अदभुत…………………….. सांस का हर सुमन हो इसके लिये जिन्दगी भी हवन हो इसके लिये कह वही बरसों से सारी पीढिया ये हमारा नमन हो इसके लिये इस पर बलि बलि जीवन सारा एस. एन. मेरा सबसे प्यारा एस. एन. मेरा अदभुत………………………….. प्रेणायों की सदा से जन्मभूमि यह बनी है कर्म से प्रेरित सभी की यह तपोभूमि बनी है इसके प्रांगण में खिले है फूल हर उन्माद के युग युग से ही दिये है संदेश प्रेम प्रकार के इसका यौवन कभी न हारा एस. एन. मेरा सबसे प्यारा सुबह की लाली का मंजर इसकी रंगत का निखार फूल बरसाये हवा में जैसे भाखें हर सिंगार हर बुलन्दी के निकट होने का सबब देता है ये नित नई श्रद्धा से और वि वास से रोज हम आगे बढेंगे सूर्य के सत्कार से एस. एन. मेरा………………………….https://www.facebook.com/share/v/1AZvjkDp5F/?mibextid=wwXIfr

Anecdotes.

Dr Pruthi and me.

Oh, buckle up, because the tale of Dr. Pruthi, the amorous orthopaedic lecturer, is about to get a riotous retelling that’ll leave you clutching your sides! Picture this: a dusty cricket field, a young lad (our hero) in his finest panchis—that gloriously traditional attire that screams “I’m here to hit sixes and charm aunties at weddings.” One fateful day, after a particularly enthusiastic cricket match, our boy takes a tumble, and his middle meniscus decides it’s had enough of this nonsense. Off he trots to the hallowed halls of the Orthopaedic OPD, expecting bandages and sage medical advice. What he gets instead is a one-way ticket to the Dr. Pruthi Amorous Extravaganza!

Now, Dr. Pruthi, bless his soul, is no ordinary orthopaedic lecturer. Oh no, this man has a reputation. Orthopaedics, you see, seems to attract a certain breed of doctor with a twinkle in their eye and a penchant for poetry that’s less Hippocrates and more Bollywood romance. Maybe it’s the constant handling of bones that makes them think they can mend hearts with a wink and a nudge. Dr. Pruthi, with his crisp white coat and a grin that says, “I’ve seen X-rays and your soul,” spots our hero in his panchis and decides this is his moment to shine. A young, unsuspecting cricket warrior? In panchis? It’s like catnip to Pruthi’s inner Casanova.

So, there’s our boy, sitting on the examination table, expecting a lecture on ligaments and maybe a stern warning about not diving for catches like a Bollywood stuntman. Instead, Dr. Pruthi leans in, his stethoscope dangling like a prop in a rom-com, and starts whispering sweet nothings that have nothing to do with menisci. “Oh, such strong legs from cricket,” he purrs, “they must dance so well under the moonlight.” Our hero blinks, wondering if he’s accidentally walked into a Yash Raj film set. Moonlight? Dancing? Is this a meniscus exam or an audition for Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge?

Now, most folks might blush, stammer, or bolt for the door. But our lad? Oh, he’s cut from a different cloth—probably the same one as his panchis. Instead of cowering, he decides to play along, not because he’s sly, but because he’s gloriously, hilariously oblivious to the implications. Pruthi tosses out another line, something like, “Your eyes sparkle like the stars over a quiet meadow.” And our hero, with the confidence of a man who’s just hit a century, fires back, “Oh, doctor saab, your eyes are like X-ray machines, seeing right through me!” The room freezes. Pruthi’s jaw drops. The junior doctors in the corner, who were pretending to read charts, choke on their chai.

Undeterred, Pruthi tries again, doubling down with, “Your strength, it’s like a mighty oak in a storm.” Our boy, grinning like he’s just won the toss on a flat pitch, replies, “And you, doctor, are like a plaster cast—holding everything together with charm!” The PGs (postgraduate students) are now openly giggling, their clipboards forgotten. Pruthi, expecting a shy, flustered kid, is utterly bamboozled by this panchis-clad poet who’s turning his flirt game into a comedy roast.

Finally, Pruthi can’t take it anymore. His grand romantic gambit has been derailed by a teenager who’s treating his pickup lines like a game of verbal cricket, smashing every ball for four. With a dramatic huff, he shoos our hero out of the OPD, muttering something about “meniscus needing rest, not rhymes.” Our lad, still clueless about the chaos he’s caused, strolls out, probably whistling a tune from Lagaan.

