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It was the first day she had taken charge as the director of the All India Institute of Medical Sciences, Delhi. Dr Sneh Bhargava's appointment letter to become the first lady director of the world-renowned hospital and medical college was being signed. She was on the cusp of making history. She was in her radiology department, going over a new case with her colleagues.

Just then, a radiographer burst in.

"The prime minister has arrived," she declared.

Bhargava was surprised. “How can the prime minister come unannounced? It cannot be, there is something amiss.”

She was correct. Bhargava assumed AIIMS on 31 October 1984, the day when Indira Gandhi was assassinated by her bodyguards. Becoming woman chief of AIIMS was historic, but memories of the first day are a part of the national tragedy as well. Today, this flashbulb memory is also imprinted in her brand-new autobiography, The Woman Who Ran AIIMS—a tour de force of her life, the times, the trials and the triumphs.

Sneh Bhargava, today 95, was the first and, and indeed, the last woman director at AIIMS, leading it for six years, between 1984 and 1990. It had been established through the AIIMS Act, 1956 by then health minister Rajkumari Amrit Kaur, who had fantasized about an institute which would give excellent medical training so "our young men and women could have their postgraduate education in their own country." Six years down the line, after its establishment, Bhargava joined AIIMS as a radiographer and made it her life's work to fulfill that dream.

A photograph from Sneh Bhargava's autobiography 'The Woman Who Ran AIIMS', a 1952 students' union photo with Rajkumari Amrit Kaur and Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan

The years have not dimmed her recollections.

"When I inquired about Mrs Gandhi, the staff indicated a trolley. I discovered her covered in a blood-stained saffron sari," she recounted, with a shiver in her otherwise firm voice. The first thing that came to my mind after seeing Mrs Gandhi was to keep her in a safe location. I called up the director who was signing my appointment letter, and requested the medical superintendent to move Mrs Gandhi to the operation theatre." Bhargava was among the doctors who wheeled the prime minister to the operation theatre.

A few days later, rumours swirled again in AIIMS and government corridors. Could a woman run AIIMS? Would she still be director after Indira Gandhi’s assassination?

"My colleagues and friends requested me to address Rajiv Gandhi. But I opposed it. Why should I go? Everyone said, 'How can a woman administer AIIMS?' If Mrs Gandhi can administer the country as a woman, I can administer AIIMS as a woman," Bhargava said.

An eye on the future

Her four feet 11 inches of height hides her assertive demeanor. She moves quickly to the inner patio of her large two-storey house in New Friends Colony. Yoga, she explains. Sitting on the shelf is a framed picture of her in vrikshasana, or tree pose. "I like this photo," she smiles. 

Bhargava, whose husband passed away at 77, lives alone on the ground floor. Her daughter and son-in-law live upstairs.

She began her professional life at AIIMS in 1961, and rose to be the head of radiology department. Following her MBBS from Lady Hardinge Medical College, it was a specialisation that selected her in a manner when she proceeded to postgraduate training at Westminster Medical School in London, which is now part of Imperial College.

"After MBBS, I was unsure which department to join. I did self-analysis, visited every department. In the process somehow, I was approached to join radiology, so I joined radiology. When I joined, radiology was a all-girls gang, but as soon as CT scan and other innovations occurred, men began joining the department," she said.

Sneh Bhargava’s home is filled with mementos of a long career, including a framed photo of her receiving the Padma Shri in 1991 | Photo: Manisha Mondal | ThePrint

Bhargava argues in favor of the power of human instinct and intuition, but is not a traditionalist. She is an eloquent advocate for X-rays as an amazing "second eye" for medical analysis and is open to the application of AI in healthcare.

"I've seen just a bit because AI did not arrive when I was clinically practicing, but I am aware that you will be able to diagnose a bit more than your eyes can," she added. "You may have AI in some cases, but not as an routine."

Interest in the new, the novel, and the now is the foundation of her personality. She asks questions when she spots a selfie stick: "Is this a tripod? What's the difference between a tripod and a selfie stick?"

