Nestled in the misty foothills of the Himalayas, Dehradun was more than just a town to young Prabhakar Bahukhandi—it was a playground of pine-scented adventures and the steady rhythm of his father’s healing hands. Born in the early 1960s into a family where medicine wasn’t just a profession but a calling, Prabhakar grew up watching his father, an Ayurvedic doctor in the government’s hill service, trek miles through rugged paths to reach remote villages. “Beta, healing isn’t about the herbs alone,” his father would say over dinner, his voice calm as the Ganges, “it’s about showing up, no matter the storm.” Those words stuck with Prabhakar like the chill of a Dehradun winter morning, shaping a boy who learned early that true maturity meant rolling up your sleeves and walking the extra mile—literally.

School days at Dehradun Mission School were a blend of strict discipline and stolen moments of mischief. Prabhakar, with his thoughtful eyes and easy smile, wasn’t the loudest in the classroom, but he was the one who’d stay late helping a classmate with math or organizing a group hike up nearby Mussoorie hills. “Why fuss over small things?” he’d shrug when teased about his unflappable calm. By the time he enrolled at DAV College for his BSc, the sciences had hooked him—the precision of biology mirroring the ancient wisdom his father practiced. Degrees in hand, Prabhakar set his sights higher, dreaming of a life where he could blend that steady hand with modern medicine.

Fate, as it often does, threw him into the deep end in 1979. Selected alongside a batch of wide-eyed aspirants—including his soon-to-be lifelong friend—for SN Medical College in Agra, Prabhakar packed his bags and headed to the dusty plains of Uttar Pradesh. Agra’s Taj Mahal loomed like a promise of enduring beauty amid the chaos of medical school, but for Prabhakar, the real magic unfolded in the cramped confines of Room 236 at GB Pant Hostel. There, sharing a rickety bunk bed and endless pots of chai, he bonded with his roommate over late-night study marathons and the occasional escape to the Yamuna’s banks.

The Life and Times of Dr. Prabhakar Bahukhandi: A Journey from Dehradun to Agra

Picture this: it’s 1979, the sun barely creeping over the horizon in Agra, and the air is thick with the promise of a new day at S.N. Medical College. I’m bleary-eyed, sitting on the edge of my creaky cot in Room 236 of G.B. Pant Hostel, trying to shake off the fog of sleep. Across the room, my roommate, Dr. Prabhakar Bahukhandi, is already up, his nose buried in The Gulag Archipelago. He’s muttering something about Stalin’s brutality, his voice low and intense, like he’s personally offended by the dictator’s antics.

“Man, can you believe this?” Prabhakar says, not looking up from the page. “Stalin’s goons would’ve had us both in a gulag by now, you for your daydreaming and me for reading this.”

I laugh, rubbing my eyes. “Yeah, I can see it. Me, a dissenter, getting walloped by some thug in a fur hat. You’d probably just talk your way out of it.”

He grins, setting the book down. “Maybe. But first, paratha omelette. Let’s move before the mess runs out.”

That was Prabhakar—steady, sharp, and always with a book in hand. Born and raised in Dobhal Wala, Dehradun, he came from a family grounded in medicine. His father, an Ayurvedic doctor in government service, and his mother, a warm presence who whipped up the most comforting dal and rice I’ve ever tasted, gave him a solid foundation. I’d visit his home often, and every time, the aroma of freshly cooked food felt like a hug. “Eat more, beta,” his mother would say, piling my plate high. “You’re too skinny for a doctor!”

Prabhakar and I were an odd pair. We’d start our mornings with a quick breakfast in the hostel mess—paratha, omelette, and a steaming cup of tea—before the chaos of medical college took over. The college was a 2-kilometer ride, and here’s the kicker: Prabhakar, for all his brilliance, couldn’t ride a bicycle. At first, I’d haul him on the carrier of my rickety bike, his lanky frame wobbling behind me as we pedaled through Agra’s dusty streets. “You’re gonna owe me new legs for this,” I’d grumble, sweating buckets.

“Get me to class, and I’ll buy you chai for a week,” he’d shoot back, laughing.

Eventually, he switched to rickshaws, probably tired of my complaints. He had a knack for practicality, unlike me, who was always drifting between friend groups, never quite sticking with one. Prabhakar, though? He built a tight crew—Raju, Shalabh, Khurrana, and P. Aggarwal from Sikkim, who sadly passed away later. They’d huddle together, swapping notes and jokes, while I flitted in and out, too restless to settle.