But the legend of the Panchis Poet doesn’t end there. Oh no. The PGs, who witnessed this glorious showdown, are now his biggest fans. Every time he passes by—whether it’s to get a bandage changed or just to grab a samosa from the canteen—they snap to attention and throw him a mock Hitler salute, their faces splitting with mirth. It’s not mockery; it’s pure, unadulterated admiration for the kid who took on Dr. Pruthi’s amorous onslaught and turned it into the orthopaedic equivalent of a stand-up comedy special.

And so, the tale of Dr. Pruthi and the Panchis Poet lives on, whispered in the corridors of the OPD, recounted over chai by cackling PGs, and probably embroidered into a few panchis as a cautionary tale: never underestimate a cricketer with a damaged meniscus and a knack for turning flirtation into farce. As for Dr. Pruthi? He’s probably still out there, checking X-rays and dreaming of meadows, but he’ll never forget the day his amorous antics met their match in a boy who played cricket, wore panchis, and spoke romance right back—hilariously, gloriously, and without a clue.

Dr Pruthi in OPD.

Surgeons may tell jokes in the outpatient department (OPD) or operating theater (OT) to ease tension and create a more relaxed atmosphere. Humor can help reduce anxiety for patients, who are often nervous about medical procedures or diagnoses. It also fosters camaraderie among the surgical team, boosting morale in high-stress environments. Lightening the mood can make the experience less daunting for everyone involved. My dear reader, permit me to whisk you away to the hallowed, if somewhat peculiar, precincts of the Orthopaedic Out-Patient Department, where the inimitable Dr. Pruthi, lecturer in matters osseous and amorous, held court with the gusto of a vaudeville impresario. This was no ordinary medico, mind you. Dr. Pruthi was a chap whose white coat concealed a soul positively bursting with ribald repartee, a man who wielded non-vegetarian jests with the finesse of a Jeeves mixing a restorative cocktail. His OPD was less a clinic and more a jolly cabaret of bones and banter, where patients emerged with bandaged limbs and bemused grins, as if they’d stumbled into a music hall by mistake.

Now, enter our protagonist, a young cricketing buck—yours truly in younger days—clad in the sartorial splendour of panchis, that flowing garment which lends one the air of a rustic poet or a chap about to lead a village parade. Having taken a cricketing tumble that left my middle meniscus in a state of mutinous disrepair, I hobbled into Dr. Pruthi’s lair, expecting a sober discourse on ligaments and perhaps a prescription for rest. What I encountered, however, was a performance worthy of the great P.G. Wodehouse himself—a whirlwind of non-veg jollity that would make even Bertie Wooster clutch his monocle and gasp, “I say, steady on!”

Dr. Pruthi, you see, was a master of the double entendre, a purveyor of jokes so delightfully non-vegetarian they could make a butcher blush. As he examined a patient’s sprained ankle, he’d quip, “This joint’s in a right pickle—much like my aunt’s mutton curry last Sunday!” The room would erupt, the nurses stifling giggles, the patients chortling despite their aches. Another chap, presenting a fractured fibula, might hear, “Your bone’s gone all to pot, like a chicken left too long in the tandoor!” The OPD was a veritable carnival, with Pruthi as the ringmaster, keeping the atmosphere as jovial as a pig in a particularly luxurious sty.

On this fateful day, as I perched on the examination table, my panchis billowing like the sails of a particularly flamboyant galleon, Dr. Pruthi fixed me with a twinkling eye. “Well, young man,” he began, prodding my knee with the air of a chef inspecting a prime cut, “this meniscus of yours is in a proper stew. Reminds me of a spicy drumstick that’s lost its way in the biryani!” The postgraduate students—those earnest chaps in spectacles who hovered about like stagehands at a farce—guffawed, and I, innocent as a lamb chop, grinned politely, assuming this was standard orthopaedic patter.

But Pruthi, sensing a fresh audience, leaned closer, his stethoscope dangling like a prop in a burlesque. “You’re a cricketer, eh? Strong legs, nimble feet—bet you’re a real rooster on the field, strutting about like you own the coop!” The PGs snickered, expecting me to blush or stammer, for Pruthi’s non-veg sallies were known to leave lesser mortals as flustered as a hen in a fox’s parlour. But I, dear reader, was no ordinary egg. Whether through naivety or a hidden streak of Woosterian pluck, I decided to meet fire with fire, sauce with sauce, and non-veg with non-veg.

“Oh, doctor saab,” I replied, with the earnestness of a curate at a vicarage tea, “if I’m a rooster, then you’re the master chef, tossing us all into your spicy tandoori tales!” The room fell silent, as if someone had dropped a spanner into the soup. Pruthi’s eyebrows shot skyward, his face a picture of a man who’d expected a mild omelette and been served a vindaloo. The PGs, clutching their clipboards, let out a collective snort that threatened to dislodge the X-ray machine.

