Doctors of Dehradun: A Tapestry of Medicine and Memory
In the quiet folds of Dehradun, nestled between the foothills of the Himalayas and the bustling streets of a growing city, the medical landscape of the past was shaped by a handful of doctors whose names linger in the memories of those they served. Among them were Dr. R.N. Gideon, Dr. Anil Agarwal, Dr. Ram Prakash Verma, and Dr. Phuntsog—each a distinct thread in the fabric of the city’s history, weaving stories of dedication, quirks, and the inevitable fragility of life. Their practices, personalities, and legacies offer a glimpse into a time when doctors were not just healers but community fixtures, their clinics as much a part of Dehradun’s identity as the Doon Valley itself.
Dr. R.N. Gideon: The Brilliant Mind and the Bitter End
Dr. R.N. Gideon was a psychiatrist of repute in Dehradun, a man whose intellect was as sharp as the diagnoses he delivered. His clinic was a sanctuary for those grappling with the complexities of the mind, a place where patients found solace in his measured words and keen insights. But as fate would have it, Dr. Gideon’s own mind became his battleground. In his later years, a lethal brain tumor cast a shadow over his life, transforming the once-composed doctor into a figure of irritability and unpredictability. Stories circulated of his sharp tongue, particularly during an unexpected courtesy call from Dr. Nand Kishore, a younger practitioner eager to pay his respects. The encounter, meant to be a gesture of professional camaraderie, was met with a curt dismissal, leaving Dr. Kishore bewildered and the anecdote etched in local lore.
Dr. Gideon’s decline was a poignant reminder of the vulnerability even the most skilled healers face. His daughter, Priti, followed in his footsteps, establishing her own psychiatry practice in Chor Khalla, a quaint corner of Dehradun. But Priti’s journey was not without its own turbulence. Whispers of personal struggles and familial discord with her brother surfaced, casting a shadow over her practice. Eventually, Priti left Dehradun, her clinic shuttered, her departure a quiet footnote in the city’s medical history. Dr. Gideon’s legacy, though marred by his final years, remains a testament to the profound impact a single doctor can have on a community—and the fragility of the human condition.
Dr. Anil Agarwal: The Psychiatrist with a Quiet Demeanor
Dr. Anil Agarwal, another pillar of Dehradun’s psychiatric community, was a man of understated presence. His clinic was a haven for those navigating mental health challenges, offering a calm counterpoint to the often chaotic world outside. Yet, when a young doctor approached him with a courtesy visit, hoping to forge a connection in the tight-knit medical community, Dr. Anil’s response was unexpectedly reserved. The lukewarm reception left the visitor puzzled, a moment that underscored the guarded nature of some practitioners in an era when new doctors were still a rarity.
Dr. Anil Agarwal was an imposing figure, a tall man from Punjab with a thick Punjabi accent that carried both warmth and authority. His stern disposition was evident in the way his sharp eyes assessed you, but there was a subtle kindness beneath the surface, like a strict uncle who cared deeply but showed it sparingly. He sat in his office, dressed impeccably in an off-white safari suit, the fabric crisp despite the Dehradun humidity. His polished brogues gleamed under the desk, a testament to his meticulous nature. As the president of the Indian Medical Association’s Dehradun branch, he commanded respect, and his reputation as a no-nonsense leader preceded him.
I arrived at his office to discuss the inauguration of my new clinic, nervous but hopeful. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and old books, with shelves lined with medical journals and a framed certificate proclaiming his IMA presidency. Dr. Agarwal sat behind his large wooden desk, scribbling notes, his brow furrowed in concentration. He didn’t look up as I entered, and to my surprise, he didn’t offer me a chair. I stood awkwardly, clutching my file of plans, feeling the weight of his silence.
Finally, he glanced up, his eyes narrowing slightly as he sized me up. “So, young doctor,” he said, his voice booming with that distinct Punjabi cadence, “you think you’re ready to open a clinic, eh? It’s not just about cutting ribbons and smiling for photos. It’s responsibility. You ready for that?”
