THE ICON OF IDGAH ROAD, A DOCTOR & HEALER
1915: Birth of Siri Ram Khanna-The Physician/Soldier
Born into the wealth of a banking family, Siri Ram Khanna chose a path of "Service and science" rather than finance. Becoming a Medical Doctor in 1930s in India, was an elite achievement, requiring rigorous study at institutions like King Edward Medical College in Lahore. The shift from the world of dynastic banking of grandfather, to the medical profession and military service of my father reflects the modernization of the Punjabi elite in the early 20th century. The main channel of my existence is the Khanna River. It is a river of intellectual rigor and diagnostic clarity. My father, Dr. S. R. Khanna, was the source steady, deep current that moved with the weight of responsibility. This river didn't just provide life; it set the pace. It was here that I learned that a river must be disciplined within its banks to have the power to carve through stone.
Transition from Banking to Steel Industry
While my grandfather, Lala Hari Chand Khanna were men of ledgers and quiet counting rooms, my father’s younger brother was a man of the furnace. In the bustling industrial district of Lahore, likely near the soot-stained air of Badami Bagh, he turned his back on the family’s traditional banking roots to "tinker" with the future. The air inside his re-rolling mill was thick with the smell of scorched earth and ozone. It was a place where the past was literally melted down to build the future. I can still see the piles of scrap metal, twisted skeletons of old machinery and rusted railway parts, waiting for their rebirth. My uncle was a pioneer of the "Scrap to Steel" movement. He would watch as the furnaces turned that discarded iron into a glowing, molten orange. Then came the magic: the rollers. With a deafening mechanical roar, the white-hot metal was fed through heavy rolling machines. Under my uncle’s watchful eye, what was once a heap of junk was stretched and squeezed into, Straight, glowing ribbons of steel that would soon become the spine of Lahore’s new bungalows. Additionally, sharply defined "L" shapes, cooling from a cherry red to a dull, industrial grey, destined for the window frames and factories of a growing Punjab. While the elders managed the flow of currency, my uncle managed the flow of metal. He was a "tinkerer" in the grandest sense, a man who understood that as the world changed, the Khanna dynasty would not just lend the money to build the city but would provide the very iron and steel that held it upright. While my grandfather, Lala Hari Chand Khanna were men of ledgers and quiet counting rooms, my father’s younger brother was a man of the furnace. In the bustling industrial district of Lahore, likely near the soot-stained air of Badami Bagh, he turned his back on the family’s traditional banking roots to "tinker" with the future. The air inside his re-rolling mill was thick with the smell of scorched earth and ozone. It was a place where the past was literally melted down to build the future. I can still see the piles of scrap metal, twisted skeletons of old machinery and rusted railway parts, waiting for their rebirth. My uncle was a pioneer of the "Scrap to Steel" movement. He would watch as the furnaces turned that discarded iron into a glowing, molten orange. Then came the magic: the rollers. With a deafening mechanical roar, the white-hot metal was fed through heavy rolling machines. Under my uncle’s watchful eye, what was once a heap of junk was stretched and squeezed into, Straight, glowing ribbons of steel that would soon become the spine of Lahore’s new bungalows. Additionally, sharply defined "L" shapes, cooling from a cherry red to a dull, industrial grey, destined for the window frames and factories of a growing Punjab. While the elders managed the flow of currency, my uncle managed the flow of metal. He was a "tinkerer" in the grandest sense, a man who understood that as the world changed, the Khanna dynasty would not just lend the money to build the city but would provide the very iron and steel that held it upright.
Mehra Tributary
Then came the Mehra Tributary, a stream of vibrant energy and distinct heritage that merged into our family’s path. Every tributary brings its own minerals, its own "silt" of experience, and the Mehra influence added a new texture to the Khanna waters, enriching the soil of our family tree and expanding our reach into new territories of thought and social standing. Flowing from a different terrain, the Mehra Tributary rushed in to join the main channel. It brought with it a different mineral content, a unique social energy and cultural silt that darkened the water and made it richer. The Mehra influence ensured that the Khanna River would not remain a narrow mountain stream, but would instead begin to swell, gaining the volume needed to navigate the broader plains of Indian society. The enrichment factor. In the geography of our family, the union of Dr. Siri Ram Khanna and Vishwa Mehra was not just a joining of two people; it was a Bio-Chemical Enrichment of the entire stream. Before this confluence, the Khanna River was a channel of pure, cold, clinical excellence. It was a river of X-rays, diagnostics, and tireless service, necessary, but stark. When Vishwa Mehra flowed into the current, she brought with her the "Mehra Minerals": The Spiritual Nutrient: Her deep connection to the Beas River and her ancestral roots added a layer of tranquility to my father's restless energy. The Cultural Silt: She brought the arts, the aesthetics, and the social grace that "fertilized" the banks of our home on Idgah Road. The Resilience Salt: She provided stability that allowed the river to withstand the "Depression Droughts" and the "Wartime Spates." This Enrichment Factor is why the next generation, my siblings and I didn't just emerge as "Engineers" or "Doctors," but as Innovators. We had the Khanna "Velocity" and the Mehra "Mineralogy." We were "In-Sane" because we carried the pressure of the mountain and the richness of the valley in every drop of our blood. The Confluence of Enrichment: When the Stream Met the Soil. Our mother not just as a "companion," but the Source of Value. Dr. S. R. Khanna: The Kinetic Energy, The Flow. Vishwa Mehra: The Enrichment Factor, The Substance.
1942: The Union with Vishwa Mehra
Dr. Siri Ram Khanna’s marriage to Vishwa Mehra in 1942 was a union of two resilient families. This puts his early career and marriage right in the heart of World War II and the final years of the British Raj. The Mehra Legacy: Vishwa’s upbringing by a "dedicated father" Mr. Kishori Lal Mehra, after the early loss of her mother suggests a household of deep discipline and close sibling bonds. The Five Siblings: This explains the wide network of aunts and uncles that likely played a role in our early life. The eldest of the three sisters is Vishwa, then Santosh, & Kaval. The two brothers were Amrit Lal & Pira Lal. Santosh got married to Khurana of Calcutta, giving us three cousins, Rajan Renu & Pintu. Kaval and was married to Verma of Jullundur & they produced two more cousins for us to mingle, Kapila & Kuldeep. The two brothers had two children each. In all we were 13 kids of varying ages & temperaments to help us grow up in a congenial manner. Most of my quality time was spent with Kapila in various locations from Margherita to Ambala & Calcutta.
Doctor’s army stint at Gujranwala
Our father’s posting to Gujranwala just north of Lahore as an Army Doctor was a prestigious assignment. Government-provided housing for Army officers in the "Cantonment" areas was grand bungalow, typically featuring high ceilings, sprawling verandas, and manicured gardens. It was a world away from the crowded streets of the old city. Here, the "beautiful, educated wife" and two sons including myself lived a life of comfort and status, supported by the structure of the military. Moving from the luxury of a childhood with a live pony to the harrowing "run" across the border in just a few months. The physician transitioned from an Army bungalow to a single table and chair by a railway station, which is a powerful testament to the resilience of the Punjabi spirit. From the Lahore Mansions to Gujranwala bungalow. Just like JRD Tata drafted into the French Army, Dr, S R Khanna too drafted into the Indian Army for a short stint, in the capacity of a medical doctor. For his two small children it was a big jump & exciting to run around in the vast grounds of the bungalow. Our father even got us a real living toy, a mini colt to play with. I am told that my elder brother Anil would make me ride on the colt by tying me up snugly on its back.
