Physicians vary greatly: some prioritize art, others science; some are humble, others overconfident; some are bold, others cautious; some trust intuition, others data.

Where did Dr. A.P. Jain fit among them? Nowhere and everywhere. He was art and science, instinct and intellect. He revered the power of physical signs but never dismissed modern technology. He could be warm and indulgent, his words dripping with kindness, yet just as easily, he could be blunt—cutting through pretense with unflinching directness. He was fiercely protective of his residents, standing by them like a guardian, yet he did not hesitate to reprimand them with the sharpness of a seasoned teacher. He was a man of many contrasts, never confined to a single mold, unpredictable, always himself.

Though age and illness took their toll, his mind remained resolute. Intellect and wit, undiminished. He refused self-pity, never asking ‘Why me?’

He was Ajeet—unconquerable, undefeated.

Known to almost all as Jain Sir or AP Jain, Dr. Ajeet Prasad Jain was born on May 1, 1945, in Sikandrabad, Bulandshahr district, UP, to Shri Sumant Prasad and Smt. Vidyawati. As the sixth of nine children, he realized during his school days that medicine was his true calling. After completing his MBBS and MD at King George’s Medical College, Lucknow, he briefly delved into psychiatry under the mentorship of the esteemed Dr. V.B. Sethi. Yet, it was in internal medicine where he discovered his true passion, a field that would shape the course of his career.

After marrying Sushila Mittal in Mumbai on January 26, 1972, Dr. Jain set up a private practice in Sikandrabad. However, he soon faced a harsh reality—patients expected free treatment and round-the-clock availability, making it impossible to sustain his practice financially. Forced to seek stability, he joined the Durgapur Steel Plant Hospital in 1974. There, he faced a new challenge—trade unions tried to control his prescriptions, reducing him to merely a prescription writer and making him wonder how long he could endure in such a system. Disillusioned by this intrusion, he began searching for a more fulfilling path.

Dr. Jain arrived in Sevagram like many of his peers from the 1970s, and almost at once, the village claimed him. It was a world of quiet rhythms—where the tiny railway station saw just two trains a day, and the only means of transport was a tonga, for auto-rickshaws and Ubers and Olas had yet to make their way here. There were no grand hotels, no bustling markets, no English-medium schools. The faculty lived in simple homes, blending into the landscape of mud paths and mango groves.

For Dr. Jain and Mrs. Jain, who had grown up in the comfort of business families in the vast, throbbing cities of Lucknow and Bombay, it was a jolt—a world so different that, at first, they hardly knew what to make of it. Yet, Sevagram had a way of drawing people in, not with grandeur, but with its quiet, unspoken magic. Before he quite realized it, Dr. Jain felt its pull. The village had cast its spell, and there he remained.

Two weeks into the 1974 Sevagram monsoon, Dr. Jain found a place to begin his work within the village. Working alongside seasoned physicians like Drs. H.N. Khatri, S.P. Nigam, and O.P. Gupta, he found more than a profession—he found a calling. As the years passed, the department grew, welcoming new colleagues like Ulhas Jajoo in 1977 and S.P. Kalantri in 1982. Dr. Jain rose steadily through the ranks, becoming Associate Professor in 1977 and later Additional Professor. In 1994, he stepped into the role of Head of the Department of Medicine, succeeding Dr. O.P. Gupta. He carried forward the legacy of his mentors, shaping it with his own vision and dedication.

Under Dr. Jain’s leadership, the postgraduate program thrived. Sessions began promptly at 8:00 a.m.—punctuality was absolute —and any arrival after that time would incur his strong displeasure. Mondays were for journal clubs, Tuesdays and Thursdays for bedside case presentations, Wednesdays for mortality reviews, and Fridays for ECG and X-ray discussions. The department provided everything a resident needed—not just to train rigorously but to excel in the MD exams.

His contributions went beyond the department—he supervised the hostels and later served as Medical Superintendent from 2004 to 2007. Yet, his true passion remained clinical medicine. The OPDs captivated him, and it was in the wards that he found his deepest fulfillment.