Undaunted, Pruthi rallied. “Ho ho! This knee’s got some fight in it, like a mutton chop refusing to go tender!” he chuckled, clearly expecting to reclaim the upper hand. But I, now warming to my role as the Bertie to his Jeeves, riposted, “And you, sir, are like a kebab skewer—stringing us all along with your sizzling stories!” The PGs were now in open revolt, their laughter bouncing off the walls like peas in a pressure cooker. One poor chap dropped his pen, another pretended to study a chart upside down, and a nurse fled the room, presumably to compose herself in the corridor.

Pruthi, for the first time in his storied career, was nonplussed—nay, positively gobsmacked. This panchis-clad stripling, this cricketing cockerel, had taken his carefully curated non-veg repartee and turned it into a verbal curry, spicy and entirely unexpected. With a theatrical harrumph, he declared my meniscus “in need of rest, not repartee,” and ushered me out, his dignity as ruffled as a hen’s feathers in a gale. I departed, blissfully unaware of the chaos I’d wrought, my panchis swishing like the cape of a matador who’d just tamed a particularly saucy bull.

But the saga didn’t end there, oh no. The PGs, those merry band of bone-scholars, were utterly enchanted by my unwitting audacity. Henceforth, whenever I passed their haunts—be it the OPD, the canteen, or the corridor where they loitered with cups of tepid chai—they’d snap to attention and deliver a mock Hitler salute, their faces wreathed in mirth. It was no gesture of tyranny, mind you, but a tribute to the lad who’d met Dr. Pruthi’s non-veg onslaught with a volley of his own, leaving the great man as stunned as a fish caught in a particularly spicy net.

And so, the legend of the Panchis Parson—as I was dubbed in whispered OPD lore—lives on, a tale of cricket, courage, and culinary comeback, served with a side of Wodehousean whimsy. As for Dr. Pruthi, one imagines him still presiding over his OPD, tossing out non-veg jests like a chef flinging spices into a pot, but with a wary glance for any panchis-clad youth who might dare to return his volleys. For in the great banquet of life, it takes a rare bird to match a master’s sauce—and I, dear reader, was that bird, even if I hadn’t the foggiest idea of the feast I’d cooked up.

Dr Pruthi in department

Gather round, dear readers, for we must once more venture into the uproarious domain of Dr. Pruthi, that orthopaedic lecturer whose OPD was less a medical sanctuary and more a riotous carnival of non-vegetarian jests, served with a side of bone-related banter. In the grand tradition of P.G. Wodehouse, where every quip is a pearl and every character a delightful eccentric, let us explore the broader repertoire of Pruthi’s rib-tickling jokes—those spicy, saucy zingers that kept his patients, postgraduate students, and even the occasional thermometer in stitches. This is a tale of a man whose wit was as sharp as a scalpel and whose humour was as juicy as a tandoori drumstick, so brace yourselves for a feast of hilarity!

Dr. Pruthi, you see, was no mere healer of fractures; he was a maestro of mirth, a conductor of chuckles, whose every consultation was punctuated by jokes so delightfully non-veg they could make a vegetarian blush and a carnivore applaud. His OPD was a stage, his stethoscope a prop, and his patients the unwitting audience to a performance that blended medical expertise with the bawdy charm of a seaside postcard. The man had a knack for turning the mundane—say, a sprained ankle or a creaky knee—into a springboard for culinary comedy, each jest dripping with the zest of a well-marinated kebab.

Picture a typical morning in the OPD: a queue of patients clutching X-rays, the air thick with the scent of antiseptic and anticipation. A burly fellow limps in, nursing a twisted ankle from a misadventure involving a cow and a slippery lane. Pruthi, peering over his spectacles like a chef eyeing a prime cut, declares, “My good man, this ankle’s swollen like a sausage left too long in the stew! We’ll have to cool it down before it bursts like a masala bomb!” The patient, expecting a dour diagnosis, guffaws, the PGs snort into their clipboards, and the nurse in the corner pretends to adjust a bandage to hide her grin. Thus, the tone is set—Pruthi’s OPD is no place for solemnity.

