In the misty hills of Dehradun, where the air carries whispers of ancient pines and the promise of healing, Dr. Pritam Kaur was born into a world that would soon feel the warmth of her compassionate touch. Though the exact date of her birth remains a quiet secret of the valleys, she grew up amidst the vibrant chaos of Old Doon, a place where community bonds ran as deep as the roots of the deodar trees. From a young age, Pritam dreamed of mending broken bodies and spirits, inspired by the simple acts of kindness she saw in her family. “Why just dream, beta?” her mother once asked her over a steaming cup of chai. “Go out and make it real.” And so she did, pursuing rigorous medical education that transformed her into one of the region’s trailblazing female physicians—a rarity in an era when women in medicine were as uncommon as snow in summer.

Married to a fellow doctor who shared her vision, Pritam found not just a partner in life but a collaborator in revolutionizing healthcare. Together, they sketched plans late into the night, their conversations filled with excitement. “Imagine a place where people don’t just come for pills, but for hope,” Pritam whispered to her husband one evening, her eyes sparkling under the dim lamp. “Let’s build it right here in Dehradun.” By the 1970s, their dream materialized on MKP Road, which now has the bustling clinics of Dr. Kala, Dr. Semwal, and Dr. N.K. Agarwala. They erected the city’s first medical complex, a haven that included Jain Chemist and drew locals like moths to a flame. In 1974, as the doors swung open, Pritam greeted a nervous young patient with a gentle smile. “Don’t worry, beta,” she said, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Your health is our priority, and this complex is here to serve you—like family.”

Like all ladies dr Pritam Kaur had a weakness for gold ornaments. Kamal kapoor of Doon jewellers Dehradun, recollects how frequently she would come to buy gold jewellery from them, especially Meenakari jewellery.

But Pritam’s life wasn’t confined to stethoscopes and prescriptions; and ornaments, she was a force in the world beyond medicine. As a savvy property owner, she held premises at 11 Rampur Mandi Road, navigating the gritty realities of landlord-tenant disputes with unyielding resolve. When a tenant issue escalated under the U.P. (Temporary) Control of Rent and Eviction Act of 1947, Pritam took it all the way to the Supreme Court in the landmark case of Smt. Prabhawati vs. Dr. Pritam Kaur. 6 Standing firm in the face of legal battles, she reportedly declared during proceedings, “This isn’t just about land—it’s about fairness. We build communities, not just walls.”

Her achievements echoed through Dehradun like the call of the morning birds: pioneering the medical complex that became a beloved landmark, where generations sought care and camaraderie. Yet, Pritam remained grounded, her warmth making patients feel seen and valued. Her nephew, Sanjog Singh, later reflected on her legacy while researching family history, noting how she turned challenges into triumphs. Though details of her later years and passing are veiled in the mists of time, her story endures—a testament to a woman who healed with heart, fought with spirit, and left Dehradun forever changed. “Aunty Pritam didn’t just practice medicine,” Sanjog once shared in an email, “she lived it, one kind word at a time.”

In the shadow of Dehradun’s bustling streets, a landlord-tenant dispute escalated all the way to India’s highest court, pitting Dr. Pritam Kaur, the determined physician and property owner, against her tenant, Smt. Prabhawati. This wasn’t just a squabble over rent; it was a battle that exposed the flaws in Uttar Pradesh’s rent control laws, highlighting executive overreach and endless legal delays. The case, formally known as Smt. Prabhawati v. Dr. Pritam Kaur (Civil Appeal No. 1813 of 1971), unfolded in the Supreme Court on March 24, 1972, before Justices P. Jaganmohan Reddy, K.S. Hegde, and G.K. Mitter. 52

It all began in the mid-1960s with a simple premise: Dr. Pritam Kaur owned a property in Dehradun where Prabhawati lived as a tenant. Eager to reclaim her space—perhaps to expand her medical practice or for personal use—Pritam sought eviction. But under the U.P. (Temporary) Control of Rent and Eviction Act, 1947, landlords couldn’t just boot out tenants willy-nilly. Section 3 required official permission from the District Magistrate (acting as Rent Controller) before filing a suit. “I need this space for genuine reasons,” Pritam might have argued in her application, emphasizing her needs as a professional woman building her life in the hills.

The Rent Controller granted permission, and the Commissioner upheld it on revision. Undeterred, Prabhawati took her fight to the State Government under Section 7-F, which allowed it to intervene “in the ends of justice.” In a twist, the government revoked the permission without detailed reasons, possibly swayed by external influences—like a note from the Irrigation Minister favoring the tenant or even a letter from a self-proclaimed “social worker” named Ramesh Puri. Imagine Pritam fuming over tea: “This isn’t justice; it’s politics meddling in my affairs!”

Pritam challenged this revocation in the Allahabad High Court via a writ petition under Article 226. On February 28, 1967, the High Court quashed the order, calling it arbitrary, and directed the State Government to rehear the revision properly. But here’s where the drama intensified: the very next day, March 1, 1967, Pritam dashed to civil court and filed her eviction suit against Prabhawati. “Why wait?” she might have thought. “The High Court didn’t say I couldn’t.” This move set off a chain reaction. When the State Government reheard the revision, it dismissed it as “infructuous”—meaning pointless—because the suit was already underway. Prabhawati cried foul and petitioned the High Court again, but it sided with Pritam, ruling the revision obsolete.

Enter the Supreme Court. Prabhawati appealed by special leave, arguing that Pritam’s hasty suit was a sneaky tactic to sabotage the rehearing process. Her lawyers, M.V. Tarkunde and S.S. Shukla, drew on precedents from other high courts, insisting, “No one should frustrate a court’s directive through clever maneuvers.” Pritam’s counsel, M.C. Chagla and Rameshwar Nath, countered that the suit was legitimate and the revision had naturally lapsed.

The Supreme Court, in a scathing judgment penned by Justice Hegde, sided with Prabhawati. They blasted the Act’s structure: a labyrinth of executive approvals that dragged disputes for years, burdening tenants and landlords alike. “Why vest judicial powers in executives?” the judges essentially asked, noting how Section 7-F’s vague “ends of justice” clause invited abuse and delays. They highlighted the original revocation’s suspicious lack of reasoning and external pressures, painting a picture of a system ripe for corruption.

Crucially, the court ruled Pritam’s suit premature—it couldn’t override the High Court’s rehearing order. “You can’t pull a fast one to make the revision meaningless,” the justices implied. They set aside the High Court’s dismissal and the State Government’s order, directing a fresh rehearing within four months. Pritam could seek a stay on her suit in the meantime, but the message was clear: justice demands fair play, not shortcuts. Costs? Each side bore their own, a small mercy in a protracted war.

This case wasn’t Pritam’s victory, but it cemented her as a fighter against bureaucratic hurdles. It also sparked broader critiques of rent control laws, pushing for reforms to shift power back to courts. In Dehradun’s misty valleys, where Pritam continued her healing work, this legal saga reminded everyone: property rights and tenant protections are a delicate balance, often tipped by the scales of power. 52