Recently, my Alma Mater, Government Medical College, Kottayam celebrated its Diamond Jubilee. The occasion was marked by embellishment of sorts of the place that made a surgeon out of me.

Various Batches of medical students who graduated from the college which was born in December 1962 sponsored construction of new,  or renovation of existing facilities that housed various departments of the college which had successfully withstood time’s wear and tear.

Personally, men’s Hostel of the college where I lived while pursuing MBBS was closest to my heart. I still cherish the mess of the Hostel, which rendered the hostel ‘home away from home’. Though I don’t claim that the food served in the mess resembled a buffet spread of a five-star hotel, it effectively kept me alive, and sustained me through a rigorous course.

 Mr. M V Varkey was an integral part of Men’s Hostel, back in 1983 when I enrolled in the Medical College.  It is impossible for those who boarded in the men’s hostel in 1980s to forget him. As long as the way to anybody’s heart is the stomach. He was our sustainer.

For that reason, we used to call him Varkey Chettan with genuine and undiluted respect, admiration, and gratitude which he truly deserved. He was the ‘band master’ of the hostel mess. He didn’t cook. Neither did he do the dishes.  There were others functioning as cooks and ‘dishwashers’. It wouldn’t be hyperbole to say that Varkey Chettan made sure we were well nourished as we grappled with the grueling course.

Blessed with a memory which any medical student would vie for, and armed with dedication and sincerity of any home maker, the bespectacled, rotund, short man, with an expansive midriff to boot ran the mess most efficiently. Every inmate ate out of his hands. Literally. He was the ‘book keeper’ of the mess. He never faltered in that role, even if the idli that emerged from the kitchen competed with the cricket ball!

Every inmate rushing into the mess at meal time would call out ‘Varkey Chetta’. The man who would invariably be leaning against the window in the passageway between the dining hall and the kitchen, identifying the hungry inmate by his voice, would ‘roll’ to him with the food like a well-programmed robot.  He made no mistake in this process, which he repeated 24 hours of 365 days. 24 hours, because he would find something to eat should a hungry inmate returning late after the first show from town called out his name. After serving the food, he would be back at his next procedure- to record the name of hungry who just had his fill. Back at his customary station, he would enter the name in the soiled book tucked between his lunky and his expansive midriff, after straightening out its worn-out pages curled at their edges. Using the pen precariously placed atop one of his pinna.  

He had the responsibility to submit the names of those who ate from the mess to the mess secretary, which the inmate running the mess was known as. To ensure accurate billing. Inmates going home on leave would inform Varkey chettan of their absence from the mess, which he would remember without a flaw. It used to be said in jest(partly) that the mess secretary running the mess- a lucrative undertaking, would run it for successive months till enough profit was pocketed, enabling him to be a proud owner of a Yamaha two-wheeler- the most sought after bike back then.

If there was anything we had against Varkey Chettan, it was his devotion to work which inadvertently made him an accomplice in ‘purchasing the Yamaha bike’ act!

We guys did not mind one us purchasing a bike by providing us safe food.

The mess remaining shut occasionally for some reason meant that a substantial number of inmates of Men’s hostel contracted hepatitis A from food and water served at hotels near the Medical College. I wasn’t spared of the viral infection myself.

Much water has flown ‘neath the bridge, and varkey Chettan’s numerous beneficiaries are doing well in life as doctors in various parts of the world.

Though our beloved Varkey Chettan passed away at the ripe old age of 81, we can never forget the short man with sharp memory who toiled tirelessly night and day to ensure the satiety and nourishment of inmates of the men’s hostel, as they wrestled with those fat textbooks.

Rest in Peace, varkey Chettan. We thank you for being there for us. When we needed you most. Far away from our mothers’ tasty kitchens.