Dr. Shyam Babhulkar (Batch of 1969)
It was the summer of 1969.
I had just cleared B.Sc. Part I from J.B. Science College, Wardha, when I spotted an ad in Tarun Bharat, a Marathi daily. A new medical college was starting in Sevagram. I applied on impulse.
Soon came the interview call.
Now, I was a sportsman—rifle shooting was my game. I had topped an all-India competition, earned a national award and university colour. Naturally, I included all the press clippings and certificates with my application.
The day of the interview, I walked into the Principal’s office, heart thumping. Seated before me were giants—Dr. Sushila Nayar, Dr. Jivraj Mehta, Shriman Narayan, Principal I.D. Singh, and Manimala Chaudhary.
They didn’t ask about biology or chemistry.
They asked me about rifles.
Rifles! At a Gandhian institute rooted in non-violence, here I was explaining the mechanics of precision shooting.
What irony.
But perhaps what truly opened the doors wasn’t my aim on the field—but my father’s quiet legacy. Kesharao Babhulkar worked at the Khadi Bhandar in Sevagram Ashram. He had walked long beside Gandhian ideals. The panel knew him. Trusted him.
Maybe that tipped the scales.
So no, it wasn’t just my grades or my medals. It was lineage. Values. A quiet faith in the kind of person MGIMS wanted to shape.
And that’s how I found myself in the inaugural batch of MGIMS.
A place where selection wasn’t a race.
It was a calling.
*****
Dr. Varun Bhargava (Batch of 1969)
I came to Nagpur from Haridwar, a small town in Uttar Pradesh, now in Uttarakhand. I came to know that only students from Maharashtra were eligible to get admission in Government Medical College, Nagpur.
Within a few days, I came to know that a medical college was coming up at Sevagram. Around the last week of June 1969, a small news item appeared stating that a new medical college was coming up at Sevagram, where students from all states would be taken. No details were available. In the next few days, an application was filled and submitted at Sevagram.
Then, in the month of July, I received a letter in my name with a completely wrong address, asking me to appear for an interview.
No list was displayed showing serial numbers on the first day of the interview. I think interviews were conducted randomly. I did not think that I had a chance.
Dr. Sushila Nayar, Mrs. Manimala Chaudhary, Dr. Jiwraj Mehta, Shri Narayandas Jajoo, and Shri Santoshrao Gode were conducting the interviews.
There was a lot of confusion. After some time, the interview was stopped. Nearly half of the candidates were called the next day. I came to Wardha and slept in a hotel.
The next day, it was more organized. They were checking the marksheet of the 12th class (Intermediate) and asking about family details.
A few days later, I received a postcard stating that I had been selected and should come to complete the formalities and join before 15th August 1969.
I reached on 10th or 11th August 1969 but did not find any office. A local person directed me to a house situated on the main road. I knocked on the door, and a respected Panditji, who later became the rector of the boys’ hostel, came out and said that he did not know the amount to be paid by students. Secondly, he did not have any receipt book or register. The proprietor of Bharat Medicals, Wardha, was accompanying us. He went to Wardha and bought a register. The columns in the register were drawn by my elder brother.
I think luck also played a role in my getting admission. Dr. Subhash Shrivastava, my classmate, had also appeared for the interview. He was selected. But his letter of selection was delivered to my brother’s business premises, bearing only his name and “Sadar Nagpur” as his address. My two brothers searched for the house of Dr. Subhash Shrivastava and delivered the letter to his father.
*****
Khadi, Truth, and a Telegram: How I Got Into MGIMS
Dr. Gopal Gadhesaria (Batch of 1969)
It all began with a newspaper clipping.
A friend studying at the Agriculture College in Pune spotted an ad in The Times of India. He cut it out and mailed it to me. “Apply,” he wrote. “It’s a medical college, Gandhian style.”
I did. And then forgot about it.
A few weeks later, a telegram arrived. I had been called for an interview.
When I reached Sevagram, I was nervous—and dressed in khadi for the very first time in my life. A borrowed khadi shirt and matching pants. I thought it might help.