Students, colleagues and patients paint a picture of Bhargava as a super-skilled doctor. But being a super-doctor and a understanding teacher is not sufficient to run one of India's biggest hospitals. A director has to be as diplomatic as a seasoned diplomat, have the vision of a leader and have the tenacity of an army chief.

Trials by fire

She displayed her mettle by standing firm in the anti-Sikh riots that broke out after Indira Gandhi was assassinated. When Bhargava was director of AIIMS, there was a need to protect her Sikh students and employees, so she asked the inspector general of police to send a contingent on campus to provide protection. She also invited two Sikh professors to stay with her if they were not feeling secure.

As the violence intensified across Delhi, casualties increased, and not everyone could make it to AIIMS or local hospitals.

"I appointed a few clinical heads of department from AIIMS to conduct OPDs in the schools closest to where they lived. In a crowded school that I went to, there was no room. I had to stand on a desk in the center and promise all the victims that we would conduct health OPDs every morning if only they were sheltered in the school," she states in her book.

She writes in it that she had put off writing for years. She never maintained a diary or journal—just a notebook in which she noted errors so they wouldn't be repeated.

Under Dr Bhargava, the AIIMS radiology department changed. Along with other doctors, she convinced the health ministry to approve a new CT scanner. She then lobbied for an ultrasound machine. She even helped set up a blood storage facility and a fertility clinic. Gradually, she strengthened the department and groomed the next generation of physicians.

During her three-decade career, she supervised the establishment of some new departments: neuroradiology, cardiovascular radiology, oncoradiology, paediatric radiology, and interventional radiology. She facilitated the installation of the Medical Education and Technology Center to educate students in teaching and was on the team that established The National Medical Journal of India. In 1991, she was awarded the Padma Shri for her service to medicine.

But pressures also existed. Being a part of India's top medical facility, she witnessed India's notorious VIP culture in full, unapologetic bloom on a daily basis. "More VIPs than outsiders would come in. All 544 Lok Sabha MPs and 245 Upper House members insisted on our services being made available to them at once whenever they required the same. The faculty was forced to cater to them apart from their regular tasks," mentioned Bhargava.

Former prime ministers Jawaharlal Nehru, Indira Gandhi, Rajiv Gandhi used to visit regularly. So did Sonia, Rahul, and Priyanka Gandhi. Politicians from the state, usually recommended by Indira Gandhi, would also end up for treatment, as VIP patients from neighbouring states like Sri Lanka and Pakistan.

Bhargava remembers one MP who threatened her after she requested security to evict his family from a faculty house where they were squatting without permission.

If you throw out my family members, I will shatter the walls of the hospital," she remembered him stating. Unperturbed, Bhargava remained firm.

"Sir, the walls of the Institute and my shoulders are not so feeble that you can attempt to shake them. You are in the wrong side of the rules, and till I am here sitting, you cannot violate the rules and still escape," she says in her book.

The Bengali film industry is accustomed to scandals, but Durgapur Junction—a crass, small-town drama—has unleashed far more than bitterness. Complaints of exploitation on set, unpaid wages, and creative differences have accompanied it to its release. At the center of it all? Madhubanti Mukherjee, the associate director of the film, who spilled the beans on the venture with her no-holds-barred Instagram posts.

In an untamed interview with Edinbox, Mukherjee—a veteran AD who has collaborated with legends like Rituparno Ghosh and Aparna Sen—brings up the Durgapur Junction fiasco, the toxic Bengali cinema hierarchy, and why she just can't help making movies, despite the "betrayals."

"I WAS TOLD HOW WOULD I PROVE THAT THE PRODUCER HAD PROMISED ME THE SAID AMOUNT, WHATSAPP CHAT IS NOT VALID IN THE EYES OF LAW—SO I REFUSED TO STAY SILENT

Nibedita: Durgapur Junction was meant to be a path-breaking film. Instead, it is now infamous for crew grievances. You had publicly objected to the production. What was the situation?

