It was 1970. A restless, curious man walked into the MGIMS campus, a camera bouncing on his chest and his eyes already chasing the light.
The college was still young, still growing. But Surendra Gurjar, newly hired and unsure, already saw stories. Stories in light, in shadows, in faces.
He didn’t pose people. He didn’t chase fame. He simply took pictures. And with every click, he froze a moment and saved a memory. Without knowing it, he began recording the story of MGIMS.
He was no Raghu Rai. And he never claimed to be. He worked with what he had. An old analogue camera, a few rolls of film, and a sharp eye. There were no digital screens, no iPhone cameras, no second chances. Just film, focus, and instinct.
Even now, at 86, Gurjar moves briskly along the same paths. His voice is soft. His steps are steady. But his eyes still look for light. He still notices things others miss. Though retired for three decades, he visits the OPD, helps lost patients, and greets old colleagues. Few know who he is. But years ago, this quiet man captured their world—frame by frame.
He remembers everything.
“I joined with Vijay Shende in 1970,” he said one afternoon. “Ambulkar came first. He was working in Bombay when Manimala Chaudhary got him here . Then me, Shende, Sitaram, and Zade. They called us the five Pandavas of Sevagram.”
They weren’t just photographers. They made charts, drew models, and painted walls. While the others joined Anatomy and Community Medicine, Gurjar stayed free. His base was a small room in the Physiology block. Atop the Anatomy department. It smelled of chemicals and ideas. That was his world.
Photography in the 1970s was not easy. Film was costly. Every shot mattered. Gurjar used a Rolleiflex, sometimes an Agfa. He measured light with a meter, set the focus by hand, and waited. Then came the click. No retries. No filters.
He was everywhere—college functions, rural camps, convocation days. Ministers came and went. Dr. Sushila Nayar posed with VIPs. And somewhere behind them, crouched in a corner, camera ready, stood Gurjar.
“They told me these pictures were part of history,” he said. “I wonder where they are now.”
But there was more to him than photos. In a Sevagram that followed Gandhian rules—where meat was banned—Gurjar quietly helped. A 𝘒𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘬 by caste, he became the discreet supplier of raw meat. Rare deliveries. Quiet fame.
Students knew him too. Khadi was compulsory. But boys, needing passport photos, would hide ties in their pockets. Gurjar clicked fast. Tie in place. Then back it went. Small rebellions. All in black and white.
He prepared charts by hand for Professor I.D. Singh—muscles, nerves, vessels. Often working all night. By morning, they hung on Physiology classroom walls. Perfect.
“I forget the science now,” he smiled, “but I remember Singh sir’s smile.”
His darkroom was a place of magic. Photos dipped into trays, dried on clotheslines. He made training slides by hand. Each line sharp, each diagram clear.
In 1982, during a student protest, Gurjar climbed the terrace with his camera. He took photos. Soon, the police came. His camera was seized. But the negatives? Already hidden.
“Dr. Ingle helped me,” he said. “I never forgot that.”
Years passed. The darkroom disappeared. Film turned to memory cards. Charts became PowerPoint slides. But Gurjar still notices the light in a room, the shape of a face, the stillness before a smile.
“Life was simpler,” he said. “We shared tea, jokes, stories. I stood behind the camera. But they never made me feel behind.”
When film was scarce, he had a trick. He’d flash the light without taking a shot. The subject would relax. Then he’d click.
“Film was costly,” he said with a laugh. “We had to make it work.”
Today, Gurjar walks the campus briskly. Almost like a keeper of old stories. Most don’t know his name. But MGIMS remembers itself, in part, because of him.
𝐼 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑛’𝑡 𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑑 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑝𝑖𝑐𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑒. 𝐼 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑𝑛’𝑡 𝑏𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑚𝑦𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑓 𝑡𝑜 𝑝ℎ𝑜𝑡𝑜𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑝ℎ ℎ𝑖𝑚. 𝑇𝑜 𝑑𝑜 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑐𝑒, 𝐼’𝑙𝑙 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑 𝑎 𝑝ℎ𝑜𝑡𝑜𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑝ℎ𝑒𝑟—𝑡𝑜 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑜𝑡 𝑎 𝑝ℎ𝑜𝑡𝑜𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑝ℎ𝑒𝑟!