Inside the interview room sat a panel I can still picture: Dr. Sushila Nayar (Badi Behenji), Manimala Choudhary (Chhoti Behenji), Dr. Jivraj Mehta, and Pratibha Patil.
Badi Behenji looked at me and asked, “Do you wear khadi every day?”
I paused. Then told the truth:
“No, ma’am. This is my first time—just for the interview.”
She smiled. “I’m impressed by your courage to speak the truth.”
The room burst into laughter.
She asked about my parents. “Simple farmers,” I said, “from a village in Jamnagar district, Gujarat.”
A few days later, another telegram arrived.
I had been admitted. I joined MGIMS on 12 August 1969.
No coaching. No connections.
Just honesty, and a thread of khadi.
*****
The Lost Opportunity and the Second Chance
Dr. Santosh Gupta (Batch of 1970)
In 1968, Santosh narrowly missed admission to Indira Gandhi Government Medical College, Nagpur—a cruel margin of just three marks. He swallowed his disappointment and pursued a BSc at Dhote Bandhu Science College, Gondia, refusing to let one setback define his future. But fate had a curious way of offering second chances. In 1970, when Banaras Hindu University conducted the Pre-Medical Test (PMT) for MGIMS, Sevagram, he seized the opportunity.
The interview that followed would remain etched in his memory forever. He faced an imposing panel—among them, Dr. Sushila Nayar, the force behind MGIMS, and, to his surprise, Pratibha Patil, then a state public health minister and later India’s first woman President.
Dr. Nayar opened with a question. “Do you do social service?”
“Yes, Madam,” Santosh replied confidently. “Every fortnight, my father takes us to a village where we work with the underprivileged.”
Mrs. Pratibha Patil leaned forward. “Are you interested in sports?”
“Yes, Madam. Cricket.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Do you know how many runs Gundappa Viswanath scored on his debut?”
Without hesitation, Santosh answered, “Yes, Madam. 0 and 137. That was the Kanpur Test against Australia last year.”
Pratibha Patil didn’t need a newspaper to verify the score. She knew precisely these numbers. She smiled. “You may go.”
Santosh had secured his place at MGIMS.
*****
Even a Policeman’s Son can become a Doctor
Dr Bajrangprasad Pandey (Batch of 1970)
The year was 1969.
I hadn’t even heard of Sewagram.
Back then, I was chasing engineering. Maths was my stream in Higher Secondary, and I had topped the VRCE engineering merit list—Rank One. That should’ve been it. But my father—strict, uniformed, resolute—had other ideas. He wanted a doctor in the family.
So, I gave in. Enrolled in First Year BSc Biology at the Institute of Science, Nagpur. It felt like diving into unfamiliar waters, and I was barely afloat. The year passed, exams came and went, and then—something happened.
My father, a police inspector, got transferred from Yavatmal to Wardha.
We packed our things, shifted to our new house, and I was sent on a mundane chore—to find a flour mill and get wheat ground. I took the tin and wandered through the bylanes of Wardha, searching for the thump-thump rhythm of a chakki.
And then—fate stepped in.
In the queue at the mill, I saw a familiar face—one of my BSc classmates from Nagpur. Smiles. Surprise. Laughter. A quick catching up.
Then he asked, “Did you apply for MBBS at Sewagram?”
Sewagram?
I hadn’t even known there was a third medical college in Vidarbha. Admission cutoffs at Nagpur medical colleges were out of reach for my 60.4%. But here was another door, cracked slightly open.
“Last date must be close,” he warned.
I ran home, told my father. Next morning, he put on his police uniform and took me straight to the MGIMS office in Sevagram. I still remember walking beside him—I was nervous, he was firm.
The last date had passed.
But after a conversation with Principal I.D. Singh, a late application was allowed. I filled it on the spot, paid the ₹100 late fee, and walked out clutching an admit card. The exam was just nine days away.
Nine days.
I hadn’t studied Physics. At all.
On exam day in Nagpur, Physics questions looked like Sanskrit. I couldn’t even finish the paper. I walked out with no hope.