1944 - First child - Anil
The story of the Khanna family’s modern legacy begins with my elder brother and mentor, Anil Khanna. Born in 1944 in Lahore, Anil’s path was forged in the prestigious classrooms of Convent School, Ambala Cantt, and later, Lawrence School, Sanawar. His journey into leadership took a definitive turn when he cleared the 26th course to join the National Defense Academy (NDA) in Poona, eventually commissioning into the Regiment of Artillery in the Indian Army.
1947 – The second child – Rohit
Born in Gujranwala in the Palatial bungalows, exploring the world under the watchful eyes of my elder brother. This event happened exactly after 100 years of birth of Thomas Alva Edison, the inventor, 11th Feb 1847. By the time I was 6 months, our family of 13 members had to flee, with whatever little we could carry to save our lives. We travelled by bullock carts, train & on foot the treacherous path to Ambala Cantt. The rest is history which will unfold gradually in the following chapters. My education was on the battlefield where my mother "put her foot down." Against the wishes of traditionalists, she sent us to the best: The Lawrence School, Sanawar. Those hills gave me my bearings, discipline, time-bound routines, and self-confidence. In 1967, I was a twenty-something in-plant trainee, small against the backdrop of TISCO’s towering blast furnaces. My mission for those six months was to learn the anatomy of a giant. To a trainee, a man like Darius, a consummate metallurgist, was the human personification of the river’s force. He didn't just walk the plant; he commanded the rhythm of the work. It was under his gaze that I began to see the Rivers of Wastage, the idle time between shifts, the heat loss in the furnaces, the redundant movements of a laborer. He was the one who sharpened my eyes to see that an engineer’s true value isn't in adding more, but in losing less. This is where my personal story reaches its peak. I didn't just join the Tata River; I brought the Khanna river’s discipline to it. I used the Khanna lens of efficiency to help the Mother River of the Tatas conserve those Rivers of Wastage. In my hands, every drop of wasted time, material, or energy was reclaimed, turning "waste" into "wealth" and driving even greater industrial profits for the dynasty.
How & when the two Rivers evolved & overflowed
1850–1900…Jamshedji Tata → Founder = B. N. Khanna
1900–1930…Dorabjee Tata → Builder = H. C. Khanna
1940-1990…J.R.D. Tata → Modernizer = Dr. S. R. Khanna
Productivity Enhancer’s <– Russi Mody = Rohit Khanna
Adoptees <- Naval Tata = Devaki & Deepak
1990–2010…Ratan Tata → Globalizer = Nitin Khanna
Five O’clock Sentinel - Path to Patel Park
My mother, as his "beloved" companion,
always accompanied him on these walks. Since she was the eldest of five and he
the eldest of seven, they were clearly the "commanders" of the
extended family. Long
before the first fish arrived at Machi Mohalla or the military bugles sounded
at the base, my father, the physique-conscious physician, began his daily
ritual. Discipline was the marrow of his bones. Every morning, at precisely 5
am, he and my mother wake up in the darkness of dawn. They dressed quietly in the
pre-dawn hush, a private partnership of health and habit. They were a striking
pair as they set out for their brisk walk. My father, even in his exercise,
maintained the posture of a man who respected the body as a machine that
required constant care. Most mornings, I would join them. While they maintained
a steady, purposeful pace, I was the restless out rider, running and skipping
ahead, covering the ground twice as we traveled four kilometers out of the
township.
Our destination was Patel Park, a verdant lung far
from the industrial soot and the bazaar’s congestion. In that era, the walk to
the park was a journey through the "frontier" of the town, where the
paved roads gave way to open spaces and the air tasted of morning dew and
eucalyptus. By the
time the sun began to peek over the horizon, we had already conquered our four
kilometers. For my father, these walks weren't just about fitness; they were a
mental clearing of the decks before the heavy responsibilities of the clinic,
and the Sola hat took over. For me, those morning runs were a lesson in
endurance, watching my parents walk side-by-side, a picture of
"beloved" unity, building the stamina that would carry our family
through sixty years in Ambala.
The Fire Station of Ambala Cantt was, and remains, a
quintessential landmark. Situated in a town defined by military precision and
the constant risk of bazaar fires, that station was more than just a building;
it was a symbol of readiness. Passing it during your 5 am walks to Patel Park,
you would have seen it in its most pristine state, the quiet before the day’s
heat and activity began.
Passing the Ambala Fire
Station
As we made our way toward Patel Park, our
four-kilometer route was marked by specific urban anchors. The most prominent
among them was the Ambala Fire Station. At 5 am, the station was a study in stillness and discipline, much
like my father himself. In the soft pre-dawn light, the massive garage doors
would often be shut, or perhaps one would be rolled up to reveal the gleaming
red "engines" of the era. These trucks, with their polished brass
bells and heavy canvas hoses, stood like coiled springs, ready to roar into the
narrow lanes of the Cloth Bazaar or the timber yards at a moment’s notice. For a child running ahead
of his parents, the Fire Station was a place of awe. It represented a different
kind of "protection" than my father’s medical bag. While he healed
the individual, the men at the station protected the entire community from the
"fire-demons" that could swallow a bazaar in minutes. We would pass the station,
my mother by his side, and me darting across the road, and the sight of those
red trucks served as a reminder of the order and safety of our town. It was a
landmark of reassurance, a fixed point in our daily journey that signaled we
were leaving the dense "Machi Mohalla" zone and moving toward the
open, green expanse of the park. The
Morning Prime. My father wasn't just a consumer of health; he was a
"Maintenance Engineer" of his own vessel. He knew that a stagnant
pool breeds disease, so he used his fists to ensure the "Abdominal
Eddy" was spinning before he started his day. It wasn't a fallacy of
intent; it was a Mechanical Prayer to his own biology. He taught his patients
that the body is a machine that needs to be "manually started" every
morning.
Ritual
of the "Polite Hammering on the abdomen
After the "Spring Spate" of
apple juice, my father was essentially trying to "Crank the Reel" of
his digestive and endocrine systems. The primary fallacy lies in the Topography
of the Gut. The pancreas is a Deep Reservoir it is retroperitoneal, meaning it
sits far back behind the stomach and the intestines, tucked right against the
spine. The Physical Barrier: To reach the pancreas with a fist, one would have
to push through the abdominal wall, the momentum (fatty layer), and the
stomach. Reality: "Hammering, no matter how polite, is unlikely to
physically "massage" the pancreas itself. The force is absorbed by
the "Surface Tributaries" (the abdominal muscles and the small
intestine). The Truth: Stimulating the "Peristaltic Flow" While he
might not have been touching the pancreas, your father was achieving Mechanical
Stimulation of the gut. Waking the Pumps. The gentle thumping creates pressure
waves that move through the liquid-filled "pipes" of the intestines.
This can trigger Peristalsis, the muscular contractions that move waste along
the channel. Blood Flow, Vasodilation. The "Polite Hammering" acts
like a local massage, increasing blood flow to the abdominal wall. In my river
theme, this is like clearing the silt from the banks to ensure the main current
moves faster. As a doctor, my father understood the Vagus Nerve. This nerve is
the "Master Control Valve" for the parasympathetic nervous system
rest and digest. By focusing his attention and rhythmic pressure on his
abdomen, he was likely signaling his brain to "Open the Sluice Gates"
for digestion. Even if the fist didn't hit the pancreas, the Intent of the
doctor acted as a "Psychological Catalyst." If he believed he was
charging the battery of his pancreas, his body likely responded by regulating
insulin more efficiently through the "Magic of the Mind."
