I first met Jyotsna in 1984 when she was 22 years old and had just completed her medical graduation. I was 44 years old and had just taken over a teaching plastic surgical unit right in the middle of the world’s largest slum. She was as direct as one can get in our very first meeting. She said she wanted to learn plastic surgery, and would I give her a job in my unit. Her English was barely passable. I was to realize much later that her education was imparted in her mother tongue, Gujarati, reminding me of myself when I entered the city of Mumbai, then Bombay, from the small towns of Maharashtra 30 years earlier in 1956. She came from a modest background and lacked what most of us wrongly look for pedigree. She probably had few artificial social graces but her eyes shone even then with sincerity and determination. I had to explain to her that she needed a qualification in general surgery to register for a plastic surgery course. Before I could say as much as a “bye” she thanked me, got up, and left. I had forgotten about her completely when she reappeared 3 years later, having acquired a general surgery degree and renewed her earlier request. This time, she appeared more confident, more fluent in English, and even more determined. I again pleaded my inability, explaining to her that now she needed to qualify through a state-level entrance examination to gain entry into a teaching unit. As in the past, she did not bat an eyelid. She thanked me, got up, and left. Some months later, she reappeared again and left me speechless. She said she had cleared the entrance examination, had stood first, and had opted for my unit in her own right. And then she enquired if I would now kindly sign my consent in the designated column on the admission form.’