And still—I ranked 5th. All India.
Then came the interview. My cousin in Nagpur had a friend—Rajendra Shukla, a committed communist—who got testimonials from social activists like Saroj Khaparde and Mr. Purohit. They also coached me for the interview, even taught me how to talk about “social service.”
The interview wasn’t in a hall, but in a modest house just opposite the college gate. Inside sat a panel: Principal I.D. Singh, both Behenjis (Dr Sushila Nayar and Manimala Chaudhari) , Santoshraoji Gode (President, Zila Parishad, Wardha), Rafique Zakaria and Pratibha Patil (Cabinet Ministers in Maharashtra state) , a few Gandhian elders, maybe even D.C. Jha.
They asked why I wanted to join MGIMS.
I told the truth. “My father wants me to be a doctor. This is my last chance.”
They looked at the testimonials. Someone asked, “What did you actually do during the Mominpura communal conflict?”
“Whatever Rajendra Shukla asked me to,” I replied.
More questions. Then Pratibha Patil leaned forward, asked softly, “What does your father do?”
“Police inspector.”
She smiled.
“That is social service, boy!”
The room broke into laughter.
Days passed. I traveled with my father to Hinganghat, where he had been posted. We were staying at the police station, eating whatever Pathak Auntie cooked in the back quarters.
Then the postman arrived.
A telegram.
PROVISIONALLY SELECTED.
The whole police station burst into celebration. Sweets were distributed like it was Diwali. Someone shouted, “Even a policeman’s son can make it!”
And I? I stood there quietly, telegram in hand, heart hammering in disbelief.
I had made it. Bajrang Prasad Pandey. MGIMS Class of 1970. Roll No. 44. I eventually retired as the professor of Pharmacology from BHU, Benares.
But the MGIMS days are unforgettable. They shaped my life.
And that’s how I—almost an engineer, nearly lost in Physics, sent to grind wheat—found my way to MGIMS.
Not planned. Not predicted.
But unforgettable.
*****
Dr. Narayan Ingole (Batch of 1971)
In 1971, MGIMS, Sevagram, called. The entrance exam, held at Patwardhan High School, Nagpur, led to a telegram summoning him for an interview. The selection committee was a force to be reckoned with—Dr. Sushila Nayar presiding, and then Maharashtra Health Minister Pratibha Patil among the dozen panelists. What should have been a routine interview took an unexpected, dramatic turn.
The interview began.
“What is your name?” Dr. Sushila Nayar asked.
“Narayan Shyam Rao ji Ingole,” he answered, his voice firm.
Dr. Sushila scrutinized his papers, then her brow furrowed. “But this boy has already been interviewed!” she declared.
Chaos ensued. A clerical mix-up had mistakenly replaced his name with another. She had already approved the other boy, acting on a strong recommendation from the minister. Due to the mix-up, she had mistakenly signed Narayan’s selection papers instead. She was furious, her voice sharp as she scolded the staff left and right. She delegated the interview to the other panelists, needing a moment to regain her composure.
The interview resumed. Mr. Kakade, a lawyer on the panel, inquired, “Have you ever smoked?”
“No, sir,” Narayan replied.
“Your friends must be smoking.”
“No, sir. I don’t have friends who smoke.”
A professor leaned forward, his gaze intense. “Do you know the harms of smoking?”
“Sir, I know it can cause lung cancer.”
“What else?”
“I don’t know, sir. But if you give me a chance to study medicine, I will find out.”
He walked out of the exam room, a cloud of uncertainty hanging over him. Has he passed? Doubt gnawed at him. Preparing for the worst, he enrolled in a B.Tech. course at Laxminarayan Institute of Technology. Just a week into his engineering studies, a telegram arrived—he was accepted to MGIMS.
As he stood ready to pay the ₹1226 admission fee, a stranger approached him. “I’ll give you ₹5000. Just let my son take your place,” the man offered.
A fortune in those days. But Narayan stood firm. He paid his dues, becoming Roll No. 22 of the MGIMS Class of 1971.