Next up, a schoolteacher with a nagging elbow pain, the result of overzealous chalkboard scribbling. Pruthi, prodding the offending joint with the air of a butcher testing a rack of ribs, opines, “This elbow’s as stiff as a mutton chop left in the fridge too long—let’s grease it up with some physio, or it’ll never sizzle on the dancefloor!” The PGs, ever his loyal chorus, erupt in cackles, while the teacher, now imagining her elbow as a culinary conundrum, leaves with a prescription and a chuckle. Pruthi’s genius lay in his ability to make even the most mundane ailment sound like a dish gone awry, transforming the OPD into a veritable cookbook of comedy.

But his jests weren’t confined to the culinary. Oh no, Dr. Pruthi was a versatile wag, dipping into the animal kingdom for inspiration with the glee of a zookeeper at a particularly rowdy menagerie. A young chap with a pulled hamstring—courtesy of an ill-advised sprint to catch a bus—might hear, “Your leg’s acting like a stubborn mule, refusing to gallop! We’ll whip it back into shape, or you’ll be braying all the way to the market!” The PGs, by now well-versed in Pruthi’s playbook, would salute the quip with stifled laughter, while the patient, half-expecting to be handed a carrot, hobbled off with a grin.

Then there was the case of Mrs. Sharma, a matronly figure with a creaky knee that groaned like an unoiled gate. Pruthi, ever the showman, tapped the knee and proclaimed, “This joint’s clucking like an old hen who’s forgotten how to lay eggs! A bit of oil—sorry, exercise—and we’ll have it strutting like a peacock in no time!” Mrs. Sharma, a woman of stern disposition, dissolved into giggles, her dignity undone by the image of her knee as a feathered fusspot. The PGs, barely containing themselves, exchanged glances that said, “The old bird’s done it again!”

Pruthi’s humour wasn’t without its risks, mind you. His non-veg jests, while universally uproarious, occasionally sailed close to the wind, especially when he ventured into spicier territory. To a farmer with a sore shoulder from hefting hay bales, he once quipped, “This shoulder’s as tender as a butter chicken fresh from the tandoor—handle it gently, or it’ll fall apart like a bad biryani!” The farmer roared, but a prim nurse raised an eyebrow, and the PGs, ever cheeky, mimed fanning themselves as if the room had grown too hot. Pruthi, undeterred, simply winked, his confidence as unshakeable as a well-set plaster cast.

What made Pruthi’s jokes truly legendary, however, was their interactivity. He delighted in tossing out a zinger and waiting to see if his patient would take the bait. Most didn’t, content to laugh and limp away. But then came yours truly, the panchis-clad cricketer with a damaged meniscus and an unwitting knack for verbal volleying. When Pruthi, eyeing my athletic frame, purred, “These legs are built like prime cuts—ready to roast the competition on the cricket pitch!” I, innocent as a newly hatched chick, fired back, “And you, doctor, are the tandoor master, grilling us all with your hot lines!” The room froze. Pruthi’s jaw sagged like a poorly cooked soufflé. The PGs, caught mid-sip of their chai, sprayed the walls with laughter.

He tried again, undaunted: “This meniscus is a naughty little sausage, slipping out of place!” To which I, with the guileless glee of a Bertie Wooster stumbling into a winning repartee, replied, “Then you’re the chef to stuff it back where it belongs, sir!” The PGs were now a howling mob, one chap clutching a skeleton model for support, another fanning himself with an X-ray. Pruthi, for once, was out-sauced, his non-veg jests met by a lad who, without grasping the innuendo, had turned his banter into a banquet. With a theatrical huff, he banished me from the OPD, muttering about “rest, not roasts,” but the twinkle in his eye betrayed his delight at meeting a worthy, if clueless, sparring partner.

Dr Pruthi’s jokes

The legacy of Pruthi’s jokes lived on, of course. The PGs, forever changed by the Panchis Parson’s performance, would greet me with mock salutes, their mirth a tribute to the day I’d matched their maestro quip for quip. In the corridors of the OPD, tales of Pruthi’s jests—sausage ankles, peacock knees, and tandoori shoulders—were recounted like epic poems, each one a testament to a man who saw medicine not just as science, but as a chance to serve laughter with every splint. And so, dear reader, we leave Dr. Pruthi, still tossing out non-veg nuggets like a chef at a barbecue, his OPD a haven where bones were mended, spirits lifted, and every patient left with a prescription and a bellyful of chuckles. What ho, Pruthi—what ho!

Research Contributions

Dr. K.K. Pruthi’s research works are listed on ResearchGate, with three publications and 14 citations, including a study on the use of calcium hydroxyapatite block with cortico cancellous bone graft in comminuted fractures of long bones of the lower limb. Another study reviewed operative results of neglected femoral neck fractures in young adults, treated by dual fibular bone grafting, conducted at S.N. Medical College, Agra. These contributions highlight his academic and clinical research impact in orthopaedics.