Morning Dew Ritual and
Golden Nectar
I
remember those holidays vividly, the rare and precious moments when the entire
family was gathered. The routine was sacred. After the doctors returned from
their morning walks, invigorated by the fresh air, we would all congregate for
the first rite of the day: fresh apple juice on an empty stomach. The
early morning apple juice ritual, specifically on an empty stomach after a
brisk walk, is more than a nostalgic memory; it is a sophisticated health
practice. Why an Empty Stomach? There is a profound physiological reason why
this was the perfect start to our day: Maximum Nutrient Absorption: On an empty
stomach, the body doesn't have to compete with complex proteins or fats. The
vitamins, C and B-complex and minerals in the apple juice are flash-absorbed
into the bloodstream, providing an immediate cellular jumpstart. The Pectin
Effect: Apples are rich in pectin, a soluble fiber. Consuming this after a walk
helps sweep the digestive tract, aiding in detoxification practice the doctors
in our family surely valued for long-term gut health. Natural Electrolyte
Replenishment: After the exertion of a morning walk, the natural sugars and
potassium in the apple juice act as a biological battery, restoring glycogen
levels without the "crash" associated with processed sugars.
Alkalizing the System: While apples are acidic outside the body, they have an
alkalizing effect once metabolized. Starting the day Alkaline is a traditional
defense against inflammation. Symbolic Integrity. For us, this wasn't just
about nutrition; it was about alignment. Just as I ensured the structural
integrity of my engineering projects, this ritual ensured the biological
integrity of our family. It was the moment when my brother’s Army discipline
met the medical wisdom of our relatives. We were fueling our engines with the
best possible resources before the heat of the day began. Lying down in beds
there together, sipping that golden juice in the crisp morning air of Ambala
Cantt we weren't just drinking juice, we were absorbing a legacy of health.
Holistic Healing vs.
Clinical Treatment
Exemplary bedside manners & compassion. Holistic
healing assumes that the mind, body, and spirit are interconnected. If a
physician has poor bedside manners, they are essentially treating the
"body" while stressing the "mind." This creates an internal
conflict that slows recovery.
The personality of the doctor is the first or the last dose of the
medicine. The placebo effect is
present in every active treatment. A drug might be 70%
effective on its own, but with a trusting relationship and a positive outlook,
that effectiveness can jump significantly. In some cases, like chronic pain or
mild depression, the ritual of care can indeed be as powerful as chemistry. The steps of the clinic on
Idgah Road became a leveler of society. In a city like Tata Nagar, where rank
was often determined by one’s grade in the company, my father’s clinic was a
neutral territory. Whether a
patient arrived in a car or walked barefoot through the red dust, the unveiling
was the same. The Sister or Brother he greeted was a human being first, and a
financial ledger last. This was his Social Engineering. He understood that a
patient who is worried about how to pay for their medicine cannot fully absorb
the cure. If a
patient’s pockets were as empty as their health was poor, he would lean in with
that polished grace and say the words that likely healed more than any tonic: Pay what you can... and God
bless you.
Nominal Fee and the
Engineer’s Perspective
As an engineer, I look at systems of
sustainability. My father’s practice wasn't business in the modern sense; it
was a service ecosystem. The fee
was kept nominally not to maximize profit, but to ensure
accessibility. The "Pay what you can" Clause was his way of
maintaining the patient's dignity. He didn't offer handouts; he offered a way
for the poor to contribute what they could, preserving their self-respect while
ensuring they received the same high-level care as the wealthy. I watched this from the sidelines,
often comparing it to the industrial world. In the Tata works, efficiency was
measured by output versus cost. But in the clinic, my father measured
efficiency by relief versus suffering.
He taught me that highly polished bedside
manners are worthless if they are only for sale to the highest bidder. True
healing, the kind that feels like a miracle, happens when the physician removes
the barrier of cost and replaces it with the bond of kinship. The Power of the "Care
Effect". Research
shows that the relationship between a patient and a clinician isn't just a
social nicety; it has physiological consequences. This is often called the "Care
Effect" or the meaning response. Stress Reduction: A compassionate physician can lower a patient's
cortisol levels. High cortisol suppresses the immune system, so by simply being
empathetic, a doctor literally "unlocks" the body 3’s natural ability
to heal. Expectation and Neurochemistry: When a patient feels seen and
heard by a highly polished physician, the brain releases endorphins and
dopamine. These are the body's natural painkillers and mood elevators.
Religion of the
Stethoscope
In the traditional world of Tata Nagar, people
went to temples, mosques, and churches to find God. But my father never joined
them. He didn't seek the divine in stone idols or grand cathedrals. For him,
the divine was seated across the desk from him, coughing, feverish, or broken. His Religion was Healing.
He worked twenty hours a day, every day, without
a single holiday. To a standard observer, this sounds like a sentence of hard
labor. To an Engineer, it sounds like a machine running at 100% capacity
without rest. But to my father, it was a Self-Sustaining Loop. Physics of
Passion, where Hobby meets Profession. In engineering, we look for "perpetual motion", a
machine that generates enough energy to keep itself going. My father found it.
When our passion is perfectly aligned with our profession, we don't "spend"
energy; we generate it.
The Input: The suffering of a patient. The Process: The
"unveiling," the "loving names," and the medicine. The Output: The relief of
the patient and the "God bless you." That output fed back
into him, providing the fuel for the next twenty hours. He didn't need a
holiday to "recharge" because he was being recharged by every
"Sister" and "Brother" he helped. He didn't need to visit a
temple to find peace because he was creating Reiki followed by peace with his
own hands, a born Reiki Master.
Invisible Altar at Temple
of Clinic - Work as Worship
He saw the "Divine" in the anatomy of
suffering. His stethoscope was his prayer beads; his clinic was his cathedral.
By removing the "Mental Tension" of religious dogma and replacing it
with the Service of Humanity, he cleared his path of all resistance.
This was his "Gross Karma" in action.
He wasn't working to buy a bigger car or a higher title, those were the
"miscellaneous" results that my mother’s foresight managed. He was
working to fulfill a contract with his own soul. Standing in the shadows of his
clinic, I learned the most important lesson for my own career: The Big Shots of
industry might wear the crowns, but the man who works for the love of the work
is the only one who truly owns the kingdom. This is why I played my
Second Innings today with such vigor. Like him, I am not looking for the exit;
I am looking to ensure every ounce of my "Glue of Karma" is used for
the purpose it was intended.
Healer of Machi
Mohalla
While we children were busy taming the
"iron horse" in the streets of Saddar Bazaar, my father was building
a different kind of landmark on Idgah Road. Known to everyone as Machi Mohalla,
the area was the vibrant, chaotic heart of the local fish market. It was an unlikely place
for medical practice, yet it was exactly where he was needed most. The clinic
sat amidst the rhythmic calls of fishmongers and the bustling trade of the
morning catch. The air there was thick with the scent of the market, but inside
the clinic, there was the sharp, clean smell of antiseptic and the calm
presence of a man who had seen it all. His choice of location was a testament to his role as a
"people’s doctor." He didn't just treat the elite; he was the primary
caretaker for the shopkeepers, the laborers, and the families who lived in the
dense alleys of the mohalla. This was why we were "living credit
cards", the fishmonger whose child he had healed or the cloth merchant he
had comforted was never going to ask a Khanna child for a few rupees for a
sweet or a spool of thread.
