The names—Kabir, Ramdas, Vivekanand, Guru Nanak, Ramkrishna, Dharmanand, Martin Luther King, Patel and Birla —are not just those of colonies in Sevagram. They carry memories— of beginnings, struggles, bonds, and bravery.

Yesterday, a thought came to me, as if by accident. Dr. Sanjay Diwan wondered if the Kabir Colony quarters on the MGIMS campus still stood or if, like so much else, they had faded with time. It had been years since I had seen them. So, I set out on a walk—not just down lanes, but through the years themselves.

My steps brought me to Quarter No. 13, my first home in Sevagram. It was 1982, the summer, and this humble 400-square-foot space was shared with Dr. Sanjay Shrivastava, a senior resident in Ophthalmology. Dr. MVR Reddy—a dear friend who left us suddenly in 2017—is someone I still find it difficult to come to terms with. He also lived in the adjacent quarter. Life was simpler then—no television, no internet and no mobiles. Just a transistor and, more importantly, each other.

Now, the doctors are gone. The quarters are home to nurses. Across the street, Patel Hostel stands in quiet ruin, a mere shadow of the lively days when Dr. OP Gupta and Dr. Hariharan were its first residents.

Ramdas Colony has changed too. A librarian told me that it is now home to clerks, helpers, and drivers—the unseen workers who keep MGIMS running. Once, though, it had been a place that rang with the booming  voice of Nalin Bhai Mehta and the hearty laugh of Raja Khapre. Among the other residents were Mr. Ramachandran Nair, secretary to Badi Behenji with his strong leftist views, and Shri Vidwans, the peaceful Yoga teacher. The two couldn’t have been more different—one outspoken and political, the other calm and spiritual.

Back then, the Type 2 quarters were a hive of activity. Twenty-four two-story homes, nestled behind Kasturba Vidya Mandir, formed a small community—alive, warm, full of laughter. Names like Dr. Ramji Singh, Dr. Deepak Mendiratta, Dr. Ajay Aggarwal, Dr. MVR Reddy, Dr. NK Tyagi, Dr. Ashok Sharma, and Dr. Naresh Kumar come to mind even now. Between the buildings, there was an open ground where we had set up a badminton court. It became our meeting point every evening. Diwalis sparkled with diyas and fireworks. Holis were an eruption of color. Birthdays meant cooking together, decorating, and sharing laughter across all 24 homes.

Then, in the early 1990s, the New Type 2 Colony appeared near the Dean’s office. Drs. Vyas, Pal, Satish Kumar, Tirpude, and Kar lived there—now retired, moved away, or simply gone.

The Ramkrishna Colony is no more. It was demolished years ago, leaving behind no sign of the life it once held. In the 1970s, its small quarters had familiar names on their doors—Dr. Mrs. Gupta, Dr. VN and  Dr. Pushpa Chaturvedi, Dr. OP Gupta, Dr. Damle and Dr. Belokar. Neighbors in the colony knew each other well, voices carried across verandas, and days slipped by quietly. The colony sat next to the Dharmanand Hostel. Today, nursing students live there.

Guru Nanak Colony too has changed. The homes that once belonged to Manimala Chaudhari, Kamala Desikan, CD Gokulachandran, Drs. BS Garg, Rajiv Borle, and Ashok Mehendale have made way for a guest house. Manimala and Kamala, both trusted by Dr. Sushila Nayar and the two women who served as secretaries of the Kasturba Health Society, once lived here.

In front of me stood Prerna Kutir, simple, as was its owner, Dr. Sushila Nayar, the founder-director of MGIMS. There was nothing grand about it—bare furniture, a thatched roof, old fans, and tube lights. No air conditioners, just a quiet, unadorned charm that mirrored her own grounded nature. But much like the great halls of 10 Downing Street or 1 Willingdon Crescent, it was here that MGIMS’s future was shaped. She hired, mentored, discussed, debated, completed unfinished work, reviewed files, dictated letters, supervised PG theses, played bridge, and hosted Sundarkand recitations. She connected effortlessly with everyone who visited her. It was also here that she quietly faced her illness, passing away 25 years ago. For years, the house stood in silence, largely forgotten. But recently, it was restored as if to honour the woman who had breathed life into this institution.

Birla Colony tells a tale of homes once alive with warmth—Mrs. Narula had lived here, now replaced by new faces. As I walked these familiar streets, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being a stranger.

Turning toward Vivekanand Colony, where I had spent nearly two decades, I saw the familiar eight quarters. They had once been full of warmth—colleagues who had become family—Dr. Narang, Chaturvedi, Tyagi, Jajoo, Taori, Ghuliani, Ghosh, Nayak, Vijayshree, Mathur, and ML Sharma. Time, as it always does, had taken its toll. Some had passed away, others had moved on, and now those quarters stood empty, strangers occupying what had once been home.

A little further along, I reached Ashram Road, where the MLK Colony stood—14 quarters in quiet reflection. It was here that MGIMS’s pioneers—Dr. OP Gupta, Dr. AP Jain, Dr. VK Mehta, Dr. BC Harinath, Dr Hariharan, Dr Shetty, Dr Mahajan , Dr Sachdev and others—once lived. They had built this institution not with wealth but with wisdom. Their homes were humble—stone floors, thatched roofs, Bajaj scooters parked outside. Yet in those simple lives, there was a richness of purpose that no wealth could rival.

The 1990s brought change. Professors moved to Dhanwantari Colony where they built their own homes. Staff quarters passed hands—first to younger teachers, then to support staff.

Today, the walls of these colonies sag, and the roofs leak. The paint peels away. By modern standards, they are plain. Yet, there is a beauty in them that no renovation can recreate. These buildings, now fading into history, still carry the echoes of laughter, the hum of conversations, and the whispers of days gone by.

What made them special? It wasn’t the walls, but the lives that unfolded within them. We had little—just badminton games, cups of tea, birthday parties, and long, quiet conversations into the night. Yet, in those simple things, we had all we needed.

The “good old days” were not perfect, but they were ours. As I walked back, and came home, one thought kept coming to me: Do these streets still whisper their stories, or are they waiting for someone to breathe new life into them?