Madhubanti: Firstly, when I had signed the project as the chief AD, the directorial team was different, and the shoot dates were different. Due to various actors’ dates and other logistical problems, the shoot dates had been postponed, increasing the days of my involvement. For this, the director-producer had added a small amount of token to the original agreement. When I repeatedly asked for the updated MOU, he avoided it, and it was my foolishness to have believed him and started the work without the updated contract.

After getting the script, I told the director that there are major loopholes that need to be fixed and justified. He said he was working on it. Three days before the shoot, we got the script without any changes, so I sat with my team and the DOP at his place, worked almost the whole day and night for these three days, and somehow managed to fix the loopholes (which I didn’t sign for nor charged for).

After reaching Durgapur with 80 cast and crew members, I got to know the day before the shoot that there was no police permission and that we couldn’t shoot. We had great managers, so this issue was handled by them.

Then, from the second day of the shoot, I started realizing that the director doesn’t know the basics of filmmaking. It’s like a painter not knowing the difference between a pen and a knife.

So, along with my assistants, the DOP, and even the actors, we took it upon ourselves to finish the shoot. The climax of the film was drafted by the actors, and when we were shooting the most crucial part of the film, the director-producer was sleeping.

I wouldn’t have said any of these things; every shoot is chaotic. But even after all the hard work, when he denied paying the promised remuneration, I couldn’t accept it. Moreover, when I asked for my dues, he said, ‘How will you prove that I said I would pay you this amount? WhatsApp chat is not valid in the eyes of law.’ So, when someone not just denies but threatens you to take you to court for asking for your due remuneration, it tells a lot about that person.

Later, when I raised this issue on social media, he made sure no one talked about it, paying people off to keep this at bay, and none of the unit members spoke about it except Swastika Mukherjee. The DOP told me that he wants to concentrate on the promotion and doesn’t want to get into this. I understand everybody’s stand except the director’s. He issues a false statement to the press that I was lying and that none of my payment is due, and everybody believes him, stops talking about it, and now the film is out of the theaters. What can I say? Every dog has his day.

Nibedita: You've been in the industry for over a decade. Was this the worst experience?

Madhubanti: Worst? No. The final straw? Yes. There have been instances before when my dues weren’t fully paid, but no one threatened me for asking for payments. I never spoke about it; I’ve worked with many directors. Then why would I point Arindam Bhattacharya out? Because he is not a director. He’s a chartered accountant who has many contacts, so he gets to fulfill his desire of calling himself a director. This film was not directed by him because he doesn’t know the head or tail of cinema or filmmaking. Yes, he had worked hard in assembling a team who would do his work. Even in his other films, the same things happen. He has money, so he shuts people off, and there is no unity in our industry. If you ask the crew members of Shibpur, his previous film, you’ll know. Parambrata Chatterjee was not just an actor in that film.

"BENGAL CINEMA HAS A CASTE SYSTEM—AND IF YOU'RE NOT AT THE TOP, YOU'RE INVISIBLE"

Nibedita: You've worked in Mumbai and Kolkata as well. How do you compare the two?

Madhubanti: The main difference is in professionalism and discipline. I have worked on a couple of Hindi projects; there, you do what you signed for; you don’t have to do five people’s jobs and get paid for one, unlike Kolkata.

In Mumbai, the hierarchy with food is not there. Here? The hierarchy system starts with the size of the tea cup. Also, a junior technician can’t get coffee; that’s exclusively for the HODs.

Nibedita: Can it change?

Madhubanti: It’s difficult to say right now; firstly, the work mentality needs to change. Some senior technicians have this mentality that the juniors should also face what they had faced when they were new. Also, the budget is a major issue in Bengali films. There are some very deep-rooted problems which I hope change eventually.

"CINEMA IS AN ADDICTION—ONE THAT BREAKS YOU BEFORE IT LOVES YOU BACK"

Nibedita: After all this, why stay?

Madhubanti: (pauses) Because when the camera comes on, and the scene registers… there's nothing quite like it. I detest this industry at times. But I'm hooked on the madness. One should just concentrate on the craft; everything else falls aside. Also, I chose to do this; no one forced me to take this up as a profession. When you see your creation come alive on screen, it’s a different kind of happiness.