The clinic on Idgah Road wasn't just a place of medicine; it was
the source of the immense social capital that allowed our family to thrive in a
new land. Even as he sat in that small office surrounded by the noise of the
fish market, he maintained the dignity of the Khanna name that had begun
generations ago in the banking houses of Lahore.
Doctor on house
Calls in the Dedicated Rickshaw
My father making his rounds in a dedicated
rickshaw added a beautiful layer of "old-world" prestige to his
medical practice. In the mid-20th century, having a dedicated rickshaw Wala
wasn't just about transport; it was about a trusted partnership. These men were
often the extensions of the doctor themselves, knowing every shortcut, every
patient’s doorstep, and being the first to witness the urgency of a midnight
call. While the
children of the house were mastering the "monster" ladies' bicycle,
my father moved through Ambala Cantt with a different kind of grace. As a
prominent doctor, his work didn't end at the door of the clinic in Machi
Mohalla. Much of his healing happened in the homes of the townspeople, and for
this, he relied on a specialized mode of transport: the tricycle rickshaw. In those days, my father
had his own dedicated rickshaw, Walas. Their names were Sitaram & Sunder.
Sunder would additionally run the morning school duty of dropping all four of
us to the convent school & back in the afternoons. These weren't just men for
hire; they were a vital part of his medical team. The rickshaw itself was a
"tricycle wheelable pedaled mover", a sturdy, high-seated contraption
that allowed my father to maintain his dignity and professional appearance even
while navigating the uneven lanes of the Cantonment. I remember the sight of
him setting off on a house call. He would sit perched on the seat, his medical
bag by his side, as the rickshaw Wala navigated the busy intersections where
the military trucks met the bazaar traffic. These men knew the rhythm of my
father’s life. They knew which houses required a quiet approach in the middle
of the night and which required speed when a fever had spiked. Being pedaled through the
streets by a loyal companion, a moving symbol of care and reliability in a town
that never stopped moving. To the people of Ambala, the sight of
the Doctor's rickshaw turning onto their street was a sign of immediate relief.
It meant that help had arrived, and it was carried on three wheels and a
foundation of absolute trust.
The sola hat, pith helmet and the reddish-brown cubical bag
are the perfect finishing touches for this portrait of our father. That hat was
a powerful symbol, a carryover from the colonial era that, when worn by an
Indian doctor, signaled authority, education, and a tireless commitment to duty
regardless of the blistering Punjab sun.
Icon of Idgah Road - Sola Hat
& Reddish Bag
If you stood at the corner of Machi Mohalla and
looked down the dusty stretch of Idgah Road, you could spot my father long
before you could see his face. He had a "trademark" that made him
unmistakable in the crowded landscape of Ambala Cantt.
Perched atop his head was his Sola hat. It was
more than just protection from the fierce North Indian sun; it was the crown of
a healer. White or tan, with its distinct wide brim and structured crown, the
hat signaled his status as a man of science and a professional of the highest
order. Amidst the turbans of the merchants and the berets of the soldiers, the
Sola hat was the beacon of Dr. Khanna. Then there was the bag. While we children had our bicycles, my
father had his reddish-brown cubical medical bag. It was a sturdy,
leather-bound box of wonders that lived at his side in the rickshaw. Inside
that bag was the kit of a mid-century lifesaver: the stethoscope, the
thermometer, blood pressure instrument and the small glass vials of medicine
that smelled of a clean, sharp hope. That bag was a symbol of his readiness. Whether it was a midnight
call to a feverish child in a narrow alley or a scheduled visit to a grander
home, the "reddish-brown cube" and the "Sola hat" were the
twin pillars of his identity. Together, they told the townspeople of Ambala
that the doctor was on his way, and with him, the legacy of a family that had
survived the Great Depression, the World Wars, and the Partition, only to stand
tall again on the streets of a new India.
Built-in charity
worked as the Placebo of healing
In the
shadow of the blast furnaces of Tata Nagar, everything was built on the logic
of strength, precision, and iron. As an engineer, I was trained to understand
the world through structural integrity and measurable forces. Yet my first and
most profound lessons in "human engineering" didn't come from the
Tata workshops, but from the small, humming space of my father’s clinic. I watched him navigate the
maladies of the townspeople with a toolset no textbook could provide. He knew a
secret that many in the clinical world forget: the body does not exist in a
vacuum. Before he reached for a stethoscope or a prescription pad, he performed
a ritual of "unveiling." He would look at a weary laborer or a worried woman and, before
addressing the cough or the fever, he would call them by their truest names:
"Auntie, how is your spirit today?" "Brother, tell me where it
hurts." "Sister, sit with me." By the time he began the physical examination, he had already
started the healing process. He wasn't just a doctor; he was a bridge-builder.
He understood that while the medicine might provide chemistry, it was his
bedside manner, that polished, loving kinship, that provided the permission for
the patient to get well. To him, and eventually to me, the medicine was the placebo;
the relationship was the cure.
I grew up at the intersection of these two worlds: the rigid,
magnificent steel of the Tata dynasty and the fluid, soulful compassion of a
man who treated every stranger like blood. The Engineer from Tata Nagar, the city itself must become a
character, a massive, humming backdrop of iron and fire. Keeping my father in
the shadows creates a beautiful, lingering influence; he isn't the focus of the
lens, but he is the light source from around the corner that softens the hard
edges of the industrial world. This revelation is the missing piece of my
father's "placebo" effect. It wasn't just the loving names or the
bedside manner; it was a deep-seated moral integrity. By practicing
"built-in charity," he removed the one thing that blocks healing more
than any malady: the stress of debt. In the shadow of the massive Tata Steel hierarchy, where every
bolt and man-hour was accounted for, father operated on a different currency
altogether.
Doctor’s Apprentice - The
Vitamin C Miracle
As a young engineer, I was taught that every
machine requires an external power source, coal for the furnace, electricity
for the mill. I watched my father and realized he had built a Perpetual Motion
Engine within himself. He didn't
"spend" energy on his patients; he "received" it from them.
Each time he used a "loving name" to calm a frightened soul or
applied the "placebo" of his polished manners to a weary worker, the
relief he saw in their eyes acted as a recharge. He didn't need a holiday to
recover from his work because his work was his recovery. In the Khanna
household, the clinic didn’t end at the gates of Machi Mohalla; it was a 24/7
affair that followed my father home to Regiment Bazaar. As the second son, I
often found myself acting as his shadow, an informal apprentice and helper. I
watched the way he spoke, the way he calmed the anxiety, and the way he treated
the human spirit as much as the human body. One afternoon, the doctor was away on a house call, perched in his
rickshaw somewhere in the Cantonment. A patient arrived at our home in a state
of high agitation, demanding a solution "immediately." He was a man
in a hurry, convinced that only a pill could save him. Looking back, I suppose
some of my father’s tinkering spirit, the same spirit that led my uncle to roll
iron, took over. I stepped into the role. I went to the medical supplies and
retrieved six simple Vitamin C pills. With the gravitas of a seasoned physician,
I handed them over with strict instructions: Take one pill, three times a day,
for exactly two days. The man
left, his heart lightened by the "medicine" in his hand. Four days later, he
returned, beaming with health. He sought out my father to report a "total
cure." As the man praised the effectiveness of the treatment, I leaned in
and whispered the truth into my father’s ear: "I gave him Vitamin C." My father didn't scold me.