Our days at S.N. Medical College were a grind. I’d spend half my mornings trying to convince classmates to skip the dissection hall—God, the smell of formaldehyde still haunts me. “Come on, let’s study instead,” I’d plead, but only a few would bite. Prabhakar, though, was disciplined. He’d show up, do the work, and still find time to devour historical novels, both fiction and nonfiction like Somerset Maugham and Bertrand Russel. The Gulag Archipelago was his obsession for a while, and he’d rant about Stalin’s regime with the passion of a revolutionary. “This is why we need to think for ourselves,” he’d say, tapping the book. “Power corrupts, always.”

Life in Room 236 wasn’t glamorous—two cots, a rickety desk, and a single bulb that flickered like it was on its last legs. But it was our space, filled with late-night debates, laughter, and the occasional argument over whose turn it was to fetch water. Prabhakar was the anchor, the guy who kept things steady while I was out chasing chaos. He’d tease me about my “tumultuous” life, as he called it, but there was no judgment in his eyes—just a quiet understanding.

Years later, Prabhakar built a life that mirrored his steady nature. He married, had daughters, and settled in his own house back in Dobhal Wala, Dehradun. People called him mature, grounded, the kind of man who didn’t let life’s storms rattle him. Me? I was still out there, riding the waves of my own making, but I always admired how he carved out a path that was solid, dependable, like the dal and rice from his mother’s kitchen.

Sometimes, I think back to those mornings, pedaling through Agra with Prabhakar on the back of my bike, his voice cutting through the dawn: “Faster, man, or we’ll miss anatomy!” And I smile, because those days, messy and raw, were where our story began.

“Prabhakar, yaar, how do you do it?” I remember asking one sweltering evening in 1980, as we pored over anatomy textbooks under the hostel’s flickering bulb. The fan whirred lazily overhead, doing little to cut the heat, and I’d just botched a mock viva on nerve blocks. He looked up from his notes, that signature half-smile breaking through, and said simply, “One breath at a time, dost. Panic’s just noise—focus on the quiet part.” No lectures, no drama. Just that quiet wisdom that made you believe you could conquer the next exam, or the next impossible shift. We laughed about it later, how he’d drag me out for long walks around the campus at dawn—”Clears the head, builds the legs”—turning what could have been grueling into something almost fun. In those years, as we chased MBBS and then his MS in Anaesthesia, Prabhakar was the anchor: mature beyond his twenties, always ready with a steady hand or a shared joke to lighten the load.

Graduating with honors, Dr. Bahukhandi dove headfirst into government service, channeling his father’s spirit into postings across Primary Medical Services (PMS) in Uttar Pradesh’s far-flung outposts. Picture him in the early ’80s, stethoscope slung over his shoulder, hopping bumpy buses to rural clinics where the operating table was a makeshift cot and the only light came from a kerosene lantern. “Distance is just a story we tell ourselves,” he’d quip to nervous patients before administering anesthesia, his voice a soothing murmur that eased fears as effectively as any sedative. Years blurred into decades of tireless service—delivering babies in monsoons, steadying surgeons through marathon procedures, always the one who arrived first and left last, without a single complaint.

But life, like a good hike, has its turns. By the mid-2000s, after decades in the public trenches, Dr. Bahukhandi traded the rigid schedules of government postings for the flexibility of freelancing. He brought his expertise to Hari Ram Kohli Memorial Hospital in Agra, where his reputation as a no-nonsense anesthetist preceded him. Like always, he has been steady with his association, not joining a cacophony of nursing homes as a visiting Anaesthetist. Colleagues still talk about how he’d stride into the OR, assess the room with a quick glance, and get to work—calm under pressure, whether it was a routine appendectomy or a high-stakes emergency. “Doc, you ever get tired of the travel?” a young resident once asked during a post-op tea break. Prabhakar chuckled, stirring his cup slowly. “Tired? Nah. It’s the walking that keeps the soul young. And besides, who’s got time for fuss when there’s lives to mend?”

Today, in the quiet corners of Dehradun where he eventually settled, Dr. Prabhakar Bahukhandi remains that same unassuming force—a man whose biography isn’t splashed across headlines but etched in the grateful hearts of patients and the fond memories of friends. He’s the kind of doctor who reminds us that heroism doesn’t roar; it whispers steadily through the fog, ready to walk any distance, climb any hill, and face any storm with a smile and a steady hand. And if you ask him the secret? He’ll probably just say, “One breath at a time.”