In August 1969, the first batch of medical students arrived in Sevagram. Sixty of them, to be precise—forty-six boys and fourteen girls—armed with dreams, duffel bags, and probably very few clues.

But there was one small problem: Where exactly was the college? And more urgently: Where were they going to live?

The answer lay just four furlongs (yes, we’re going colonial here) from Gandhi’s Ashram—a stately two-storied building nestled among rustling trees. Built in 1945 by Shri Ghanshyamdas Birla and gifted to Gandhiji, the grand guest house was meant to host dignitaries from across India and the globe. Think tiled roofs, carved verandahs, and all the grandeur befitting visiting royalty.

Naturally, Gandhiji rejected the idea. It was far too opulent for his taste. His guests, like him, should live in simple mud huts, not what he likely considered a five-star distraction.

Instead, he suggested the building be put to better use—for the hospital his trusted comrade Dr. Sushila Nayar had founded in the Ashram, serving the rural communities around Sevagram.

Enter MGIMS

Fast forward to 1969. Students began stepping off trains from Delhi, Jhansi, Punjab, Nagpur, Pune, and Bombay. A new era had begun. And Dr. Sushila Nayar faced a classic Indian start-up challenge: plenty of enthusiasm, no infrastructure.

There were students—but no classrooms, no laboratories, no hostels.

Her solution? The Birla House.

It was mostly unoccupied and beautifully built. That would do. It had to do.

Birla House, Reimagined

The building soon underwent an identity crisis.

The first room on the ground floor—just past the iron gate—was transformed into the Biochemistry lab, later assigned to Dr. B.C. Harinath when he arrived a year later. Next door, the Pathology lab began offering basic blood tests, perhaps on the philosophy that it’s better to start with a drop before diving into a stream.

The grand front entrance became the OPD registration area, where patients collected their OPD cards, had their names scribbled into thick ledgers, and settled their hospital bills—all in one breathless visit.

To the left, a modest room doubled as the first hospital pharmacy. Here, pharmacist Sudhakar Mitkari stood like an apothecary of old—folding powders into paper packets, mixing potions, hand-labeling bottles, and preparing everything from bitter tonics to enemas, fresh on demand (because nothing says healthcare like a custom-prepared enema).

Pre-packaged pills? Blister packs? Dream on. This was medicine, hand-crafted.

The OPDs: A Cast of Characters

Further inside, tucked into a quiet corner, sat the Medicine OPD. Dr. O.P. Gupta and Dr. S.P. Nigam began their careers here. For the first three years, Dr. Gupta also commuted to the civil hospital in Wardha thrice a week, while Dr. Nigam manned the Sevagram front. Reinforcements came in the form of Drs. S.M. Patil, S.R. Tankhiwale, and Khurana from Nagpur—though none lasted beyond a year. Possibly the humidity. Or the food.

Sharing a wall with Medicine was the Paediatrics OPD, where Dr. Digmurthy held fort, bringing calm to chaos one sniffly child at a time.

On the right wing, a row of rooms housed the Surgery and Gynaecology OPDs, doing their best to function with dignity and a shoehorn. Just beside them, Dr. K.K. Hariharan ran the Dental OPD—a one-man army extracting teeth and stuffing cavities in a room not much larger than a pantry.

Next door stood the operation theatre and the fledgling Anesthesiology department. As for infrastructure? The long corridor that connected it all had no dividing gate yet—you could walk the entire stretch without interruption, witnessing the slow but steady birth of an institution.

At the far end of the campus stood the Anatomy department and its holy sanctum—the dissection hall. This is where Drs. Kane, G.M. Indurkar, and the ever-artistic Gajanan Ambulkar first wielded their scalpels and chalk. It was also where Mahadeorao Navghare established a modest carpentry corner, skillfully mending wobbly chairs and crafting benches that could survive generations of medical students (or at least a semester).

Fast forward six years: the Anatomy department had relocated upstairs, leaving behind a vacated space and a faint smell of formalin. Enter Dr. Khatri from PGI Chandigarh, who arrived at MGIMS on deputation as the new head of Medicine. He promptly moved in, and by 1976, the former dissection hall had been reincarnated as the Medicine ICU.

Now, before you conjure up gleaming machines and blinking monitors—hold that thought. This ICU came without ventilators, monitors, infusion pumps, pulse oximeters, ABG machines, dialysis setups, or even the luxury of a bedside ultrasound. It had, quite simply: a bed, an ECG machine, and a couple of interns who looked like they’d read about ventilators in textbooks but hadn’t seen one in person. And yet, somehow, medicine was practiced—and lives were saved.

Climbing the Ramp

Upstairs, the Community Medicine department overlooked the neem-lined road. Dr. Sushila Nayar kept her office here—she was rarely in Sevagram, but when she was, this is where she worked. “ The only man in Sevagram is Dr Sushila Nayar,” as a faculty member would describe her.  In April 1966, when Prime minister Indira Gandhi went to the United States, and her ambassador to the USA, B.K. Nehru was asked how the USA president was to address her on her arrival at the White House, she famously said, “ You can tell him that my cabinet ministers call me “Sir”. Dr Sushila Nayar in Sevagram commanded the same awe, the reason why she was called the only man in Sevagram.

Upstairs, the Community Medicine department looked out over a neem-lined road—picturesque, if you ignored the mosquitoes. This is where Dr. Sushila Nayar kept her office. She was rarely in Sevagram, but when she did grace it with her presence, this was her command post.

As one faculty member famously quipped, “The only man in Sevagram is Dr. Sushila Nayar.” It wasn’t a comment on gender—it was a declaration of authority. She didn’t walk through the halls so much as she marched, and the walls seemed to straighten themselves as she passed.