Perhaps he even felt quiet pride. The patient paid his bill and walked away
fully healed, proving my father’s point: the body, when given a little nudge
and a lot of confidence, is its own greatest pharmacy. I learned the secret of
the "Natural ICU" firsthand, sometimes, the best medicine is simply
the belief that you are being cared for.
Preventive Medicine, My Father’s Rituals
If my grandfather represented the resilience of
the spirit during the storm of Partition, my father represented the
fortification of the temple. He was a doctor who lived by a code of
biological integrity. He understood that the world was full of invisible
"pollutants", not just the turbulent emotions I’ve described, but the
literal pathogens of the street. His daily rituals were a masterclass in
clinical discipline brought into the home: The Surgical Wash: Long before
"contactless" became a modern buzzword, my father lived it. He would
lather his hands with soap, scrub with the precision of a surgeon preparing for
a bypass, and then, with a practiced flick of the arm, close the tap with his
elbow. Next Air Dry them. He never used a communal towel, which he saw
as a bridge for bacteria. Instead, he would hold his hands aloft, letting the
ceiling fan air-dry them. It was a moment of forced stillness before every
meal. The Pink Solution: Our kitchen was a laboratory. Every fruit and
vegetable was subjected to a ritual bath in a Potassium Permanganate, KMnO4
solution. We watched the water turn a deep, royal purple, a chemical barrier
ensuring that the "toxic/dirty" elements of the outside world never
crossed our threshold. The NO That Built a YES. His refusal to eat
outside, no fine dining, no celebratory marriage feasts, and certainly no
street food, wasn't about a lack of social desire. It was about Biological
Sovereignty. He refused to outsource his health to a stranger’s kitchen.
These details provide a wonderful sensory contrast: the purple water of the
vegetables, the whirring of the ceiling fan over his hands, and the click of
the elbow on the tap. By saying "No" to the world's risks, he was
saying "Yes" to a body that never had to enter a hospital ICU. He
lived in his "Natural ICU" every single day. He understood that
purity is the ultimate form of power.
Alchemy
of the Dal Bowl - Golden Flush
My father wasn't just eating; he was
performing an Industrial Extraction. He knew that the "Raw Material"
(the lentils) was useless without the "Processing Agent" the lemon.
This habit perfectly reflects his broader life philosophy: it’s not just about
what you have knowledge; it’s about how you activate it to make it flow through
your life. This is high-level "Hydraulic
Maintenance" of the human engine! I haven't just inherited the genes; I
inherited the Internal Engineering Department.
Chemistry of the Lentil Surge, Vitamin C Catalyst. This is where my father’s
medical insight meets perfect "Nutritional Engineering." To the
casual observer, it’s just a splash of citrus for taste, but to the In-Sane
mind, it is a sophisticated Bio-Chemical Catalyst. Adding lemon juice Vitamin
C/Citric Acid to lentils Iron/Proteins is essentially a "Sluice-Gate
Strategy" for our blood. In our "Rivers" theme, think of iron as
a heavy, metallic sediment found in the "Lentil Stream." Left alone,
this sediment is difficult for the body to "dredge" and move into the
bloodstream.
Iron
Bio-availability Problem
Lentils are rich in Non-Heme Iron.
Chemically, this iron is a bit stubborn, it’s like a heavy silt that wants to
sink to the bottom of the riverbed (the intestines) rather than being absorbed.
Without a catalyst, your body only absorbs about 5-10% of the iron in
plant-based foods. The wisdom of the doctor was to ensure that the "Iron
Current" didn't just pass through the system and out to sea (waste). The
Citric Reduction, The "Siphon" Effect. When my father squeezed that
lemon, he was introducing Ascorbic Acid (Vitamin C). Chemical Reaction: Vitamin
C acts on the iron, changing its molecular form from ferric to ferrous. The
Result: In this "Reduced" state, the iron becomes highly soluble, its
"dissolves" into the water of the digestive current. It’s like
turning heavy rocks into fine salt that can be easily siphoned through the
"Levees" of the intestinal walls. The Multiplier: Studies show that
adding Vitamin C can increase iron absorption by nearly 300%. Lentils contain
"Phytates", natural compounds that act like "Dams," locking
up minerals and preventing them from flowing into your blood. The Citric Acid
in the lemon juice acts as a "Demolition Charge" against these
phytate dams. It breaks the bonds, releasing the trapped minerals and allowing
the "Nutrient Flow" to reach its maximum velocity.
Protocol of Wheat handling - lesson in Engineering
In
the Doctor’s household in Ambala Cantt, health was not an accident; it was a
well-engineered outcome. This Ambala ritual was a precursor to the Industrial
Engineering I would later practice at TISCO. It was a closed-loop system: Raw
Material Inspection, the 50 kg bag. Process Monitoring the State Rickshaw to
the Mill. Outsourced Manufacturing, The Gian Bakery. Inventory Management, The
Mother’s lock and key. This childhood ritual was my first introduction to
Structural Integrity. If the wheat wasn't washed, the chapati / cookie would
fail. If the eye wasn't watchful at the mill, the quality would drop. This exercise
of the household directly IN-formed the wisdom of the steel plant and,
eventually, the billion-dollar logic of my nephews. Even a billionaire's
success starts with a 50 kg bag of clean wheat and the discipline to handle it
right with clinical precision.
A Supply Chain of
Love – engineered cookie
In the Khanna household, nutrition was treated with the same
precision as a banking ledger. We didn't just buy food; we engineered it. My
father, with his physician’s eye for hygiene, would visit the granary himself
to secure a 50 kg bag of the finest wheat, a half-yearly reserve for the clan.
A beautiful, tactile memory. It perfectly captures the Engineering of the
Household, where quality control was not just a business practice, but a
maternal ritual. It was a supply chain of love, from the granary to the Gian
bakery. A memory refined to emphasize the discipline, hygiene, and the
"rationed joy" of our childhood in Ambala.
Quality Control Protocol
Purification:
Batches of 15 to 20 kg were hand-washed and sun-dried until they shone like
gold. The Watchful Eye: One of us would accompany the grain in the State
Rickshaw to the flour mill. We were the "Quality Inspectors,"
ensuring that our pristine wheat was milled into flour under our own watchful
eyes, never tainted, never swapped. The Alchemy: Periodically, a specific
"formula" of this flour, pure ghee, sugar, and milk would be
transported just 100 yards away to the Gian Bakery in Machi Mohalla for batch
manufacturing of Special Cookies. We could choose size & shape of our
cookies.
Rationed Reward
These
were not mere snacks; they were the "Best Cookies of a Lifetime." But
in a house of four children, abundance required discipline. Once they returned
from the bakery, the cookies were placed under lock and key. My mother was the
ultimate Governor of the Treasury. She rationed them out: exactly two pieces
per day, per child. That crunch was more than just flavor; it was the taste of
a well-ordered universe. It taught us that the best things in life are worth
the wait, worth the work, and worth the discipline of the "two-piece
limit." Even back then, we didn't just eat; we managed a supply chain that
ensured the Most Fortunate Souls remained the healthiest ones, too.
