Unlike the bhadramahilas of her time, educated just enough to be “presentable” in society, “Barishal girl” Jamini Sen went on to become one of the first women doctors in British India and the first woman fellow of the Royal College of Physicians and Surgeons of Glasgow, at a time when even women patients refused treatment from female doctors.
In Daktarin Jamini Sen, Deepta Roy Chakraverti, also Sen’s great-niece, pieces together a life marked by ambition, solitude, and resolve. The narrative moves from a progressive household in Barishal, where Sen was born to Chandi Charan Sen and Bamasundari in 1871, across Calcutta and Nepal to Glasgow and Berlin, mapping the making of a woman challenging the limits placed on her by society. Among its most striking threads is Sen’s friendship with King Prithvi Bir Bikram Shah, in whom “Jamini saw a quality she did not believe many in power possessed: kindness.” The two shared a bond marked by a vision for a better world.
Told with tenderness and restraint, the book reveals how the doctor chose to persist on her own terms, her personal losses folding into a larger vision for India and its medical systems, especially for women.
What first drew you to Jamini Sen’s story?
I always believe that the bigger things in life are by destiny and not design. There is a strong personal link that I share with Jamini Sen. I am among the last of her descendants. While growing up, I would often come across carefully preserved objects, such as King Prithvi’s gold watch. My grandmother would tell me they had belonged to Jamini. As I grew older, she shared more details, especially about the Nepal years. As a small child, I probably wouldn’t have understood everything, but over time, the stories deepened. She captured my imagination completely. I began to see not just her personal achievements, but what she had accomplished professionally, and what she had done for the country, especially for women. And with that came a sense of anger. Here was a woman who had achieved so much, and yet there is barely any record of her in history. She is remembered abroad, but not in India. So I began writing her story.
The book also talks about the prevailing ideologies and idealism that surrounded Sen.
All of us are shaped by the times we live in. Jamini herself was a person of great idealism. That was a defining trait—not just of her, but also of her sister and her father.
The period they lived in played a significant role in cultivating this sense of idealism—a love for the country, pride in the homeland, and a commitment to values larger than oneself. What stands out is how this idealism extended into their personal lives as well.
You write about Jamini’s grief, exhaustion, spirit, and personal turmoil. What was the process of writing such an intimate tale?
When you refer to the documented parts—the footnotes, citations, and archival material—those are drawn from various sources. But on a personal level, it felt almost as if my great-aunt was present in the process, sharing a kind of consciousness with me. I would describe it as a willing participation on my part, almost like a form of possession. Because I truly believe that without her spirit being part of this journey, it would not have been possible to write in the way I did.
What gap do you think your book addresses when it comes to the history of medicine in India?
It addresses the role of women in the making of modern medicine. And in Jamini’s case, it highlights women’s contributions from this part of the world who crossed multiple barriers. But beyond that, Jamini also chose not to marry, became a single mother, and lived without a male benefactor. All of this was unimiginable for a woman 100 years ago. So the book also fills a gap in feminist history.