In the sultry summer of 1978, the merit list for the Combined Pre-Medical Test (CPMT) in Uttar Pradesh skyrocketed, leaving many hopefuls in the dust. Only the sharpest minds could snag a seat at the prestigious S.N. Medical College in Agra. Among the chosen few were two young men from Dehradun: Dr. Ajay Khanna, a quick-witted go-getter, and Dr. Jyoti Bohra, (both from st Joseph academy, Dehradun), the laid-back son of Colonel Bohra, whose life seemed to glide on a philosophy of “chalta hai” — it’ll do.
Jyoti, with his mop of unruly hair and clothes that looked like they’d skipped laundry day for a week, was an enigma. Born into privilege gorkhali family, he grew up in a plush residence on EC Road in Dehradun, complete with a sprawling garden and a majestic rudraksh tree that seemed to whisper tales of serenity. His father, a stern yet proud army officer, a colonel at that, had dragged the family through countless postings across India. Jyoti, shaped by this nomadic life, could adapt to anything — a lumpy hostel bed, a scorching Agra summer, bad restaurant food or the chaos of medical school — with an effortless shrug.
“Arre, Jyoti, when was the last time you washed that pyjamas?” Ajay Khanna would tease, leaning back in the lecture theatre with a grin. Jyoti would just chuckle, rolling his tattered notebook into a tight cylinder, his signature move. “Chalta hai, bhai. Why waste time ironing when we’re all gonna be doctors someday?”
That notebook, by the way, was more prop than study aid. Jyoti would carry it to class, scribble nothing, and toss it aside when he got back to the hostel. His approach to studies? Minimal effort, maximum vibes. He wasn’t the innovative type, dreaming up new surgical techniques or burning the midnight oil. For Jyoti, medical school was a rite of passage, not a passion project.
His first year at S.N. Medical College didn’t exactly go as planned. Failing his first professional exams, he was bumped down to the junior batch of 1978, where he met the likes of Dr. P.K. Gupta (that’s you, narrating this tale) and a colorful cast of seniors: the serious Dr. Lata Grover from the 1977 batch, the turbaned and jovial Dr. Mavi from 1976, and the seasoned Dr. Dhananjay Nautiyal from 1975, all hailing from Dehradun. They were a tight-knit crew, bound by their roots and the shared grind of medical school.
Jyoti’s presence in class was hard to miss, not because of his academic prowess but because of his name. “Jyoti Bohra!” the attendance taker would call, expecting a female student to respond. A deep, lazy “Present!” would boom from the back, and heads would turn. The invigilator, squinting suspiciously, would demand, “Stand up, please!” Jyoti would rise, all six feet of him, grinning sheepishly as the class erupted in laughter. “Every day, yaar,” he’d mutter, shaking his head. “They think I’m pulling a proxy.”
Despite his academic hiccups, Jyoti coasted through medical school with that same “time pass” attitude. He earned his MBBS, then an MS in orthopedic surgery, and landed a posting in Rudraprayag, a rugged hill station in the Himalayas. For 20 years, he served there, never once grumbling about the isolation or the lack of resources. Patients would limp into his clinic, clutching their X-rays, only to hear Jyoti’s signature refrain: “Arre, yahan kaha? Kuch nahi hai yahan! Jaldi se Dehradun ke jao!” — Why here? There’s nothing here! Get to Dehradun, quick!
It wasn’t that Jyoti didn’t care; he just didn’t believe in sweating the small stuff. Or the big stuff, for that matter. His lackadaisical approach followed him when he was transferred to Dehradun District Hospital. Dr. P.K. Gupta, practicing in the same city, never saw a single patient who’d been operated on by Jyoti. “Was he even doing surgeries?” Gupta would wonder, half-amused, half-baffled.
When retirement came, Jyoti took it in stride, as he did everything else. He packed up, moved to Poona, and settled into a quiet life with his daughter. A pension kept him comfortable, and he spent his days in the same unhurried rhythm that had defined him since his EC Road childhood. No grand ambitions, no burning desire to leave a legacy. Just Jyoti, the rudraksh tree of a man, rooted in his “chalta hai” way of life.
“Hey, Jyoti,” Ajay Khanna had once asked back in Agra, tossing a pebble at him as they lounged under a hostel tree. “You ever gonna take this doctor thing seriously?”
Jyoti had grinned, rolling his notebook into that familiar cylinder. “Arre, bhai, MBBS ho gaya na? Bas, time pass karte hain. Life’s too short to stress.”
And that, in a nutshell, was Dr. Jyoti Bohra — the doctor who never rushed, never fussed, and somehow, in his own unassuming way, made it through.
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