Hair cut ritual
When the
doctor needed a haircut, the family’s domesticated, obedient barber was
summoned on a house call, traveling from the Regiment bazaar to our home in the
Saddar bazaar. Hygiene was paramount: before the barber could begin his work,
his tools, the clippers, combs, and scissors, were subjected to a thorough wash
in Dettol-infused water. Only after this ritual of cleansing were the father
and his three sons permitted to receive their safe, orderly haircuts, with
sanitized front aprons supplied by our mother.
General & Commander of Medicine
& Body
Medical Resurrections
He was often the "last word" in medicine for
Ambala, providing a level of personalized, high stakes care that even larger
institutions respected. Dr. S. R. Khanna was a name synonymous with profound
clinical trust and pioneering healthcare. he operated out of his clinic on
Idgah Road in Ambala Cantt, a location that became a landmark for families
across the region. His credentials, BSc, MBBS represented a traditional,
rigorous medical foundation, but his reputation far exceeded what was on his
nameplate. While modern degrees have become alphabet soup, the BSc, MBBS of our
father’s generation represented a deep, holistic understanding of the sciences
before entering the art of healing. His
life was the ultimate 'Précis', cutting through the chaos of disease to find
the singular truth of a cure. The "God-Sent" Algorithm. My father’s
success wasn't "Luck." It was a high-level Production Engineering of
the human spirit. He followed a 4-step "Divine Protocol". First the Biological Audit, He didn't just
look at the disease; he studied the "Capacity to Withstand." He
assessed the patient’s Industrial Strength, so could this body handle the shock
of the cure. Second the Guardians' Covenant, He secured the Permission. This
was the "Legal Ledger." He made the family partners in the miracle.
Thirdly, the High-Dose Shot, He didn't play it safe with "Average
Grades" of medicine. He went for the "All-In" move, the high
dose that others were too afraid to administer. Finally, the Divine Trust
combined pharmaceutical chemistry with a 100% frequency of faith in the
Indweller. In the Machi Mohalla Mansion, there was no separation between
"Life" and "Work." My father’s clinic was the heart of the
home, a laboratory of human resilience where the knowledge of the High-Dose
Shot was born. My father didn’t just practice medicine; he managed a Production
Line of Healing. From 8:00 AM until the late hours of the night, he was the
"Indweller" of that clinic. The Diagnostic In-Sight was phenomenal He
could look at a patient and see the "Structural Integrity" or lack
thereof in seconds. He didn't need a thousand tests. He had the 3D Picture of
human health in his mind. The Decisive Strike came when a patient was failing,
he didn't hesitate. He administered the "High-Dose Shot", a bold,
technical intervention that brought people back from the brink of death.
Perception & Vision of Dr. S. R. Khanna
My father’s clinic on Idgah Road was
more than a place of healing; it was a theater of extraordinary intuition. I
remember watching the patients as they struggled, toiling up the stairs toward
his consultation room. Even before they reached his desk, the process of
healing had begun. My father didn't just look at a patient; he perceived them.
It was as if he X-rayed them with his vision the moment they came into view and
CAT-scanned them with his brain waves as they moved. By the time a patient sat
in the chair before him, he had already integrated a silent, holographic map of
their total body. A magnificent, almost cinematic image. It perfectly captures
the "mythic" quality of a legendary diagnostic physician, the idea
that his clinical eye was faster and more precise than the machines that would
eventually follow. He saw the hitch in a breath, the subtle pallor of the skin,
and the rhythm of a labored step, weaving these fragments into a definitive
diagnosis long before a single lab test was ordered. Here science meets a
near-supernatural instinct. The “Total Body” Map made him see the whole person,
not just the symptoms. The Consultant's Consultant – BSc. MBBS. It is a rare
and remarkable feat for a private practitioner to be the "Consultant's
Consultant" for a premier institute like PGI Chandigarh. PGI was the
academic and surgical giant, but for complex internal medicine and
"hopeless" cases where the diagnosis was a riddle, the referral often
flowed back to my father. The Professional Respect, this spoke to a level of
mastery that transcended institutional hierarchy.
Referral
of Last Resort by PGI to Dr. Khanna
PGI
has long been the premier medical institution of North India, yet it was common
knowledge that for certain critical cases, their own specialists would refer
patients back to Dr. S. R. Khanna. This unusual "reverse referral"
highlighted several key aspects of his practice: Diagnostic Intuition, He was
known for a "sharp clinical eye" that could often pinpoint issues
that complex machines might miss. Community Pillar, His presence on Idgah Road
made him an accessible yet formidable figure in the local matrix of Ambala
Cantt's history. My father was known for "The Healing Touch" and an
almost uncanny diagnostic intuition. His clinic on Idgah Road wasn't just a
doctor's office; it was a sanctuary. Patients didn't just go there for
medicine; they went there for the certainty that only Dr. Khanna could provide.
The Master Healer. By 1980, my father had moved beyond “Medical Trade" and
into the realm of Clinical Intuition, what we call the insight of the soul. In
the medical world of Ambala, father was called "God-sent" because he
saw a living man where other doctors saw a dying patient. In the medical geography of Chandigarh, PGI, Post
Graduate Institute of Medical Education and Research, is the apex of
healthcare, so the fact that they referred their most "critical"
patients to Doctor Khanna speaks volumes about his expertise and the respect he
commanded. While I was honing my skills on the football field and mastering the
art of the précis at Holy Redeemer, there was another "matrix" at
play, the medical one. In Chandigarh and the surrounding regions, PGI was the
final word in medicine. However, even the brilliant minds at PGI had a
"referral of last resort." Whenever they encountered cases that were
truly critical, patients on the knife's edge where standard protocols weren't
enough, they were referred to Doctor Khanna. He was more than just a physician;
he was a specialist whom the specialists trusted. Seeing those referrals come
through was a constant reminder of the level of excellence and the weight of
responsibility that came with being at the top of one's field. It taught me
early on that true science isn't just about what one knows, but about being the
person others turn to when the situation is most dire. By the start of the 1990s,
the "Structural Integrity" of my father’s reputation had reached a
fever pitch. He had become the Endpoint of the Medical Supply Chain. When the
prestigious PGI Chandigarh, the pinnacle of North Indian medicine reached the
limit of their textbooks, they sent the "Complicated Cases" to the
bungalow in Ambala. PGI has long been the premier medical institution of North
India, yet it was common knowledge that for certain critical cases, their own
specialists would refer patients back to Dr. S. R. Khanna. This unusual
"reverse referral" highlighted several key aspects of his practice: Diagnostic
Intuition, He was known for a "sharp clinical eye" that could often
pinpoint issues that complex machines might miss. Community Pillar, His
presence on Idgah Road made him an accessible yet formidable figure in the
local matrix of Ambala Cantt's history. My father was known for "The
Healing Touch" and an almost uncanny diagnostic intuition. His clinic on
Idgah Road wasn't just a doctor's office; it was a sanctuary. Patients didn't
just go there for medicine; they went there for the certainty that only Dr.
Khanna could provide.