Reputation and Reviews

Reviews on platforms like Top-Rated.Online mention both positive and negative experiences at Dr. KK Pruthi Orthopaedic Center.

He expired on 2may 2025 4.30 AM after a fulfilling life

शवयात्रा
अत्यंत दुख के साथ सूचित करना पड़ रहा है कि हमारे पूज्य डा. के. के. प्रूथी जी (पूर्व विभागाध्यक्ष एवं वरिष्ठ हड्डी रोग विशेषज्ञ SNMC Agra ) का आकस्मिक निधन आज प्रातः हो गया है।
शवयात्रा आज दिनांक 2 मई, दिन शुक्रवार को सायंकाल 5 बजे निज निवास 22/1A, रिंग रोड, विजय नगर कॉलोनी, आगरा से ताजगंज विद्युत शवदाहगृह के लिए प्रस्थान करेगी।

He is survived by:

Dr. Kusum Pruthi (wife)
Dr. Kartik and Dr. Ritu Pruthi (son and daughter-in-law)
Dr. Nupur and Dr. Prachi Pruthi (son and daughter-in-law)
Pranati, Ruzhan, and Devika (grandchildren)

My deepest condolences on the passing of Dr. Pruthi.
He was truly a remarkable personality — full of life, wisdom, and immense talent.
May the Almighty grant eternal peace to the departed soul and strength to the family to bear this irreparable loss. Dr agarwal

भावांजलि
हम सभी पूर्व विद्यार्थी अपने उन परम आदरणीय आचार्य डॉ के के प्रूथी को विनम्र भावांजलि अर्पित करते हैं, जिनकी विद्वत्ता, सौम्यता तथा सहृदयता ने न केवल हमारे चिकित्सकीय जीवन की नींव रखी, अपितु हमें एक संवेदनशील और उत्तरदायी मानव बनने की दिशा में भी मार्गदर्शन प्रदान किया।
वे शिक्षक से बढ़कर एक मित्र रहे—जिनसे हर छात्र बेझिझक सवाल कर सकता था। उन्होंने कभी दूरी नहीं बनाई, बल्कि हर छात्र को व्यक्तिगत रूप से जानने और समझने का प्रयास किया। चाहे क्लासरूम हो, अस्पताल का गंभीर माहौल या कोई सांस्कृतिक कार्यक्रम—उनकी उपस्थिति हमेशा सुकून और ऊर्जा से भरी होती थी।वे केवल एक शिक्षक नहीं थे—बल्कि हमारे मार्गदर्शक, प्रेरक, और जीवन के विविध आयामों में सहभागी रहे। मेडिकल कॉलेज में पढ़ाई उनका वातावरण सदा आत्मीय होता था, जिसमें कठोरतम विषय भी सरल और ग्राह्य हो जाते थे। ऑपरेशन थिएटर में उनका धैर्यपूर्ण निर्देशन भावी अस्थि रोग विशेषगों में न केवल कौशल का संचार करता था, वरन् आत्मविश्वास भी भरता था।
सांस्कृतिक मंचों पर उनकी उपस्थिति सदा उल्लास से परिपूर्ण होती थी। उनकी प्रसिद्ध व्यंग्यात्मक कविताएँ, जिनमें हास्य की चपलता और जीवन की गूढ़ अंतर्दृष्टि सहजता से समाहित होती थी, हर चिकित्स्यी सम्मेलन अथवा मिलन का अनिवार्य अंग बन चुकी थीं। ऐसा कोई आयोजन नहीं होता था जिसमें उनकी वाणी के बिना पूर्णता का अनुभव होता हो।
उनकी संगठनात्मक कुशलता एक उदाहरण थी—चाहे वह शैक्षणिक आयोजनों की शृंखला हो, कार्यशालाएँ हों अथवा चिकित्सकीय चर्चाएँ—सभी में उनकी दृष्टि, तन्मयता और समर्पण स्पष्ट परिलक्षित होता था।
आज जब हम जीवन के विभिन्न पथों पर अग्रसर हैं, तब भी गुरुदेव की दी हुई शिक्षाएँ, उनका प्रेम और वह आत्मीय मुस्कान हमारे अंतर्मन में आलोकित रहती है। इस भावांजलि के माध्यम से हम सभी शिष्यगण उनके चरणों में कृतज्ञता, सम्मान और स्नेहपूर्वक नमन अर्पित करते हैं। उनके समान शिक्षक पाना सौभाग्य की बात होती है, और हम यह सौभाग्य पाकर स्वयं को धन्य मानते हैं। dr j n tandon
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