I swallowed, trying to match his intensity. “Yes, sir. I’ve been preparing for months. I just need your guidance for the inauguration, maybe a few words from you to inspire the community.”
He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms, the safari suit creasing slightly. “Inspire, huh? People don’t need fancy speeches. They need a doctor who shows up when they’re hurting.” He paused, then pointed to the chair I hadn’t been offered earlier. “Sit, sit. Don’t just stand there like a patient waiting for a diagnosis.”
I sat, relieved, and handed him my proposal. He flipped through it, his stern expression softening just a fraction as he read. “Not bad,” he muttered, almost to himself. “But listen, beta, a clinic isn’t just a building. It’s trust. You earn that every day, one patient at a time. You mess up, they’ll talk from here to Ludhiana.”
I nodded, hanging on his every word. “I understand, sir. That’s why I wanted your support. Your name carries weight here.”
He chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound. “Flattery, eh? Alright, I’ll come to your inauguration. But no long speeches. I’ll say what needs saying, and you better have good chai for the guests.” His eyes twinkled briefly, a rare glimpse of humor breaking through his stern facade.
“Thank you, Dr. Agarwal,” I said, feeling a surge of gratitude. “It means a lot.”
He waved a hand dismissively, already returning to his notes. “Go on, get to work. And don’t let that clinic of yours become just another shop. Make it a place people can count on.”
As I left, I felt a mix of awe and determination. Dr. Anil Agarwal wasn’t one for warmth or small talk, but in his gruff way, he’d given me both a challenge and a blessing. I knew the inauguration would be just the start of proving myself to him—and to the community he served so fiercely.
Tragically, Dr. Anil’s life was cut short by a stroke, a sudden departure that left his patients and colleagues reeling. His son, however, carried forward the family’s medical legacy, practicing as a general practitioner in Dehradun to this day. The younger Agarwal’s presence is a quiet nod to his father’s contributions, a reminder that while individual lives may end, their impact ripples through generations.
Dr. Phuntsog: The Orthopedic Surgeon at the Crossroads
At the junction of Dehradun and the winding road to Mussoorie stood Dr. Phuntsog, an orthopedic surgeon whose reputation preceded him. His clinic, perched at this symbolic crossroads, was a beacon for those seeking relief from broken bones and aching joints. Dr. Phuntsog’s name carried weight, his skill with surgical precision earning him a loyal following. Yet, like Dr. Anil, he too met a courtesy call from a new practitioner with a reserved demeanor, a response that belied his otherwise warm reputation.
Dr. Phuntsog, a thin, wiry man with sparse hair and a warm Tibetan grin, moved briskly from ward to ward, his white coat flapping slightly as he navigated the crowded hospital corridors. His eyes carried a tired but kind glint, and a small entourage of patients and attendants trailed behind him, their murmurs blending with the hum of the hospital. As he glanced over at me, his grin widened, and he slowed his pace to walk beside me.
“So, what brings you here to see an old doctor like me?” he asked, his voice gentle but curious, with a slight lilt that hinted at his Tibetan roots. “Not many come just to chat, you know—usually it’s fevers or broken bones.”
I hesitated, then smiled back. “I heard you’re the one to talk to if I want to understand how this place runs on heart as much as medicine.”
He chuckled, a soft, raspy sound, pausing to nod at a passing nurse. “Heart, huh? Well, maybe. But it’s mostly stubbornness and tea—lots of tea.” His eyes twinkled as he gestured toward the wards. “Come, walk with me. Tell me what’s really on your mind. You didn’t come all this way just to flatter an old man, did you?”
Dr. Phuntsog’s time in Dehradun was brief, his life cut short not long after. His passing left a void at the junction, where the hills met the plains, and his absence was felt deeply by those who had relied on his steady hands. In a city where doctors were few, his departure was a loss not just of skill but of a presence that had anchored the community.