Lazarus Effect
Invariably, the patient who had been
written off as "Waste" would sit up and walk out of the clinic. This
is the Alchemy of Waste in its most literal form. He took the "Scrap"
the dying and turned it back into "Prime Steel" the living. To the
neighbors, he was a magician. To the PGI, he was a phenomenon. But to me, his
son, he was proving the family motto, God works through human beings, if we let
go the of our Ego. The Mathematical Balance of the Legend, The PGI with High
technology, but zero hope. The Doctor took High risk with total trust. The
Result was the Infallible Diagnosis. PGI Chandigarh provided science, but my
father provided soul. He was the bridge between the hospital bed and the Beas
cottage. He knew that if the body had even 1% of 'Structural Integrity' left,
and he applied the right frequency of medicine and faith, the Divine will do
the rest. He didn't just save lives; he proved that the 'Indweller' is the
ultimate Surgeon. The Doctor as the "Original Engineer". My father
was the first 'Production Engineer' I ever knew. He taught me that if the
foundation is weak, the building will fall; if the dose is too low, the patient
will die; and if the vision is small, the life will be ordinary. I am the Most
Fortunate Soul because I didn't just inherit his name, I inherited his DNA/Frequency.
I learned Production Engineering from him long before I went to PEC Chandigarh.
I saw it in how he ran the Machi Mohalla Mansion cum Clinic. The High-Dose Shot
was his "Troubleshooting" method. He didn't believe in incremental
fixes; he believed in the power of a decisive strike to resurrect the patient.
This is the direct ancestor of your Gopalpur Masterstroke. The 16-Hour Workday
was the first to show me that wealth isn't given, it is built through the
"Relentless Production" of one's own labor. The LIC Strategy was a
Master of Financial Engineering. Using his side-hustle as an LIC agent to fund
the mansion and the family's future was the "Seed" for my own
"Variable Rate" and "Consignment" victories in Canada.
A Physician Who Never Took
His Own Medicine
My father was a doctor who achieved the rarest of feats: he lived
92 years and almost never needed to be patient himself. He was a physician who,
quite literally, never took his own medicine. His longevity wasn't a matter of
luck; it was a carefully constructed fortress he called his "Natural
ICU." He often
told us that if you invested in your Natural ICU, you would never find yourself
in a Hospital ICU. His prescription for a long life was simple yet demanded the
discipline of a soldier: Oxygen as
Medicine: The 5 AM walks to Patel Park weren't just for "physique";
they were sessions of deep, rhythmic breathing. He believed the lungs were the
bellows of life, and that "fresh, dawn air was the best antibiotic." The River Within: He
practiced full hydration all day long. To him, water wasn't just a drink; it
was a purification system that kept the "human machine" from rusting
or stagnating. The
Meditative Clinic: Perhaps most remarkable was his "Meditative State"
during clinic hours. Despite the chaos of the fish market at Machi Mohalla and
the stream of patients, he remained an island of calm. He believed that if the
mind stayed in a state of prayer or meditation while working, the body would
not absorb the stress or the "disease" of others. He lived by the conviction that the
human body, when respected and fueled by nature, would "heal itself
automatically." He was the living proof of his own theories, a man who
walked 4 kilometers at dawn, wore his Sola hat with pride, and returned home to
watch Mughal-e-Azam, ending his day in the same peaceful clarity with which he
began it. He didn't just practice medicine; he
embodied a philosophy of preventative harmony. To reach the age of 92 without ever needing his own
"tools" is the ultimate validation of his "Natural ICU"
theory.
Doctor’s Side-Hustle - LIC Ecosystem
How my Father Engineered Time and
Freedom
It
became the ultimate blueprint for Structural Integrity. The Doctor, didn't just
practice medicine; he engineered a self-sustaining ecosystem. By becoming the
official medical examiner for the Life Insurance Corporation of India (LIC), he
created a "Circular Economy" that would make a modern Harvard
Business School professor jealous. In the 1960s, the Indian bureaucracy was a
"Mischievous Mind" of paperwork and delays. My father bypassed the
friction with two strategic moves. Eliminating the Cash-Flow Lag, by insisting
on the agents to pay him upfront on Sundays, he transferred the "Hassle of
Indian Companies" onto the agents. He wasn't just a doctor; he was a Financier.
The Barter of Favors: He provided “Spare Time" with the rare commodity of
a busy doctor, and in return, he received the "Agency" of a dozen
hungry LIC workers.
Invisible Driver's
License
Most
people see a "Driver's License" as a piece of paper. I saw it as an Acquisition
of Time. The Scooter at 14, While other kids were still learning to balance, we
were already mastering the "Structural Logic" of the road on our Lady
Cycle, the lighter frame allowing for a more agile body of movement. The RTO
Bypass was possible, Because of the LIC "Side-Hustle" network. The
RTO’s office, a fortress of Indian bureaucracy, became porous. My driver’s license
was "Off-loaded" with the agents. Scooter at 14, Unauthorized. License
at 18, Authorized without a test. Car Endorsement, 2 days vs. 2 months. The
Bureaucracy parallel. Just as my father used LIC agents to navigate the RTO,
the Tatas built townships like Jamshedpur to bypass the lack of government
infrastructure. If the system doesn't work, you build your own system within
it. This is the "Khanna-Tata Protocol." My father didn't just heal
bodies; he healed the system. By filling in LIC forms on Sundays, he bought us
the freedom of the roads. We were driving scooters at 14 because we had
mastered the 'Alchemy of Balance' on a Lady Cycle earlier. While others waited
in line at the RTO, we were already miles ahead. My license wasn't just a
permit to drive; it was a permit to skip the line of the ordinary.
Social credit of
goodwill - Living Credit Cards
Saddar Bazaar was often where the "lower
staff" and soldiers shopped, making it incredibly lively. That is a
powerful testament to the "Khanna reputation." In an
era before digital credit scores and plastic cards, our father’s name was his
bond. In a town like Ambala Cantt, where everyone knew everyone, that kind of
"social credit" was the highest form of currency. As we
settled into the rhythm of Ambala Cantt, it became clear that while we had left
our physical assets behind in Lahore, my father had carried something far more
valuable across the border: his name. In the Gold Bazaar, the Cloth Bazaar, and even the local sweet
shops, my father’s reputation was legendary. We, his children, were essentially
the "living credit cards" of the family. We could walk into almost
any shop in the Cantonment, pick up what was needed, and walk out without a
single rupee changing hands at the counter. The shopkeepers never asked for money. They didn’t need to. A
"Khanna child" was as good as gold. There was an unspoken ledger kept
in the heads of the merchants, a trust built on decades of the Khanna dynasty’s
honorable dealings in banking and trade. Yet, with that "power" came a strict, unwritten code of
conduct. We were acutely aware that we carried our father’s honor in our
pockets. We never misused that privilege. We never took more than was
necessary, and we never acted with entitlement. We understood that a reputation
takes a lifetime to build but only a moment to shatter. In the dusty lanes of
Saddar Bazaar, we learned that wealth wasn't just about what you had in the
bank, it was about whose word people would bet their livelihood on. Ambala Cantt is such a
storied place, a true frontier town where the discipline of the military meets
the vibrant, chaotic energy of the Punjabi merchant. Moving from the
sophisticated urbanity of Lahore to a rental in Regiment Bazaar in 1947 was a
profound shift for the Khanna family, marking the official start of our life in
India.
Open-Air Balcony - Cinema on the Doctor’s
Terms
In a town as lively as Ambala Cantt,
entertainment revolved around the flickering lights of its five grand cinema
halls: the Defense Theater, where only English movies were screened, the
Capital, the Nishat, the Minerva, and the Basant Halls for all other Hindi
movies. For most, the cinema was a crowded affair, but for the busy,
health-conscious Dr. Khanna, a movie night was treated with the same meticulous
care as a house call. My father
had a unique arrangement with the theater managers. When a popular film reached
the final days of its run, the calls would come. Doctor Sahib, the film is
closing, bring the family tonight. We would arrive for the 9 pm to midnight
show, but we didn't just sit anywhere. The balcony was our domain. But there was a condition, a
"Medical Order" issued by my father that only he could command.