*****
Dr. Dilip Jobanputra ( Batch of 1971)
In 1969, I passed my B.Sc. Part 1 examination—the final qualifying year for medical college admission. I had never heard of MGIMS, which had just started, and didn’t know that a new opportunity was waiting for me in a village called Sevagram.
It was only in 1970 that I heard of this new medical college founded in Gandhiji’s ashram town. I took the entrance exam and appeared for the interview. The venue, if memory serves me right, was Mahadeo Bhai Bhavan—close to the old Kasturba Hospital, which also housed a modest library. I wasn’t selected.
But I wasn’t discouraged. In 1971, I applied again. This time, I came slightly better prepared, bringing along a few certificates to make my case. I had served as the secretary of the English Literature Society at Mohota College, Nagpur. During the interview, Badi Behenji asked me gently, “What activities did your society organize?” I answered, perhaps too honestly, “Only the inauguration function.”
I had also brought a certificate for assisting in an eye camp. Badi Behenji smiled and asked, “What exactly did you do there?”
“I helped patients up to the OT,” I said with quiet pride.
“What operations were performed?” she asked. I didn’t really know, but I ventured, “Myopia?” She laughed—a soft, indulgent laugh.
Another interviewer inquired about my final B.Sc. marks. “Fifty percent,” I said. He looked at my mark sheet. “It’s 49.7%,” he corrected. I nodded.
Despite the modest marks, the honest answers, and a dash of good fortune, I was selected. Roll number 27. MGIMS, Batch of 1971.
And just like that, I became part of a medical college that was as young and full of hope as I was.
*****
A Telegram to the Wrong Town: How I Almost Missed MGIMS
Dr. Hari Oam (Batch of 1974)
In 1974, there weren’t many medical colleges with all-India entrance—AIIMS, BHU, Aligarh, and Sevagram were the few. I applied to all.
Back then, AIIMS, BHU, and MGIMS shared a joint entrance till 1973. But I had seen an ad for MGIMS and applied separately.
For the Gandhian thoughts paper, I had barely read half of Gandhiji’s autobiography. My answers were vague, half-baked.
Still, I was called for the interview.
I travelled alone to Sevagram. Finding a hotel room was tough. I bought a khadi shirt and trousers from the Khadi Ashram just before the interview.
I remember facing Badi Behenji and Chhoti Behenji. They asked general questions—but I don’t remember a word of what I said.
Later, I found myself 10th on the waiting list.
Everyone said it was over. So, I left Sevagram and joined B.Sc.
But fate wasn’t done.
Some top-rankers joined other colleges as results came in. I got selected. A telegram was sent—but not to Khair, my hometown. It went to Khar, Mumbai.
By the time I received the letter, a week had passed. My seat was gone—given to Ravi Sood.
I was heartbroken.
I met Badi Behenji. She listened patiently and promised me a seat if anyone else withdrew.
Shimla results were still pending. Ravi Nangia from Himachal had made it here but was waiting in Shimla. I offered to pay the Rs. 5,000 bond if he got selected.
He did.
I joined MGIMS nearly a month late. Missed the Ashram stay. Missed the fresher’s party. Failed all my early anatomy tests.
But I had made it.
And that’s how I got into MGIMS—by telegram errors, Gandhian mercy, and sheer persistence.
***
Rain, Telegrams and a Dream: How I Got Into MGIMS
Dr. Kapil Gupta (Batch of 1975)
A newspaper ad sparked it all.
My teachers and family nudged me—Apply. This one’s different. So I did. I had already appeared for the joint PMT for AIIMS and BHU. But MGIMS had something else in store.
The Gandhian paper came in the afternoon. I still remember—it asked us about ideals, truth, service. Not marks. Not ranks.
Weeks later, a telegram arrived.
Selected.
A letter followed.
We travelled from Wardha for the interview—my father and I—soaked head to toe in the monsoon downpour. The old principal’s office was packed, no space to dry off. But we waited.
Inside, I faced Bari Behenji, Chhoti Behenji, Dr. Sharma (the Principal), and others I don’t recall but won’t forget.