Dr. Ram Prakash Verma: The School Doctor’s Ritual
Dr. Ram Prakash Verma, the school doctor, was a figure both familiar and faintly comical to the students of Dehradun’s hill schools. His morning rounds were a ritual, a procession of “Open your mouth, show your tongue,” followed by a splash of potassium permanganate solution—a vivid purple liquid that left students gargling and grimacing. To the young minds under his care, this routine was both perplexing and amusing. Why, they wondered, was illness always confined to the oral cavity? Whispers and giggles filled the school corridors, with students half-joking that Dr. Verma might one day demand, “Open your trousers and show me your back!” Such was the irreverent humor of youth, finding levity in the monotony of medical checks.
Dr. Ram Prakash was a stout, elderly man, his frame leaning toward heaviness, with a mop of sparse, brown-dyed hair combed neatly back. His round face carried a pleasant, almost jovial disposition, despite the untidy way his half-sleeve shirt was tucked into his belted pants. His thick arms moved slowly, deliberately, as he sat at his worn wooden desk in the small school clinic, a faint smell of antiseptic lingering in the air. A queue of students, dressed in crisp uniforms, shuffled nervously outside the door, clutching their medical forms.
“Next!” Dr. Prakash called out, his voice warm but firm, carrying the weight of years spent tending to scraped knees and feverish foreheads. A lanky boy, no older than twelve, stepped in, his sneakers squeaking on the tiled floor.
“Come, come, don’t be shy,” Dr. Prakash said, leaning forward in his creaky chair, his eyes twinkling behind thick glasses. “Open your mouth, show me your tongue.”
The boy hesitated, then stuck out his tongue, his face scrunched in embarrassment. Dr. Prakash peered at it, squinting slightly, then jotted something on the form with a stubby pencil.
“Good, good,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Healthy as a horse. Eat more vegetables, hmm? Not just those chips you kids sneak at lunch.” He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound, and waved the boy out.
As the next student, a girl with pigtails, stepped in, Dr. Prakash leaned back, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. “Long day, beta,” he said with a sigh, though his smile never faded. “Let’s see that tongue now, quick-quick. Don’t keep Dr. Ram waiting!”
Dr. Verma’s methods, though quirky, were a product of his time—a time when simple antiseptics like potassium permanganate were a staple in medical practice. His presence at the school was a reassuring constant, a reminder that health was tended to with care, even if it came with a side of amusement. Like his contemporaries, Dr. Verma too passed away, leaving behind memories of his purple-stained gargles and the students who both dreaded and adored his visits.
A Bygone Era of Medicine
In the Dehradun of yesteryear, doctors like Gideon, Agarwal, Phuntsog, and Verma were more than practitioners—they were characters in the city’s unfolding story. Their clinics were not just places of healing but gathering points for communities, where stories were shared, and lives intersected. The courtesy calls that marked the arrival of new doctors were a tradition rooted in respect, a nod to the scarcity of medical professionals in a region where every healer was a lifeline.
Yet, their stories also reflect the impermanence of life. Brain tumors, strokes, and untimely deaths claimed these doctors, just as personal struggles and familial rifts shaped their legacies. Their quirks—Gideon’s irritability, Anil’s reserve, Phuntsog’s quiet demeanor, Verma’s purple solution—humanize them, reminding us that doctors, too, are mortals navigating their own challenges.
Today, Dehradun’s medical landscape has evolved, with modern hospitals like Graphic Era and Shri Mahant Indiresh offering advanced care and online appointments. But the echoes of these old and contemporary doctors linger, their stories woven into the city’s past. They remind us of a time when medicine was as much about presence as it was about practice, when a doctor’s visit was a ritual, a reassurance, and sometimes, a source of schoolyard laughter.
Also were,
Dr Om Prakash
Dr G R Kalra
Dr Ram Prakash Verma
Dr Ram Murti Sharma
Dr Jwala prasad
Dr Nandwani
Dr Chandna
Dr jai dev Chaddha
Dr Chadha at Raja Road.
He was the first doctor to have E C G Machine and X -Ray machine.
Dr Mehta , dentist at Chakrata Road are worth mentioning when I joined O N G C Clinic at Lyton Road.
Dr R P Gupta E N T at Chakrata road.
Dr S K Gupta Physician at Chakrata Road.
All stalwarts of Old Doon
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deemag and chest clinic 