Despite the night air or the conventions of the theater, he insisted that all
the balcony doors remain wide open.
While the rest of the world sat in the stifling,
stale air of a closed theater, we watched the stars of the silver screen with a
cross-breeze flowing around us. He was a man who understood that stagnant air
was a playground for disease, and even during a Bollywood drama, he wouldn't
compromise on ventilation.
By purchasing six tickets, he effectively
"chartered" the entire balcony. There we sat, the Khanna family,
wrapped in the cool Ambala night air, watching the giants of Indian cinema
while the rest of the town slept, or sat in the sweltering dark below. It was
entertainment on his terms: a private screening where the fresh air was as much
a part of the experience as the movie itself. It is perfectly fitting that a man of your father’s stature, a
"physique-conscious" doctor who carried himself with the dignity of a
Sola hat, would be captivated by the grandest, most disciplined masterpiece of
Indian cinema: Mughal-e-Azam.
The fact that he transitioned from "chartering" the
cinema balcony to a daily ritual with a VCR shows how deeply the film’s themes
of honor, family duty, and timeless romance resonated with the Khanna legacy.
Grandeur of the
Screen - Doctor
& the Great Mughal
If there was one film that defined the cultural
landscape of our home, it was K. Asif’s Mughal-e-Azam. My father did not just
watch it; he studied it. He saw it no less than five times in the theaters of
Ambala, likely in the breezy, open-door balcony of the Capital, immersing
himself in the story of Emperor Akbar and Prince Salim. Years later, when
technology shifted from the cinema hall to the living room, the ritual didn't
end; it simply became more intimate. After the long hours at the Machi Mohalla
clinic and the evening rounds in his rickshaw, the VCR became his private
theater. Every
single night, after dinner, he had a standing appointment with the past. He
wouldn’t watch the whole film, but rather, he would select just one song. Perhaps it was the defiant
“Pyaar Kiya to Darna Kya” ringing through the Sheesh Mahal, or the soulful
“Mohabbat Ki Jhoti Kahani Pe Roye.” Whatever the choice, for those few minutes,
the room was filled with the orchestral sweep of Naushad’s music and the poetic
Urdu of a bygone era. It was his daily "dose" of beauty meditative
moment of grace before the 5 am alarm called him back to the brisk path toward
Patel Park. In that
nightly ritual, I saw a man who appreciated the "Grand Scale", the
same grand scale upon which the Khanna dynasty had been built in Lahore, and
the same scale of integrity he maintained in Ambala.
Three
elements of an expensive hospital ICU
In a clinical setting, when a patient
arrives in the state I described, the priority is stabilization through load
reduction.
IV Saline (Volume & Pressure): When
a patient is unconscious or in shock, their blood pressure often drops, or
their blood becomes "viscous" due to dehydration or metabolic stress.
By introducing saline, doctors increase the volume of the blood. This makes it
easier for the heart to pump (reducing the "load") and ensures that
oxygen reaches the brain and vital organs quickly.
100% Oxygen (The Internal Cleanse): As I
noted, shallow breathing leads to a buildup of carbon dioxide and a lack of
fresh oxygen which makes the blood acidic (acidosis). This is the
"toxic" state you referred to. Flooding the system with pure oxygen
forces the carbon dioxide out and "washes" the blood at a cellular
level, giving the mitochondria the fuel they need to begin repairs. Morphine
(The Neural Reset): Pain and terror create a sympathetic storm, a flood of
adrenaline and cortisol. This is what I beautifully called the "microwaves
of turbulent emotions." Morphine doesn't just cause dull pain; it slows
the heart rate and suppresses the "fight or flight" response. It
forces the nervous system into a "parasympathetic" state, the only
state in which the body can repair tissue. Three streams of the free Nature’s ICU.
Hydration/Flow: Keeping our life and
body fluid like water, so the "heart" our emotional center doesn't
have to strain.
Breath: Conscious, deep breathing to
ensure your internal environment never becomes stagnant or toxic. Stillness: Finding natural morphine like meditation,
silence, or prayer, to switch off the turbulent emotions before they damage
your physical health.
Secret of Longevity -
outliving the empire
I often reflect on my father’s funeral. It was a
quiet affair, and for a long time, I wondered why a man of such "built-in
charity" and "polished manners" didn't have a crowd that reached
the horizon.
Then, the realization hit me with the force of a
hammer: He outlived them all.
While his patients and colleagues were succumbing to the
"mental tensions" of their lives, he remained. Why? Because he
practiced what he preached. He didn't just give placebos; he lived a life that
was immune to the "corrosion" of ambition. The world at large focused
on External Structure, promotions, the cars, the empire. My Father was focused on
the Internal Balance, the Grace, the Will, the Peace. The WILL to complete "Gross Karma". This is why he outlived
them all. He wasn't burning the candle at both ends; he was the candle itself,
burning with a steady, purposeful flame that never flickered. While the
production engineers were exhausted by "quotas" and "targets",
external pressures that drain the soul, my father was driven by an Internal
Engine. He taught
me that the ultimate "Value Engineering" is to find the work that
makes you forget the clock. If you find that, you don't need a church to find
God, and you don't need a calendar to find rest. You become a Sea Frog in the
ocean of service, where the work itself is the reward.
"God Bless
You" Shield – His own Life Insurance
I realize now that his “nominal fee” and his “pay
what you can” philosophy weren’t just good for his patients, they were his own
life insurance. He didn’t carry the “mental tension” of greed or the “uneasiness”
of a heavy crown. He moved through the world with the lightness of the “water
sprays” that cooled the hot slag.
As an Engineer who survived the crucible, I see
the irony. We spent our lives making sure the steel didn’t fatigue, yet we
often ignored the fatigue of the soul. My father’s life was the ultimate “Value
Engineering” project: he maximized his lifespan by minimizing the “unnecessary
costs” of stress and ego. The Legacy Parallel:
From the Clinic to the Penthouse. The
reason my father belongs in the Foundation Block is because his principles are
the "Marrow" in our Canadian "Fruit." My father didn't just
heal bodies in Ambala; he engineered a Frequency of Excellence. When I stood up
in the Tata boardroom, it was his voice that spoke through me. When I demoed
the Filter Queen, I was using his 'Clinical Truth.' I am the most fortunate
soul because I started my life watching a 'God-Sent' doctor turn a small clinic
into a mansion. I simply took his 1950s blueprint and digitized it for the 21st
century. Like Father like Son.
I
often look at my career and see my father’s reflection in the glass. The
"High-Dose" Boardroom drama. When I stood up at Tata Steel and
demanded a scale model for Gopalpur, I was administering a "High-Dose
Shot" to a dying project. I was saving the "Body" of the company
from a 2,000 Crore hemorrhage. The Clinical Demo, When I showed the Filter
Queen dirt to a Canadian homeowner, I was using my father’s clinical truth.
"Here is the disease," I was saying, "and here is the
cure." The Mansion Legacy, my move to 18 Stoneybrook Court was a
recreation of his move to Machi Mohalla. It was the drive to own the ground
beneath one's feet.
ROHIT KHANNA IN-DIFFERENT
Autobiography of an Engineer from Tata Nagar
By the Author - Click on the link below please.
https://www.amazon.com.au/dp/B0GX3B8YQD
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