In The Woman Who Ran AIIMS, Dr Sneh Bhargava offers a rare memoir—one that avoids flourish in favour of clarity, drama in favour of honesty, and anecdote in favour of insight. It chronicles not only her pioneering role as the first woman director of AIIMS but also a life shaped by Partition, prejudice, and persistent reform. Like the leather-bound volumes of patient records she once scoured as a radiologist, Bhargava treats her own life as a case file—not to dramatise but to diagnose the inner workings of India’s most prestigious medical institution, and the social mores that shaped her journey within it.
The memoir opens with a moment of historical and symbolic gravity: her very first day as Director of AIIMS coincided with the assassination of Prime Minister Indira Gandhi. Thrust into the national spotlight under tragic circumstances, Bhargava recounts how she navigated the emergency response even before settling into her new role. It is a striking beginning—not because it is sensational, but because of how calmly it is rendered. She remembers, “As India’s first female prime minister, Mrs Gandhi had refused to countenance the argument that a woman was incapable of handling this important post and had instead chosen to let my 24 years of service to the institution, most recently as head of radiology, speak for itself. I was the first female director of AIIMS, and so far, the only one in its history.”
Born in Rawalpindi, Bhargava lived through the Partition. This early trauma shaped her worldview and instilled a deep sense of purpose. Her path into medicine, and later radiology, was both personal and political. In a male-dominated field, she carved a space not just for herself, but for a more rigorous and inclusive approach to medical education.
The author details her decades at AIIMS with restraint and moral precision, offering readers a rare portrait of the institution not only as a bastion of excellence but also as a place of politics, prejudice, and persistent inequality. She recounts, with almost disarming calm, the myriad ways in which her authority was questioned—not for lack of competence, but because she was a woman. The emotional cost of leadership, which involves the exhaustion of being simultaneously visible and unheard, runs as an undercurrent through the text.
Her tenure as director is marked by remarkable poise. She documents battles over faculty appointments, attempts at political meddling, and the day-to-day erosion of institutional ethics. Her refusal to compromise came at a cost: isolation, opposition, and eventual resignation. Yet her leadership was transformative, where she introduced advanced diagnostic technologies, such as CT and ultrasound, to India, modernised radiology education, and elevated AIIMS as a national leader in medical infrastructure.
Bhargava is equally concerned with the moral drift in Indian healthcare. She critiques the erosion of the family doctor model and the growing commodification of medical services. Towards the end, Bhargava provides a formal catalogue of her awards, publications, and committee memberships. While undeniably impressive, this exhaustive listing feels somewhat dated. One might wish these accolades had been more organically woven into the story, less as a ledger of distinction, more as a reflection of legacy. Yet this, too, reflects a generational ethos: a belief in documented service, in legacies built through record rather than self-promotion.
At its core, The Woman Who Ran AIIMS is not a book about achievement, but about the consequences of doing the right thing. At a time when public institutions are under siege and women leaders remain subject to heightened scrutiny, Bhargava’s memoir is an essential reading. It reminds us that institutional change is not the work of slogans or strongmen, but of individuals who insist on integrity even when the system resists it.