22nd April. One Year.
Exactly a year ago, in the quiet hours of the morning, Dhirubhai left us. He was 86.
It still feels unreal.
Time slows when I think of him.
When Dr. Sushila Nayar invited him in 1982 to take charge of MGIMS, he hesitated. “I couldn’t even pronounce the names of half the departments,” he once laughed. “Let alone understand what they did.”
A man from the world of commerce, stepping into the leadership of a rural, non-profit medical college—on paper, it seemed an odd fit.
But that unlikely role became his purpose.
Once he stepped in, he gave it his all—his time, intellect, passion, and money. He ran errands through the corridors of power. He believed in the mission.
When he left Bajaj Auto at 50, many were stunned. He was at his professional peak. He could have earned more, risen further. But he chose meaning over money.
He didn’t know then that Sevagram was waiting for him.
In 2001, when he formally became President of MGIMS, I was editing the MGIMS Bulletin. I wrote:
“At a time when Indian medical schools face a crisis, Dhirubhai carries a tremendous responsibility. He must uphold his mentor’s dream. May he keep the torch of MGIMS aloft—bright, untarnished—and ensure its light reaches the poorest of the poor.”
He never replied.
But he responded.
Over the next two decades, as corporate hospitals mushroomed and medical education became a business, Dhirubhai stood his ground. MGIMS would not bend.
“All I want,” he once told me, “is for MGIMS to offer quality healthcare and education that everyone can afford.”
That was not a slogan. It was his life’s work.
He helped build the ICU, operation theatres, hostels, library, the Mother and Child Centre, Aakanksha, the Tribal Centre in Melghat, and more. He always wanted to do better. To dream bigger. To match the best, even in modest settings.
He didn’t overthink. He decided.
Yesterday, I began reading How Prime Ministers Decide by Neerja Chowdhury. And I found myself thinking—how did Dhirubhai decide?
He listened. Then trusted his instinct.
“Don’t confuse me with data—I’ve already made up my mind,” he once joked.
It wasn’t arrogance. It was conviction. And it often served him well. He took risks and stood by them. More often than not, he was right.
I knew him long before MGIMS—over fifty years.
To me, he was more than the President of Kasturba Health Society. He was not just my boss.
In the 1970s, he came to our home for dinners. I was a schoolchild. He was Nanda Jiji’s husband. He was family.
Years later, he helped shape who I became. He believed in me, encouraged me, stood by me when the path was uncertain.
And when I succeeded, he nudged me to do more. “Well done,” he’d say. “Now raise the bar.”
He had a way of making people feel seen. Valued. Trusted. He never micromanaged. But he inspired you to give your best.
I remember his wit. His warmth. His clarity.
“I want to bring the best of the world to our hospital,” he often said. “I’ll find the money for it.”
And he did—again and again.
Dhirubhai enjoyed attention. He liked being near power, and he often dropped names—partly to impress, partly to bring us into his orbit. MGIMS was his identity, and he wore it with quiet pride. He appreciated recognition. He didn’t mind being cast in a flattering light.
Yes, he had flaws. Who doesn’t? He was human—fully so, with strengths and imperfections.
What stood out above all was his belief in people. He saw potential where others saw limits. He expected the best, even when the odds were low. And when he trusted you, he stood by you.
That kind of trust is rare. So is that kind of loyalty.
I was fortunate to receive both.
Today, I remember him.
Because it is the 22nd of April.
And it’s been a year.
We miss him.