Back in April 1966, when Prime Minister Indira Gandhi visited the United States, her ambassador, B.K. Nehru, was asked how the American president should address her. Without missing a beat, she replied, “You can tell him that my cabinet ministers call me ‘Sir.’”

Dr. Sushila Nayar had that same iron-clad aura. In a campus full of deferential head-nodders and chappal-wearing teachers, she was steel in a sari. Hence, the nickname—the only man in Sevagram.

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Birla House: The Nucleus of Knowledge

To the left of Birla House, a sprawling hall showcased the Community Medicine Museum—complete with glass jars, pinned parasites, and the lingering smell of formaldehyde. Today, seminar rooms stand in its place, probably with better ventilation. On the right were the Physiology and Pathology departments, quietly going about their microscopic business.

Thus, the entire pre-clinical universe—Biochemistry, Pathology, Anatomy, Physiology—was tucked neatly into Birla House, stretching across both floors, as though the building itself had enrolled in medical school.

The Hospital: Humble Beginnings

Step outside the main building, and you’d find a small annex that housed the Radiology department—a dim and dusty space, forever immortalized by a fading board that reads: “Dark Room”, like a noir movie set, but with fewer cigarettes and more X-rays.

Next door was Dr. P. Nayar’s Special OPD—”special” because it had four walls and a doctor inside. Beyond that lay the Medicine wards, built on the very ground where the original Kasturba Hospital once stood with just 15 beds. By 1969, the hospital had grown—if you can call it that—to a grand total of 50 beds. All departments included. ICU, deluxe, general… you name it, it fit within fifty.

What is now Birla Colony was once staff quarters—today it houses nurses and technicians, but back then it was where the earliest torchbearers of the hospital movement lived and worked in tandem with the mission.

Guru Nanak Colony and the Faculty Tribe

Guru Nanak Colony, with its humble kavelu-tiled houses and the occasional leaky roof, was home to the senior faculty and administrators: Dr. Sushila Nayar, Dr. P. Nayar, Dr. Manimala Chaudhuri, GRK Harirao, KN Ingley, ID Singh, KK Trivedi, Raj Kumar, and Bhausaheb Deshmukh. It was a who’s who of early MGIMS, minus the paparazzi.

Between Guru Nanak Colony and Prerna Kutir stood the staff club—a now-forgotten building that once echoed with laughter, debate, and the occasional game of table tennis. It also housed the offices of the Kasturba Health Society, where stalwarts like Mr. C.D. Jha, Mr. Lahiri, and Manimala Chaudhuri handled the serious business of keeping things running, while the accounts department—Mr. P.L. Tapdiya, Nalinbhai Mehta, Kanakdas, and Bhimrao Pradhan—worked tirelessly behind ledgers and ink pads.

Prerna Kutir: Power in Simplicity

Prerna Kutir, Dr. Sushila Nayar’s official residence, was a modest one-story cottage, in keeping with Gandhian minimalism. She lived simply, but not without order. Her trusted aide, Narayanrao Taksande—part assistant, part bellboy, part invisible security system—lived in an adjoining room. He announced visitors with a ritualistic ring of the bell, a tradition more reliable than any doorbell.

Nearby stood the “Lal Bungalow,” named for its red-brick defiance against all-white colonial aesthetics. It housed a revolving cast of female technicians, physiotherapists, and psychiatric social workers—unsung heroes in skirts and lab coats.

The old water tank—tall, dignified, and structurally overconfident—still towers above it all, quietly judging the chaos it has watched for decades.

Close Quarters, Closer Bonds

Scattered around the campus, near the Dharmanand Hostel, were a handful of staff quarters where Dr. O.P. Gupta, Dr. Chaturvedi, Dr. Belokar, and the ever-watchful matron resided. It was medical life lived in tight concentric circles.

Across from the tennis court—where students imagined themselves to be the next Ramanathan Krishnan or Vijay Amritraj (depending on their backhand)—stood the Patel Hostel: boys’ territory. The Dharmanand Nursing Hostel, just opposite, housed the girls—close enough for conversation, far enough for supervision.

Everything was within walking distance—classrooms, wards, hostels, the hospital, the library, the mess, even your examiner. Students and teachers lived, learned, and ate under the same sky, if not the same roof. Bonds were forged over chai, dissected cadavers, midnight emergencies, and that inevitable moment when someone forgot to bring the case file to rounds.

The Founding Generation

This is where it all began—for the first generation of teachers and doctors: Drs. M.D. Kane, G.M. Indurkar, G.R.K. Harirao, B.C. Harinath, B.V. Deshkar, R.V. Agrawal, K.V. Moghe, M.L. Sharma, M.D. Khapre, and B.K. Mahajan. A year or two later, reinforcements arrived—Drs. K.K. Trivedi, S.P. Nigam, O.P. Gupta, and three pioneering couples: the Chaturvedis, the Narangs, and the Ahujas.

They weren’t merely setting up departments—they were building an institution. 

Many technicians worked tirelessly to lay the foundation of the departments: Tukaram Gawande and Jaipal Yelwatkar in Biochemistry; Sudhakar Bijewar, Punjabrao Deshmukh, and Sitaram in Pathology; Kiran Munjewar in Physiology. Premdas and Laxman Bele laboured daily to tend the Gol Garden and maintain the tennis court near the Principal’s office.

Dr. I.D. Singh served as the Principal. In his office worked Bhausaheb Deshmukh, Shri Khare, Wasudeo Deodhe (an attendant), and B.K. Gavli (a clerk). In the secretary’s office, Mr. D.C. Jha and Shibendru Lahiri provided steady support, while Nalinbhai Mehta oversaw the accounts office with diligence.