Let me take you back to the bustling corridors of S.N. Medical College in Agra, where I first encountered Dr. C.B. Nigam, a wiry, tall surgeon with a balding head, his sparse hair combed over in a valiant attempt to cover the shine. He was a lecturer in the Department of Surgery, and boy, did he leave an impression—not always for the reasons you’d expect.

Picture this: a crowded lecture hall, students hunched over notebooks, scribbling furiously as Dr. Nigam stood at the front, his voice steady but unremarkable. “Focus on the technique,” he’d say, pacing the platform, “precision in surgery is everything.” But honestly? My eyes were glued to his legs. The man couldn’t stand still. He’d shift his weight, left to right, sometimes lifting one leg and flexing it like he was trying to shake off an invisible cramp. I’d whisper to my friend, “Look at him go—think he’s practicing for a dance-off?” We’d stifle our laughs, but it was hard to focus on his words when his restless shuffle stole the show. Years of standing through marathon surgeries had clearly taken a toll, and his legs seemed to protest every lecture.

Dr. Nigam was a hard worker, though—everyone knew that. He poured his heart into his craft, saving lives in the operating theater and teaching us greenhorns the ropes. But he had bigger dreams. “One day,” he told a colleague over chai in the staff room, “I’ll have my own nursing home. A place where I can make a real difference.” His eyes would light up when he talked about it, and you could feel his ambition radiating like heat from Agra’s summer streets.

He worked tirelessly, scrimping and saving, until he finally bought a plot of land in the city. The plan was set: a nursing home that would be his legacy. The foundation was dug, the blueprints approved. A truckload of bricks arrived, stacked high along the pit’s edge, ready to build his dream from the ground up. The day of the bhoomi pooja arrived—a sacred ceremony to bless the land. “This is it,” Dr. Nigam said to his wife that morning, adjusting his kurta. “The start of something big.”

The scene was vibrant: friends, family, and colleagues gathered around the foundation pit, the air thick with anticipation and the scent of marigold garlands. Dr. Nigam, ever the hands-on man, descended into the pit himself to perform the pooja. “Let’s do this right,” he said with a grin, holding the ceremonial lamp as he chanted the mantras. The crowd watched, some whispering prayers, others snapping photos.

But fate can be cruel. In a heartbeat, the earth gave way. The stack of bricks, precariously balanced, tumbled into the pit with a sickening rumble. Gasps turned to screams as the crowd realized Dr. Nigam was trapped beneath the debris. “Get him out!” someone shouted, and chaos erupted. People clawed at the dirt, others called for help, but the weight of the earth and bricks was merciless. Despite their frantic efforts, Dr. Nigam couldn’t be saved. The man who’d spent his life pulling others from the brink was gone, buried under the very foundation of his dream.

It’s a gut-punch of a story, isn’t it? Dr. C.B. Nigam was more than a restless lecturer or a skilled surgeon. He was a dreamer, a doer, a man who poured everything into his vision. And though his nursing home never rose from that pit, his story sticks with those who knew him—like a lecture you can’t quite forget, no matter how much you were distracted by his shuffle.