Nibedita: Your advice to those who aspire to be filmmakers?

Madhubanti: Pick up a technical skill—cinematography, editing, sound, anything. Though it is teamwork, a good director should have knowledge about every aspect of filmmaking. Watching different kinds of films by various directors all over the world is a good way of learning. Reading world literature can help. Cinema has a language of its own; when I was in the institute, I would watch 5-6 films a day. Even now, if I get a chance, I could just watch movies all day. But the actual learning happens on set. Managing the crew, working on restricted budgets, not getting what you require for the scene are common problems that every director has to face.

If someone is really passionate about a story they want to narrate, just take a camera and start shooting; everything else will fall into place. AND NEVER AGREE TO SHOOT A FILM WITHOUT A STAMP PAPER CONTRACT. Hahahaaha.

THE AFTERMATH

Since our interview, Durgapur Junction makers have put out a statement denying allegations, calling them "miscommunications." Meanwhile, Mukherjee's expose has lit up Tollywood, with quite a few members of the team now stepping forward with their own stories under #PayThemBengal.

Whatever the truth, one thing is certain: behind every cinematic illusion, there’s a battle that occurs in the shadows. And Madhubanti Mukherjee? She’s battled enough silently.

Priyanka Kamble and Komal Gaikwad, derided by the slur "anpadh" (uneducated), on Tuesday recharted not only their educational chronology, but also their own image when they cleared the SSC exam.

The two women Pune waste pickers were endlessly insulted by in-laws as uneducated. "All the insulting language was echoing within my ears. I wished to reply to them," said Kamble, aged 27 years, a part of SWaCH cooperative, who was removed from school in Std III. She moved to her in-laws' place in Solapur after marriage. "They used to call me 'anpadh' and insult me. There would always be fights. I left their house and moved to Pune for work and lead a respectable life."

She also began learning at Ramabai Ranade School in 2022. She would go collect garbage in the morning, prepare lunch for her son, and arrive at school by 2 pm. "Teachers motivated me even though I would arrive late because of work," she told.

She scored 48% and her husband called to congratulate her. "He asked me to share sweets. People from where I am residing congratulated me," said Kamble. She now hopes to become an anganwadi sevika.

Komal Gaikwad, 26, a resident of Dandekar Pul Vasti and a single mother, had never been to a classroom. "I was married at 20 and was constantly mocked by my in-laws for being uneducated," she added. When her husband passed away during the Covid pandemic, she was pregnant with her second child and had to work.

"My in-laws informed me that since I was not literate, I could never earn a living. But I did not want my children to have a bleak future. I had to lead by example," she explained.

She studied at a night school and obtained 58% in SSC exam. "My Std V daughter is beaming with pride when I received my results. I want to pursue higher studies and attend junior college. My teachers will help me, and I'll go ahead," Gaikwad said.

In a display of sheer willpower and mettle, Maharashtra boy Dhruv Hemant Joshi, 16, has scored a remarkable 80% marks in the SSC (Class 10) board exams — just days after his father was killed in the recent terror attack at Pahalgam, Jammu and Kashmir.

Dhruv, a student at Omkar International School, received his Maharashtra State Board of Secondary and Higher Secondary Education results earlier this week. The occasion, otherwise one of pride and joy, was one of gloom and quiet, as Dhruv's father, Hemant Joshi, was among the victims of the brutal April 22 attack.

Hemant Joshi, one more three Dombivli resident, Sanjay Lele and Atul Mone, two among the 26 civilians who lost their lives in the attack, were present at that very location when his son Dhruv was a victim of the fatal accident. His fatherless family, shocked to the core, were confused between joy and sadness due to the success of the little boy. "He and his family are so disappointed that his dad is not around to see him succeed," said a relative.

Even though he carries the emotional baggage of abandonment, Dhruv is determined on his course. Dhruv wishes to follow the science stream and become a doctor now, his maternal uncle Mohit Bhave said. "He was a very good, dedicated child all the while. Whatever he has been able to do under such poor conditions is just phenomenal," Bhave said.