They asked, “Why do you want to be a doctor?”
And then, “Will you live by Gandhian values—now, and later, when you become one?”
I said yes.
They checked my testimonials. The questions were personal, not clinical. The process—simple, but solemn.
When the final list came out, they announced the names aloud. Mine was called under the ‘non-Maharashtrian’ list.
I was ecstatic.
The next morning, I submitted my certificates and a modest fee. We visited the hostel, lecture halls—both old and new—my father and I, quietly taking it all in. Then we treated ourselves to snacks at the Indian Coffee House and Madras Hotel. That night, we stayed at Annapurna Hotel.
And just like that, the journey had begun.
Not with coaching.
But with conviction.
*****
Third Time’s the Charm: How I Got Into MGIMS
Dr. Bipin Amin (Batch of 1975)
Math was never my strength.
So, engineering was out—a quiet disappointment for my father, who had already seen two sons become engineers from BITS Pilani and REC Rourkela.
I was better at biology, though never a topper. Medicine was a dream I didn’t dare to dream too loudly.
I cleared BSc Part I, tried for Nagpur medical colleges—no luck.
In 1973, I appeared for the combined entrance of AIIMS, BHU, and MGIMS. Passed the exam, made it to the interview at Sevagram—waitlisted under Maharashtra quota.
Tried again in ’74. Waitlisted again.
I carried on with BSc, finished it in ’75.
My father still believed. “Try Sevagram again,” he said. “They go by the entrance test, not your past scores.”
So I applied—for the third time. Honestly, my heart wasn’t in it. I even interviewed for a job as a medical rep at Cadila. Got selected. I was all set to start training in Ahmedabad.
Then came a letter.
MGIMS. Interview call—again.
With nothing to lose, I went. Dr. M.L. Sharma looked at me and asked, “Weren’t you here before?”
“Yes,” I smiled. “Twice. This is the third—and final—try. I’ve got a job now.”
Maybe they saw grit. Maybe just persistence.
Or maybe they were simply kind.
Because that third attempt worked.
And just like that, I entered MGIMS.
Not with glory. Not with brilliance.
But with quiet determination.
Nothing stellar. Nothing heroic.
Just a boy who didn’t give up.
*****
Benaras to Sevagram: A Path Carved by Destiny
DP Singh (Batch of 1975)
It was 1975. The Emergency year. I believe it was my destiny to join MGIMS in 1975.
I had almost dropped the idea. A senior had casually given me the address of Sevagram, and I was too nervous to travel alone to Delhi for the interview. I gave up. But fate intervened—a few days later, I ran into the same senior again, and this time, I got his company and courage. I went.
I was selected for the interview round. Since I was confident of securing a seat through the UP CPMT, I came to Sevagram just to try my luck—not desperate, not expecting much.
On the train, I met another senior from Varanasi. His presence reassured me. I reached Sevagram with a sense of curiosity, not anxiety.
The interview board was intimidating—10 or 11 people. When they heard I was from Varanasi, only Dr. Sushila Nayar spoke. She asked me everything about my hometown: Banaras, Kashi, its famous sarees, mangoes, the Kashi Vishwanath temple, BHU, and even the market near the BHU gate—Lanka. I answered honestly.
That night, around 9 pm, the results were declared in front of the Principal’s office. To my surprise, I was selected. What struck me most was the sheer fairness of the process.
But I was just 17 years and 3 months old—a minor. The next day, I couldn’t pay the fees because I wasn’t legally allowed to sign the ₹5,000 bond. The office superintendent scolded me for coming without a guardian and gave me two days to get it sorted. I sent a lightning telegram to my father, who rushed to Sevagram and signed the bond.
Then came the orientation camp in the Ashram. I felt comfortable from the very beginning. Having studied in a village school and grown up in a middle-class family, I easily connected with the spirit of the place. I enjoyed every activity.
Two weeks later, the final decision loomed: MGIMS or Allahabad Medical College? I had both options. Some waitlisted candidates even offered to pay my bond money, fees, and travel expenses if I gave up the MGIMS seat.
