Dr. Shakuntala Chhabra

Professor and Head of Obstetrics and Gynaecology · Medical Superintendent · Dean · MGIMS

MBBS, Government Medical College Nagpur (1970) DGO (1972) ·
MD Obstetrics and Gynaecology, Government Medical College Nagpur (1972)

b. 22 November 1949, Gondia   ·   d. —

Tenure: 1975 – 2024

Professor & Head of Obstetrics and Gynaecology · Medical Superintendent · Dean · Forty-Nine Years at Sevagram

Gondia, the Eye Camps, and the Generous Doctor

Shakuntala Chhabra was born on November 22, 1949, in Gondia, the youngest of six children of Amir Chand Chhabra, a forest contractor who had migrated from Rawalpindi. Two childhood experiences crystallised her understanding of what medicine was actually for. At rural eye camps, she watched doctors restore sight to blind patients — skill and kindness functioning as an inseparable unit. At home, she watched their family doctor treat her ailing brother every single time without ever taking a rupee. Both images carried the same essential truth: medicine was the combination of elite competence and raw generosity. She decided she wanted to be exactly that kind of doctor.

She entered Government Medical College, Nagpur, in 1966, graduated MBBS in 1970, and completed both her DGO and MD in Obstetrics and Gynaecology in a blistering two and a half years — an early signal of the intensity she would bring to everything she undertook. When she chose Obstetrics over a more comfortable research or administrative path, her mentors were surprised. But for her, the emotional connection with patients was not supplementary to the clinical work; it was the entire foundation.

The Crucible

In July 1975, during the Emergency, she joined MGIMS as Lecturer. The night of the massive haemorrhage came shortly after her arrival. The mother lay pale, her pulse racing, her skin cold and clammy. The bleeding refused to stop. She was twenty-six years old, newly arrived in Sevagram, fresh from her MD, and entirely alone with the catastrophic emergency unfolding in front of her. That night, she saved two lives. The choice she had made — to be in the wards with desperate women rather than in a comfortable research post — became, in that delivery room, a lifelong mission.

By 1980, like many of her peers, she considered leaving. Prestigious institutions presented themselves as possibilities. Dr. Nayar tried to create a new administrative path in Social Obstetrics to retain her, but Dr. Chhabra declined — she knew her strengths lay in hands-on patient care, not in administration. She chose to stay in the wards. The forty-nine years began to accumulate.

She chose not to marry. Brief breaks at her nearby home offered nothing more than a simple meal and a half-cup of tea before she rushed back. Hunger and fatigue were treated as minor inconveniences. The department was not just her job; it was her entire life.

The Villages and the World

As director of the Family Planning Unit for seventeen years, she expanded its scope far beyond contraception — introducing cluster immunisations, launching cervical cancer screenings, and educating rural women on reproductive health. The dusty villages of Vidarbha became her field just as much as the hospital ward.

In 1989, a British Council diploma programme in Liverpool deepened her grasp of global maternal healthcare. The WHO invited her to Jakarta as consultant; she went, contributed brilliantly, and when offered a highly lucrative permanent role, she chose to return to Sevagram because her rural department needed her more than Geneva did. Further training took her to Sweden and Maastricht. Over five decades, she produced more than six hundred publications — accumulated through relentless application of research discipline to the clinical problems she encountered every day. The manuscripts she returned to her residents were famously covered in red ink.

Aakanksha

In 1987, the sight of a discarded foetal skull near her home in Sevagram shook Dr. Chhabra to her core. She immediately proposed a safe motherhood programme for unwed mothers and abandoned children. Institutional resistance was fierce. Fourteen exhausting years of advocacy and bureaucratic navigation followed. Finally, in 2001, with funding from a Danish agency and the vital support of Dhirubhai Mehta, she secured the licence for an orphanage. She named it Aakanksha — aspiration.

Since its founding, Aakanksha has cared for 492 infants, facilitated 443 formal adoptions, and supported 613 women in acute distress. The foetal skull in 1987 had been the harrowing beginning of a fourteen-year journey toward a building, a system, and a name that meant hope.

The Ward and What It Required

She was petite and frail, eating sparingly, dressing simply, spending almost nothing on herself, living steps from the department, and moving briskly through its corridors keeping watch over every detail. Backgrounds, wealth, and political connections held zero weight in her ward. Elite competence was the only accepted currency. Casual attitudes received sharp, public rebukes. The apron was mandatory. The corridor fell silent.

Dr. Kishore Shah, one of her students, described her with precision: “Dr. Chhabra was, without question, the department’s fiercest taskmaster. Her passion for obstetrics and gynaecology was a fire that never dimmed, but it burned those who stood too close. She demanded perfection — anything less was unacceptable. And yet, she was a brilliant surgeon, a visionary in her field, and utterly devoted to her patients. Medicine, for her, was not a profession; it was a sacred duty.”

Beneath this terrifying exterior lay a truth her students only came to understand over time: the impossibly high standards were never about her ego; they were entirely about the patients who needed those standards held. A woman bleeding to death in a rural hospital at midnight needed the resident standing beside her to have been trained by someone who accepted no excuse for incompetence. Dr. Chhabra had been that terrified twenty-six-year-old resident once. She trained her students exclusively for that moment.

The Measure of a Life

After forty-nine unbroken years, she left MGIMS on March 31, 2024. At seventy-five, she began an entirely new chapter at a medical college in Shirpur, working to build a 750-bed super-specialty hospital for tribal communities.

