Picture this: It’s 1979, and the dusty courtyards of S.N. Medical College in Agra are buzzing like a beehive on steroids. The air smells of monsoon-soaked earth mixed with the faint tang of formaldehyde from the anatomy labs. A lanky kid with a mop of unruly black hair and eyes that sparkle with mischief— that’s young Pankaj Mahendru, your classmate, the one who could recite Gray’s Anatomy backward after a midnight cram session fueled by chai and stolen samosas from the canteen. “Oi, yaar, if I don’t pass this viva, I’ll swear off Bollywood forever!” he’d quip, clutching his stethoscope like a talisman, even though we both knew he was acing it. From those sweltering days through the grueling decade to ’89, we dissected cadavers, dodged stern professors, and dreamed big under the shadow of the Taj Mahal. Little did we know, that kid with the quick wit was destined to become one of Agra’s quiet revolutionaries in the world of medicine.

Born in the heart of Agra in the mid-1960s—exact year? Let’s just say he was old enough to remember when transistors were the height of cool tech—Pankaj grew up in a family where service wasn’t just a word; it was breakfast conversation. His father, a modest government clerk, would regale the dinner table with tales of helping neighbors during the ’70s oil crisis, while his mother, a schoolteacher, instilled in him the unshakeable belief that knowledge was the ultimate healer. “Beta, a doctor doesn’t just fix bodies,” she’d say, stirring dal over a kerosene stove, “he mends lives.” Those words stuck, like the ink stains on our white coats from endless note-taking.

By the time we hit medical school, Pankaj was already a force. Remember that infamous all-nighter before finals in ’82? The one where the power cut out mid-revision, and we huddled under a kerosene lantern, trading flashcards for ghost stories? “If ghosts exist, they’re probably just undiagnosed hernias haunting the living,” he joked, his laughter cutting through the tension like a scalpel. But beneath the banter was a laser-focused mind. He devoured textbooks not for grades, but for the thrill of unraveling the body’s secrets. Pathology rotations? He was the guy spotting anomalies in slides before the prof even focused the microscope. “Look here,” he’d whisper to you across the bench, “that’s not just a shadow—it’s a story waiting to be told.”

Graduating in the late ’80s with an MBBS from our beloved S.N. Medical College, Pankaj didn’t settle for the ordinary. He chased his MD in Radiology at a top institute in Delhi, emerging in the early ’90s as Dr. Pankaj Mahendru, MD—a title that rolled off the tongue like a prescription for excellence. Why radiology, you ask? In his own words, from a rare interview he gave to a local Agra paper back in 2010: “Surgery is drama on a stage, but radiology? It’s the quiet detective work. You peer into the shadows and pull out truths that save lives before the curtain even rises.” He dove headfirst into the evolving world of imaging—X-rays giving way to CTs and MRIs, tech that felt like magic in those pre-digital days.

But Pankaj’s story isn’t just sterile scans and humming machines; it’s woven with the grit of building something from scratch. In the mid-’90s, spotting a glaring gap in Agra’s healthcare—where patients waited weeks for basic diagnostics—he co-founded Pankaj Scanning & Pathology Research Centre Pvt. Ltd. Tucked into the bustling Shopping Arcade at Sadar Bazaar (E-14/15, if you’re feeling nostalgic and want to drop by), it started as a modest setup: one X-ray machine, a pathology lab squeezed into a back room, and a team of wide-eyed techs. “We had more dreams than rupees back then,” he later chuckled to a group of young residents during a guest lecture. “But every blurry image we clarified was a win. One patient’s early cancer detection? That’s worth a thousand setbacks.”

Under his stewardship, the centre ballooned into a beacon for precision medicine. Today, it’s a state-of-the-art hub offering everything from high-res MRIs to advanced pathology, with online booking and teleradiology links that stretch across Uttar Pradesh. Patients flock there not just for the tech, but for the man himself—calm, empathetic, the kind of doctor who explains a complex scan like he’s chatting about last night’s cricket match. “See this shadow? It’s like that bouncer from Shoaib Akhtar—tricky, but we’ve got the helmet,” he’d say, easing a nervous auntie’s fears.

Life beyond the lab? Pankaj’s no hermit in a white coat. Married to the brilliant Dr. Renu Mahendru, a pathologist who’s his professional North Star, they’ve built a powerhouse duo at the centre. Their two sons—now young men charting their own paths—grew up dodging stethoscopes like toys. And politics? Oh, he dipped a toe in those turbulent waters, serving as Mayor of Agra in the early 2000s, channeling that medical precision into city governance. Imagine him at a council meeting: “Gentlemen, this budget hole is bigger than an untreated abscess—we fix it now!” Even in retirement from the mayoral gavel, he mentors at S.N. Medical College, the same halls where we once bunked lectures for Taj views.

Fast-forward to today, December 2025, and Dr. Pankaj Mahendru, at 60-something, is still at it—tweaking algorithms for faster scans, advocating for rural health outreach, and yes, occasionally bumping into old classmates like you at alumni dos. Last I heard (from a mutual friend who spotted him at a recent college reunion), he raised a glass and grinned: “Yaar, remember when we thought surviving med school was the peak? Turns out, it’s just the warm-up.” If you ever make it back to Agra, swing by Sadar Bazaar. You’ll find him there, peering into the invisible, turning pixels into hope—one image, one life at a time.

What a ride, eh? From shared benches to saving graces. Here’s to you, Pankaj—the classmate who proved that the best diagnoses start with a good laugh.