Dr. Jain excelled in his twin roles as teacher and physician—the very soul of a teaching hospital. At the bedside, he would crouch to the patient’s level, his sharp yet reassuring gaze cutting through layers of uncertainty. He listened—not just to symptoms, but to the pauses, the hesitations, and the unspoken fears woven into a patient’s story. With a touch of the pulse or a well-timed question, he often unraveled diagnoses long before tests confirmed them. His students watched in quiet awe as he traced the arc of an illness through history and examination alone, proving time and again that the keen eye and the attentive ear remained a physician’s most powerful tools.

His ward rounds became legendary—unrushed yet intense, always rich with lessons that left a lasting impact. Whether it was irritable bowel syndrome, lupus, Henoch-Schonlein purpura, or a conversion reaction, each case showcased his clinical reasoning at its finest. He had an exceptional ability to draw out subtle details, encouraging his students to think critically, question assumptions, and refine their approach.

These rounds were never a chore; they energized residents and junior faculty. Though long, they never felt tiring. Filled with sharp insights, wit, and intellectual spark, they left everyone feeling invigorated. Dr. Jain had a rare gift for blending humor—often with irony, sarcasm, or a perfect pun—that made even the most difficult hours enjoyable. His famous one-liners, in both Hindi and English, became cherished memories. He wasn’t just a teacher of medicine; he made the practice of it joyful. When mistakes happened, they were met with clever quips, many of which became part of the department’s lore.

Yet, beneath his wit and humor lay a strictness that commanded respect. During these sessions, no resident dared to blink, yawn, or lose focus—Dr. Jain’s keen eye missed nothing.

Dr. Jain, a perfectionist, had no tolerance for incompetence, sloppy thinking, or laziness. In his early years, he was known for his strict discipline, even dismissing residents in the wards for mistakes. Though some saw his methods as tyrannical, his students knew he was pushing them to excel. To them, he was a tough but dedicated mentor who demanded their best.

He stressed the importance of accurate documentation, setting an example with his own flawless handwriting. His command of English was impeccable—clear, confident, and concise—and he expected the same from those he mentored. He disliked informal or careless English and always spoke with precision, using full, grammatically correct sentences, much like a well-written text.

Dr. Jain aimed to be the William Osler of Sevagram, embracing Osler’s wisdom: “The good physician treats the disease; the great physician treats the patient who has the disease.” This spirit was more than a principle; it defined his approach, ensuring that medicine in his hands was always compassionate, holistic, and personal.

Dr. Jain practiced in an era when physicians relied primarily on what he would famously say in his clinics: “The area between the two ears—the brain.” He was a master of bedside diagnosis, skillfully correlating patient histories, physical exams, chest X-rays, and electrocardiograms to identify heart disorders. He also excelled at diagnosing respiratory conditions, using his deep understanding of how breath moved through the bronchi and alveoli to distinguish between TB, pneumonia, and asthma. While he wasn’t always infallible, there was no way to know if he was wrong. Without modern tools like echocardiograms, ultrasounds, cath labs, and CT scans, his diagnostic skills were both his greatest asset and, at times, a bit of a mystery

His hospital life was a constant flurry of activity, with every minute spent purposefully—whether studying, writing, teaching, consulting, or preparing presentations. His academic journey reached its peak in 1990 when he earned a Ph.D. from Nagpur University under the guidance of Drs. Choubey and Harinath. Ironically, the same National Board that had failed him in the DNB exam in 1983 later awarded him the Best Teacher Award in 2018. A lover of both medicine and literature, Dr. Jain found fulfillment in writing—authored papers, published books, and shaped discussions as a journal editor.

Sir William Osler once said, “I desire no other epitaph than the statement that I taught medical students in the wards, as I regard this as by far the most useful and important work I have been called upon to do.” Dr. A.P. Jain lived by this philosophy throughout his career. He was not just a doctor but a mentor whose influence shaped countless physicians. From 1982 to 2010, he guided 34 MD students, nurturing their growth and leaving a lasting imprint on their lives. Under his leadership, the DNB Family Medicine program (2007–2018) and the PG Geriatric Medicine course (2008–2021) gained national acclaim. But his contributions didn’t stop at teaching. He introduced the hospital’s first hemodialysis unit, ensuring this life-sustaining facility was available close to the patients’ homes.

