Picture this: the bustling lanes of Moreganj, Saharanpur, in the early 1970s, filled with the hum of daily life—vendors calling out, kids darting through narrow alleys, and the scent of fresh jalebis wafting through the air. In this lively neighborhood, a young Vandana Bansal grew up, her sharp mind and quick wit already setting her apart. “Vandana was always the one to watch,” her neighbors would say, shaking their heads with a smile. “Smart as a whip, that girl, and mature beyond her years.”

Born into a family rooted in tradition, Vandana’s father was a formidable figure. A man of strong convictions, he held fast to the caste structure that shaped his world. But life wasn’t easy for him—he fought a grueling battle with tongue cancer, a struggle that cast a shadow over the family but never dimmed Vandana’s resolve. “I’m going to make something of myself,” she’d tell her friends, her eyes glinting with determination. “No matter what.”

Vandana’s academic journey began at a local college in Saharanpur, where she breezed through her BSc with the kind of effortless brilliance that made her professors sit up and take notice. “She wasn’t just book-smart,” recalls one of her classmates, “she had this savvy way of navigating life—like she always knew the next step.” And the next step was a big one. In 1976, Vandana cracked the entrance exam for SN Medical College in Agra, a prestigious institution that would set the stage for her future.

Fast forward to 1979. Enter Dr. P.K. Gupta—that’s me—stepping into SN Medical College as a wide-eyed fresher, nervous and trying to dodge the infamous ragging rituals. Ragging was no joke back then. Senior boys would bark orders: “Go get a letter signed by that girl in the third year!” they’d sneer, pointing at some unattainable senior. Refuse, and you’d be in for a rough time—think extra push-ups or worse, a few smacks. But I had an ace up my sleeve: Vandana.

See, Vandana wasn’t just any senior. She was practically family, related to my bua Krishna, who also hailed from Moreganj. “P.K., don’t worry,” she’d say with a mischievous grin, her voice calm but commanding. “Hand me that letter.” And just like that, she’d sign it, no fuss, no drama. The senior boys would scowl, robbed of their fun, but they couldn’t touch us. Vandana’s reputation preceded her—she was the senior you didn’t mess with, not because she was intimidating, but because she had this quiet, unshakable authority. “She saved our hides more times than I can count,” I’d later joke with my batchmates, who’d nod in grateful agreement.

Vandana wasn’t just a lifesaver during ragging; she was a mentor, a guide. “Study hard, but don’t lose yourself in the books,” she’d advise, sipping chai in the college canteen. “Medicine’s tough, but life’s tougher. Keep your wits about you.” Her words stuck with me, a blend of practicality and wisdom that only someone like her—someone who’d seen life’s highs and lows—could offer.

After her MBBS, Vandana’s journey took her beyond Agra. She pursued her postgraduate studies elsewhere, her ambition pulling her forward like a magnet. “I’m not stopping here,” she’d said once, her voice brimming with quiet confidence. Eventually, she settled in North India with her husband, building a life that balanced her career with her personal world. I lost touch with her over the years, but her impact lingered. Every time I passed the old lecture halls at SN Medical College, I’d think of her—the girl from Moreganj who walked into our lives like a whirlwind of grace and grit, leaving a trail of stories and saved freshmen in her wake.

“Vandana Bansal,” I’d muse, years later, “you don’t meet people like her every day.” And you really don’t.

The Great Baba Ji Misadventure at SN Medical College

It was 1979, and I, Dr. P.K. Gupta, was a fresh-faced first-year at SN Medical College in Agra, still finding my footing in the chaotic world of med school. Agra was a whirlwind—new faces, new rules, and the ever-looming threat of ragging. Luckily, I had a secret weapon: my cousin, Dr. Vandana Bansal, a third-year student from our hometown of Saharanpur. Vandana was everything I wasn’t—smart, savvy, and mature beyond her years. She was practically a legend in the girls’ hostel, and for a fumbling fresher like me, she was a lifeline.

But oh, how I managed to turn that lifeline into a comedy show.

It all started with a box of Bengali sweets. My parents, ever the traditionalists, had handed me a tin of rasgullas before I boarded the bus to Agra. “Deliver these to Vandana immediately,” my mother instructed, her tone leaving no room for argument. “They’ll spoil in this heat!” So, there I was, stepping off the bus that evening, the tin tucked under my arm, heading straight for the girls’ hostel with a mission.