Dhruv's tale is a testament to the strength of the human spirit — how, out of unimaginable personal tragedy, a young mind can still retain hope and will. His academic triumph, won in the black context of tragedy, is a moving reminder of the price of violence and of the modest strength which endures so much longer than it.

Even as Dombivli mourns the loss of lives in the attack, it finds hope in Dhruv's courage — a testament to determination, hope, and an existence that is worth fighting for.

17-year-old Kafi wants to study Political Science Honours from Delhi University and hopes to become an Indian Administrative Service (IAS) officer.

In a heartening story of grit and determination, 17-year-old Kafi, a student at Sector 26's Blind School, Chandigarh, has headed her school in the Class 12 board examinations with a commendable score of 95.6 per cent. A survivor of an acid attack, Kafi hopes to take a Political Science Honours degree from Delhi University and become an Indian Administrative Service (IAS) officer.

Kafi was attacked with acid when she was only three years old by three neighbors who lived in the village of Budhana in Hisar district of Haryana due to jealousy. Kafi suffered third-degree burns on her face and arms and lost her eyes due to the attack. Nevertheless, Kafi did not lose hope and continued struggling to fulfill her ambitions.

But utilizing audiobooks as her major source of study, Kafi worked hard at pursuing her studies and had previously attained 95.2% in her Class 10 examinations.

Kafi was attacked with acid on Holi festival day in 2011 in her home village of Budhana. In an exclusive interview, Kafi explained to India Today that three of her neighbors threw acid on her. Although she received initial treatment at AIIMS Delhi, doctors told the family that her eyesight could not be restored. "The doctors saved my life, but not my eyesight," she explained.

Her educational journey started in her village, and she turned her path around when, in the sixth grade, she was accepted to the Blind School in Chandigarh. Since then, Kafi has worked consistently towards her educational goals, always heading her class.

Kafi's father, a contractual peon at the Mini Secretariat, Chandigarh, was filled with pride at her success. Kafi has already given the entrance exam for Delhi University and hopes to gain admission.

Unfortunately, even though the crime was so heinous, the perpetrators of the acid attack are still not brought to justice. "The people who did this to me are still walking freely," Kafi said.

Meanwhile, Sumant and Gursharan Singh, also Blind School students, bagged the second and third places with 94 per cent and 93.6 per cent marks, respectively.

In her powerful conversation with Raj Shamani, Captain Yashika Tyagi—decorated officer and one of India’s few women to have served in high-stakes field operations—didn’t mince words. “We were once just buying weapons from abroad. Today, we’re building them, launching them, and even selling them. That’s a big leap.” Her sentiment captures the essence of India’s evolving defence strategy—no longer just a buyer, but a global player.

Take the BrahMos missile, for instance. Developed in partnership with Russia, this supersonic cruise missile once represented our dependence. Now, it’s a symbol of India's growing military-industrial complex. India selling BrahMos to the Philippines isn’t just a deal—it’s a statement. As Captain Tyagi put it, “We’re finally realising the power of Indian engineering backed by military discipline.”

India's inventory of vintage platforms—Russian T-90s, MiG-29s, and Sukhoi Su-30s—is less but more supplemented by indigenously manufactured Tejas fighter planes, Arjun tanks, and Pinaka rocket launchers. "The battlefield waits for no one," cautions Captain Tyagi, setting the tone in indigenous and local platforms. That is why India also is set to retire older platforms such as the MiG-21, infamous for its crash record.

Indian military might was in all its splendor as Operation Sindoor. West Asian crisis evacuation wasn't logistics—it was war-level planning. IAF's C-17 Globemaster, IL-76, and Mi-17 helicopters were choreographed with Indian Navy ships like INS Sumedha and INS Teg. "That's the real power—not firepower, but speed, coordination, and heart," Captain Tyagi claimed.

India's military doctrine is undergoing a mindset shift: from reactive to proactive, from imported to indigenous, from silent power to strategic exporter. In Tyagi’s words, “We are not just protecting borders anymore. We’re defining them.”