Somewhere in a remote village she once served, a mother holds her child close — safe, alive, and thriving — simply because Dr. Chhabra was there. This is the ultimate measure of her life. It is enough. It is, in fact, everything.

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Dr. Shakuntala Chhabra

Professor & Head of Obstetrics and Gynaecology · Medical Superintendent · Dean · Forty-Nine Years at Sevagram

Gondia, the Eye Camps, and the Generous Doctor

Shakuntala Chhabra was born on November 22, 1949, in Gondia, the youngest of six children of Amir Chand Chhabra, a forest contractor who had migrated from Rawalpindi. Two childhood experiences crystallised her understanding of what medicine was actually for. At rural eye camps, she watched doctors restore sight to blind patients — skill and kindness functioning as an inseparable unit. At home, she watched their family doctor treat her ailing brother every single time without ever taking a rupee. Both images carried the same essential truth: medicine was the combination of elite competence and raw generosity. She decided she wanted to be exactly that kind of doctor.

She entered Government Medical College, Nagpur, in 1966, graduated MBBS in 1970, and completed both her DGO and MD in Obstetrics and Gynaecology in a blistering two and a half years — an early signal of the intensity she would bring to everything she undertook. When she chose Obstetrics over a more comfortable research or administrative path, her mentors were surprised. But for her, the emotional connection with patients was not supplementary to the clinical work; it was the entire foundation.

The Crucible

In July 1975, during the Emergency, she joined MGIMS as Lecturer. The night of the massive haemorrhage came shortly after her arrival. The mother lay pale, her pulse racing, her skin cold and clammy. The bleeding refused to stop. She was twenty-six years old, newly arrived in Sevagram, fresh from her MD, and entirely alone with the catastrophic emergency unfolding in front of her. That night, she saved two lives. The choice she had made — to be in the wards with desperate women rather than in a comfortable research post — became, in that delivery room, a lifelong mission.

By 1980, like many of her peers, she considered leaving. Prestigious institutions presented themselves as possibilities. Dr. Nayar tried to create a new administrative path in Social Obstetrics to retain her, but Dr. Chhabra declined — she knew her strengths lay in hands-on patient care, not in administration. She chose to stay in the wards. The forty-nine years began to accumulate.

She chose not to marry. Brief breaks at her nearby home offered nothing more than a simple meal and a half-cup of tea before she rushed back. Hunger and fatigue were treated as minor inconveniences. The department was not just her job; it was her entire life.

The Villages and the World

As director of the Family Planning Unit for seventeen years, she expanded its scope far beyond contraception — introducing cluster immunisations, launching cervical cancer screenings, and educating rural women on reproductive health. The dusty villages of Vidarbha became her field just as much as the hospital ward.

In 1989, a British Council diploma programme in Liverpool deepened her grasp of global maternal healthcare. The WHO invited her to Jakarta as consultant; she went, contributed brilliantly, and when offered a highly lucrative permanent role, she chose to return to Sevagram because her rural department needed her more than Geneva did. Further training took her to Sweden and Maastricht. Over five decades, she produced more than six hundred publications — accumulated through relentless application of research discipline to the clinical problems she encountered every day. The manuscripts she returned to her residents were famously covered in red ink.

Aakanksha

In 1987, the sight of a discarded foetal skull near her home in Sevagram shook Dr. Chhabra to her core. She immediately proposed a safe motherhood programme for unwed mothers and abandoned children. Institutional resistance was fierce. Fourteen exhausting years of advocacy and bureaucratic navigation followed. Finally, in 2001, with funding from a Danish agency and the vital support of Dhirubhai Mehta, she secured the licence for an orphanage. She named it Aakanksha — aspiration.

Since its founding, Aakanksha has cared for 492 infants, facilitated 443 formal adoptions, and supported 613 women in acute distress. The foetal skull in 1987 had been the harrowing beginning of a fourteen-year journey toward a building, a system, and a name that meant hope.

The Ward and What It Required

She was petite and frail, eating sparingly, dressing simply, spending almost nothing on herself, living steps from the department, and moving briskly through its corridors keeping watch over every detail. Backgrounds, wealth, and political connections held zero weight in her ward. Elite competence was the only accepted currency. Casual attitudes received sharp, public rebukes. The apron was mandatory. The corridor fell silent.

Dr. Kishore Shah, one of her students, described her with precision: “Dr. Chhabra was, without question, the department’s fiercest taskmaster. Her passion for obstetrics and gynaecology was a fire that never dimmed, but it burned those who stood too close. She demanded perfection — anything less was unacceptable. And yet, she was a brilliant surgeon, a visionary in her field, and utterly devoted to her patients. Medicine, for her, was not a profession; it was a sacred duty.”

Beneath this terrifying exterior lay a truth her students only came to understand over time: the impossibly high standards were never about her ego; they were entirely about the patients who needed those standards held. A woman bleeding to death in a rural hospital at midnight needed the resident standing beside her to have been trained by someone who accepted no excuse for incompetence. Dr. Chhabra had been that terrified twenty-six-year-old resident once. She trained her students exclusively for that moment.

The Measure of a Life

After forty-nine unbroken years, she left MGIMS on March 31, 2024. At seventy-five, she began an entirely new chapter at a medical college in Shirpur, working to build a 750-bed super-specialty hospital for tribal communities.

Somewhere in a remote village she once served, a mother holds her child close — safe, alive, and thriving — simply because Dr. Chhabra was there. This is the ultimate measure of her life. It is enough. It is, in fact, everything.