But my mind was made up.
I chose MGIMS—so far from home, at such a young age, from a Hindi-medium background—and I have never once regretted that decision.
Sevagram didn’t just make us good doctors. It made us better human beings.
*****
Ashok Mehendale (Batch of 1976)
Sevagram Medical College, a bastion of Gandhian ideals, held its entrance exam. Soon, a telegram arrived from MGIMS Dean Dr. I.D. Singh, summoning him for an interview. His parents rejoiced, as did Atulya—he had also been called.
On July 27, Ashok faced a ten-member panel. He recalls only one—Dr. Sushila Nayar, who personally questioned each candidate.
“Where have you come from?”
“Pune, Ma’am.”
“Why do you want to become a doctor?”
“This is the only profession where one can blend swarth (self-interest) and parmarth (altruism).”
Badi Behenji smiled. Most students spoke of serving the poor; this boy had a different perspective. She quizzed him on Gandhian history—he answered with ease, naming Aga Khan Palace, Yerawada Jail, and even recalling Gandhiji’s appendectomy at Sassoon Hospital. He was asked to spell BCG in full, which he did flawlessly.
At 6 PM, the results were posted. Ashok had not only secured admission but topped the exam. He and Atulya would study together after all.
The class was unlike any before—it had twenty girls, a record at the time. One even sported a bob haircut, and bell-bottoms made an appearance, much to the dismay of the older faculty.
***
A Sham, a Chance, and a Life Made: My MGIMS Interview
Dr. Tarvinder Singh Oberoy (Batch of 1976)
In 1976, MGIMS held its own PMT—separate from AIIMS and BHU.
The interview? Let’s just say it wasn’t exactly a crucible of merit. I suspect it was designed to give a second chance to those who hadn’t aced the written exam. Or to help someone with the right connection.
No guidelines. No clarity.
Were they judging our knowledge? Communication? Empathy?
None of the above.
You were called in. Sat down. A random question, a polite nod, and out you went.
A one-minute ritual that felt more like a formality than a filter.
I remember noticing that the final selection list wasn’t alphabetical. That told me one thing—it was likely based on exam scores. Still, I knew someone who was interviewed at the very end of the day and ended up near the top of the list.
So what was the process, really?
The interview stretched from 9 in the morning to 5 in the evening. But the purpose? A mystery.
And yet, here we are.
Decades later, I look back—not at the fairness of the process, but at what each of us did with the seat we got. Whether deserved or not, it was an opportunity.
Some climbed high. Others served quietly.
In the end, life gave us a path. And we walked it.
How we got there?
Perhaps less important than what we did once we arrived.
*****
Cricket Over Khadi: How I Got Into MGIMS
Dr. Rakesh Sood (Batch of 1977)
I came from Delhi, armed with advice.
Wear a white khadi shirt and trousers. Be ready to talk about Gandhi. Why medicine? Why rural service? I rehearsed all the right answers. My outfit was new, crisp, Gandhian.
But MGIMS had a surprise waiting.
The interview board didn’t ask me about Gandhi. Or khadi. Or the dream of healing India’s villages.
Instead, they bowled me a googly.
“What colour clothes does Kerry Packer’s cricket team wear?”
Now, that caught me off guard—but in the best way.
I was a cricket buff. I lit up. “Coloured clothes,” I replied. “Not white.”
The questions kept coming—not on Gandhi’s associates, but cricket’s legends.
“Name three players from Kerry Packer’s circus.”
Easy. “Viv Richards, Barry Richards, and Dennis Lillee,” I said, without missing a beat.
They smiled.
And just like that, I was in.
I still don’t know who on the board was so smitten with cricket that day. Dr. Sushila Nayar’s usual questions—khadi, humanity, rural health—never came up.
But I batted well. That’s what mattered.
And so, in 1977, thanks to a cricketing curveball, I got into MGIMS.
We were the last batch to face interviews. From 1978 onward, the interviews vanished—just like the whites in Packer’s cricket.
*****