Now, the girls’ hostel at SN Medical College was a fortress. A stern chowkidar guarded the entrance, his job to bellow the name of whichever girl a visitor needed to see. Every time I’d visited before, this chowkidar would tilt his head toward the roof of the hostel and the sky and yell, “Vandana Bansal Baba!”—two, three times, like a ritual chant. I don’t know why, but in my head, I’d concocted a wild theory: there was a Baba ji living on the hostel roof, some mystical guardian watching over the girls. Maybe he was an old sage with a flowing white beard, clad in a lungi, wielding a stick to shoo away stray monkeys—or, worse, lassos (those sneaky boys trying to flirt). I’d been reading a book called Babas of India, full of tales about ascetics who lived in graveyards or stood on one leg for years. A rooftop Baba guarding the girls’ hostel? It didn’t seem that far-fetched.

This theory wasn’t helped by my friend Bahukhandi, a fellow fresher who’d taken it upon himself to be my personal moral compass. Bahukhandi was the kind of guy who’d scowl if I put my feet on the table in the hostel’s visitor room or tried to sneak a peek down the corridor. “P.K., behave yourself!” he’d hiss, his eyes narrowing like a disappointed schoolteacher. “This isn’t Moreganj!” Honestly, his lectures were worse than ragging. So, this time, I decided to ditch him. “I can handle this myself,” I muttered, striding toward the hostel alone, sweets in hand, ready to summon Vandana.

Big mistake.

When I arrived, the chowkidar was nowhere to be seen. Maybe he was on leave, maybe he was napping—who knows? The visitor room, a cramped space with a five-seater sofa and a rickety centre table, was occupied by a senior couple deep in conversation. I hovered awkwardly outside, catching snippets of their chat. The guy was going on about Hitler and the Holocaust, his voice dripping with gravitas. “Dr. Mengele performed these atrocious experiments on the Jews,” he said, while the girl nodded, muttering, “Really?” every few seconds, her eyes glazing over. I was getting bored, the tin of sweets was getting heavy, and there was still no chowkidar.

So, I took matters into my own hands. I stepped back, craned my neck toward the hostel roof, and hollered, “Baba ji, Dr. Vandana Bansal ko bhej do!” Once. Twice. Thrice. My voice echoed through the courtyard, loud enough to wake half of Agra. Nothing happened. No Vandana, no Baba ji, just silence—until the couple in the visitor room stopped mid-Hitler and poked their heads out.

“Arre bhai, kisko bula raha hai?” the guy asked, his eyebrows shooting up.

I held up the tin of sweets like it explained everything. “Vandana Bansal! I’m calling Baba ji to send her down!”

They exchanged a look, half-confused, half-amused. “Baba ji?” the girl repeated, stifling a laugh. Before I could explain my rooftop sage theory, a few girls appeared at the parapet above, giggling and whispering. Then, out stormed Arun Lata Grover, along with a dark girl who looked like sister of Dr Veer Bahadur Singh Dhaka, the notorious senior who beat Professor Malviya. She seemed a senior with a no-nonsense vibe. “Kya chahiye? Kisko bulana hai?” she demanded, hands on her hips.

I started to stammer out an explanation, but before I could finish, Vandana herself appeared, her expression a mix of exasperation and barely contained laughter. “P.K., what is this nonsense, tum apne tashreefon ka tokra phir le aye?” she said, ushering me into the visitor room. A little bit confused I uttered, “ nahi mithai ka dibba laya hun”. The other girls scattered, their giggles echoing down the corridor. Inside, Vandana was fuming—but in that controlled, Vandana way. “Why didn’t you bring Bahukhandi? Bahut mature hai woh,” she said, jabbing a finger at me. “You, on the other hand, create scenes everywhere!”

“I thought there was a Baba ji on the roof!” I protested, setting the sweets on the table. “The chowkidar always says ‘Vandana Bansal Baba’ when he calls you!”

Vandana’s eyes widened, then she burst out laughing, a rare crack in her composed demeanor. “Baba? P.K., that’s just how he talks! There’s no Baba ji on the roof! What, you think we’ve got an aghori up there chasing away monkeys?”

I tried to defend myself, mumbling about Babas of India and rooftop sentinels, but Vandana was having none of it. “You’re hopeless,” she said, shaking her head as she pried open the tin of rasgullas. “Next time, bring Bahukhandi. He’d never make a fool of himself like this.”

Word of my “Baba ji” fiasco spread like wildfire. The next day, I asked a senior, Sanjeev Yadav, if there was really a Baba on the roof. He snapped, “Main kya, warden hoon jo mujhe pata hoga?” The whole hostel was in stitches for days. Bahukhandi, when he heard, just gave me that look of his. “P.K.,” he said, “you’re a walking disaster.”

But Vandana? She never let me live it down. Every time I visited after that, she’d greet me with a smirk and a single word: “Baba ji.” And somewhere, in my imagination, that lungi-clad, stick-wielding rooftop Baba still stands guard, chuckling at the fool who thought he was real.