Category: Heritage & History

The names—Kabir, Ramdas, Vivekanand, Guru Nanak, Ramkrishna, Dharmanand, Martin Luther King, Patel, and Birla—are more than just colonies in Sevagram. They hold memories of beginnings, struggles, friendships, and quiet acts of courage. Each name has a story to tell.

Yesterday, a thought crossed my mind, almost by accident Dr. Sanjay Diwan had asked whether the Kabir Colony quarters on the MGIMS campus still stood or if, like so much else, they had faded with time. I realized it had been years since I last saw them. So, I set out—not just for a walk through familiar lanes, but on a journey through the years themselves.

My steps led me to Quarter No. 13 in the Kabir colony—my first home in Sevagram. It was the summer of 1982, and this modest 400-square-foot space was shared with Sanjay Shrivastava, a senior resident in Ophthalmology. Next door lived MVR Reddy—a dear friend who left us suddenly in 2017, a loss I still struggle to come to terms with.

Life was simpler then—no television, no internet, no mobile phones. Just a transistor crackling in the background 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 world of their own—a little pocket of life tucked behind Kasturba Vidya Mandir. Twenty-four two-story homes stood side by side, their walls echoing with the sounds of children playing, pressure cookers whistling, and conversations spilling from open windows.

It was a colony of young lecturers, all at the start of their journeys—Lalita and Ramji Singh, Mala and Deepak Mendiratta, Archana and Ajay Aggarwal, Lakshmi and MVR Reddy, Sudesh and Naresh Tyagi, Rajesh and Ashok Sharma, Sandhya and Vivek Poflee, Mukesh Agrawal, Vandana and Atul Agrawal, Dolly and Vivek Agrawal, Sudha Jain, Shashi and NC Prajapati, SKT Jain, Mr. Mulay, and Sangeeta and Naresh Kumar. The Agrawals, in particular, seemed to multiply like the neem trees in the compound—there was always one within earshot, sharing a cup of tea, discussing a new case, or organizing the next festival gathering.

Between the buildings, an open ground served as our meeting point, where a modest badminton court came to life every evening. Rallies were fiercely contested, but it was never about winning—just an excuse to be together. Diwalis lit up the quarters with rows of flickering diyas and bursts of fireworks. Holis left the walls and faces splashed with a riot of colors. Birthdays were never just personal affairs; they belonged to the whole colony. Cooking, decorating, and laughter flowed freely across all 24 homes, binding us in a way that time and distance could never quite undo.

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, much like its owner, Dr. Sushila Nayar, the founder-director of MGIMS. There was nothing grand about it—bare furniture, a thatched roof, old fans, and flickering tube lights. No air conditioners, no embellishments—just a quiet, unadorned grace that reflected her own grounded nature.

Yet, within these modest walls, history was made. Much like the great halls of 10 Downing Street or 1 Willingdon Crescent, this was where MGIMS’s future took shape. She hired and mentored, debated and decided, reviewed files, dictated letters, supervised postgraduate theses, and completed unfinished work. Here, she played bridge with friends, hosted Sundarkand recitations, and welcomed visitors with an effortless warmth that made them feel at home.

It was also here that she met her final days with quiet dignity, facing her illness without fuss, passing away 25 years ago. For years, the house stood in silence, fading into the background. But recently, it was restored, as if the institution she had built was finally paying tribute to the woman who had breathed life into it.

Birla Colony tells a tale of homes once alive with warmth. Mrs. Narula had lived here—how could I ever forget Biji? In her nineties, yet brimming with life, love, and boundless affection.

Now, the old occupants have been replaced by new faces. As I walked these familiar streets, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being a stranger in a place that once felt like home.

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—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.

Step back into the 1970s, when MLK Colony was a close-knit world of just 14 quarters, each with its own stories and characters. Dr. Jyotsna Nigam, daughter of Dr. S.P. Nigam, who led the Medicine department in the late ’70s, still vividly recalls who lived where. From Quarter 1 to Quarter 14, the colony housed a remarkable lineup—Drs. Hariharan, A.P. Jain, R.V. Agrawal (later Dr. Moghe), M.L. Sharma, S.P. Nigam, B.C. Harinath, M.D. Khapre, W.V. Belokar, B.V. Deshkar, K.N. Ingley, O.P. Gupta, and even the administrative officer, Mr. Giri, alongside Drs. R.N. Shetty and B.K. Mahajan. It was more than a neighborhood—it was a world where friendships flourished, ideas were exchanged, and the pulse of the medical college beat strong.

Their homes were simple—stone floors, thatched roofs, Bajaj scooters parked patiently outside, waiting for their next ride to the hospital or the Wardha subji mandi. Yet, within those modest walls, there was a richness of purpose, a quiet dignity in the way they lived and worked. Wealth never touched these quarters, but something far greater did—a sense of mission, of building something that would endure long after them.

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. The roofs leak. The paint peels in weary strips. By modern standards, they are ordinary, even worn. Yet, there is a beauty here that no amount of renovation can restore. These buildings, now slipping quietly into history, still hold the echoes of laughter, the murmur of evening gatherings, and the unspoken stories of those who once called them home.

What made them special? It was never the bricks and mortar, but the lives that unfolded within. We had little—just spirited badminton matches on makeshift courts, endless cups of tea shared on verandas, birthdays celebrated with borrowed chairs and homemade decorations, and quiet conversations that stretched long into the night. But in those simple moments, we had everything.

The “good old days” were never perfect, yet they were ours. As I turned back towards home, one thought refused to leave me: Do these streets still whisper their stories, or are they waiting for someone to listen—and bring them to life once more?