In the heart of Dehradun, where the hills hum with stories of grit and grace, Dr. I. Rukmani was a larger-than-life figure—both literally and figuratively. Born around 1935, likely in Calcutta or somewhere in South India, her dark skin and robust, overweight frame were as commanding as her presence in the delivery room. A gynecologist and obstetrician who seemed to carry the strength of the Himalayas in her bones, she delivered thousands of babies with hands that were both gentle and powerful. “Pulling out babies? It’s not just skill, beta, it’s heart—and a bit of muscle!” she’d say with a hearty laugh, her voice booming through her modest nursing home near the Clock Tower.

Rukmani’s life was as vibrant as the stories whispered about her in Dehradun’s lanes. Raised in a middle-class family, she defied the odds of her time to pursue medicine, in the 1950s. “My father told me, ‘Rukmani, you’re meant for big things, but you’ll have to fight for them,’” she once shared, her eyes glinting with pride as she recounted her journey over a steaming cup of chai at her Behl Chowk home. Married to a steady government engineer who retired after a long career, she built a life grounded in service. Her son, a chemist, worked alongside her at the Rukmani Women’s Nursing Home, managing the pharmacy with a quiet diligence that balanced her fiery spirit. “My boy keeps the medicines ready, but I’m the one who brings the miracles,” she’d quip, winking at him as he rolled his eyes.

Her clinic, a bustling hub near the iconic Clock Tower, was a testament to her no-nonsense competence. Specializing in normal deliveries, Rukmani was a maestro in the delivery room, her strength legendary. “Those babies didn’t stand a chance—they came out when I said so!” she’d boast to nervous mothers, easing their fears with her confidence. But her warmth came with a temper, especially when it came to fees. “Fees kya, ghar jakar leni padegi?” she’d snap at forgetful patients, her voice sharp but her eyes betraying a flicker of amusement. One patient, Anil, recalls her scolding him after a delayed payment: “I was mortified, but she sat me down afterward and said, ‘Anil ji, I don’t chase money for fun—every rupee keeps this clinic alive for the next mother.’ I paid double out of respect!”

Life with Dr. Rukmani was never dull, especially for those who knew her personally. You, who occasionally visited her Behl Chowk home, remember the chaos of emergencies. She never kept a vehicle, a quirk that baffled everyone. When a midnight call came for an urgent delivery, patients had to arrange transport. “I’d ring her bell at 2 a.m., heart pounding,” you recall. “You’d hear the flush in her bathroom, and out she’d come, ready in minutes, saying, ‘Chalo, let’s not keep the baby waiting!’” Riding your scooter to the nursing home was a stunt in itself—Rukmani, heavy and uncomplaining, sat behind you, her weight tilting the scooter so the front wheel barely touched the ground. “I was clinging to the edge of the seat, praying we wouldn’t topple,” you laugh. “She’d just pat my shoulder and say, ‘Drive steady, beta, I’ve got enough strength for both of us!’”. Dr. I. Rukmani, a skilled surgeon, often traveled to her nursing home on a scooter, mostly patient’s vehicle, seated sidesaddle in her sari, her substantial frame leaving the driver perched precariously on the seat’s edge. With the scooter wobbling under her weight, the driver silently prayed it wouldn’t topple, knowing a fall could delay her vital work delivering babies. After performing surgeries, the daunting task of safely transporting her back home remained, a testament to her dedication and the trust placed in her care.Dr. I. Rukmani was overjoyed when, after a delivery at her nursing home, I named my daughter Rohini, a South Indian name. “It’s the name of a star,” she said with delight, “very good!”

Her insistence on examining her own daughter was classic Rukmani—fiercely protective yet practical. “She once called me over and said, ‘You’re a doctor too; check my girl. I trust you, but don’t mess it up!’” you recall, mimicking her commanding tone. At her home, Dr. I. Rukmani would urge me to examine her daughter, concerned about her sluggishness. Noticing her daughter’s significant weight, I’d suggest hypothyroidism. With a hearty chuckle, Dr. Rukmani would dismiss it, saying, “No, no, we’re all hereditary fat!”. Her reliance on others extended to emergencies, where she’d summon Dr. Chachra, the anesthetist, who was notoriously slow. “That man moves like a tortoise in a snowstorm,” she’d grumble, pacing the nursing home. “Chachra ji, if you take any longer, I’ll deliver this baby myself with no anesthesia!” Dr Chachra like all anaesthetist, praised her competence . “She is as good and senior as a professor”’he would say. Her patients adored her competence. “Normal deliveries were her magic,” says Priya, a former patient. “When my labor stalled, she looked me in the eye and said, ‘Priya, you’re stronger than this pain. Push with me now!’ And I did—my son was born in an hour.” She used to say “ We do what is best for mother and child. Can’t promise beforehand”.

Once Dr. Rukmani’s staff shared how much effort it took to deliver this baby—imagine the strength needed to guide that little one into the world! When I first saw her, the poor thing was trembling, but after a few days in the NICU, she was doing just fine. Dr. Rukmani explained that as we get older, our pelvic bones stiffen, making natural delivery tougher. It’s a reminder of how incredible the body is, and how resilient those tiny newborns are!

Rukmani’s later years saw changes. She sold her Behl Chowk home and moved to Hathibarkala, where she lived more quietly but never stopped working. Her nursing home, sold around the time her health began to decline, was a bittersweet farewell to her legacy. By 2020, at roughly 85, Dr. Rukmani passed away, leaving Dehradun grieving a titan. “She was my doctor, my scolder, my savior,” says Meera, a mother of three. “When I struggled with my last pregnancy, she said, ‘Meera ji, life’s a battle, but we win it together.’ I named my daughter Rukmani after her.”

Dr. I. Rukmani wasn’t just a doctor; she was a force—dark, powerful, and unapologetically human. Her legacy lingers in the babies she delivered, the women she empowered, and the stories still told about the scooter rides that defied gravity. In Dehradun’s heart, she remains the woman who carried life’s weight—literally and metaphorically—with unmatched strength and love.