When Dr. Sushila Nayar, the director of MGIMS, suffered a heart attack in 1995, she didn’t just need a doctor—she needed someone she could trust. She found that in Dr. A.P. Jain. For six years, he wasn’t just her doctor; he was her confidante and her rock. Despite having access to the best specialists at AIIMS or even abroad, she chose Dr. Jain. Why? Because she saw more than just medical expertise in him—she saw someone who genuinely understood her and cared. In his hands, she found not just treatment, but compassion—an invaluable combination that earned her complete trust. It was a bond that transcended the typical doctor-patient relationship.

In 2018, fate dealt Dr. A.P. Jain a cruel blow—a rare genetic ataxia. Every step became a conscious effort, a battle against a body that no longer moved with ease. The steady hands that had once wielded a stethoscope with precision now trembled as he wrote. Vertigo threatened his balance, yet he gripped the podium with quiet resolve. Tasks that had once been second nature now demanded assistance, but he resisted the hands that reached out. He was never one to lean on others—not even when his own body betrayed him.

Yet, the fire in his eyes never dimmed. He refused to surrender to self-pity, never once lamenting his failing strength. His voice may have softened, but his passion remained unshaken. Until his retirement in August 2023, after nearly five decades at MGIMS, he continued to teach, lead rounds, engage in seminars, prepare PowerPoints, and present journal clubs. His body may have faltered, but his spirit stood tall.

The years that followed tested Dr. Jain’s spirit in ways few could endure. In August 2022, his wife faced a sudden heart crisis, requiring life support at Sevagram. Then, in January 2024, another trial—this time with sepsis. It is unimaginable for a physician to watch his own loved one struggle, yet Dr. Jain, with quiet strength, stepped aside. He placed his trust in me, allowing me to lead her care without hesitation. He never interfered, doubted, or sought a second opinion. That act of trust, despite his vast expertise and his personal fear, spoke volumes about his belief in modern medicine and the faith he had in his colleagues.

The early morning air in Sevagram carried the quiet rhythm of Dr. A.P. Jain’s footsteps. His walks were long, unhurried—more than just exercise, they were his retreat, a pause before the day’s demands took over. In those moments, away from the hum of the hospital, he found solitude. Softly, in the background of his mind, played the timeless melodies of Hemant Kumar—songs from the ’60s that seemed to blend seamlessly with the rustling leaves and the stillness of dawn. When he sought news of the world beyond Sevagram, he turned only to the BBC. Its steady, measured voice was his anchor—calm, true, and untainted by noise.

My journey with Dr. Jain began in the summer of 1982, when I joined the Department of Medicine at MGIMS as a senior registrar—25 years old, fresh from GMC Nagpur, eager to learn. For the next year and a half, I worked in his unit, absorbing lessons that would stay with me for a lifetime. The old hospital housed the wards, while the OPD sat atop a small hill, 500 meters away. The daily climb was more than just a routine—it was a ritual. As we walked, he shared his world with me. Medicine, journals, politics, literature, films, bureaucracy, cricket—nothing was off-limits. Those fifteen-minute conversations were as enriching as any medical textbook.

At the bedside, he was unmatched. His diagnoses were precise, almost effortless. But what truly set him apart was the way he listened—not just to symptoms, but to stories, to unspoken fears. His patients felt heard, understood. Medicine, in his hands, was not just a science but an act of care.

A decade later, I found myself leading the unit. But it was those morning rounds, those quiet walks with Dr. Jain, that had already given me my foundation in bedside medicine.

Over five decades, Dr. A.P. Jain witnessed the evolution of the Medicine wards at MGIMS. From the simple, old hospital building to the spacious four wards in the new hospital, and finally to a modern, specially built department—each phase marked progress. But more than the buildings, Dr. Jain built future generations of doctors, shaping them with his wisdom and care, day after day, year after year.

Dr. Jain’s influence wasn’t confined to his own distinguished career; it blossomed into a remarkable family legacy. His sons, Pramod and Manish, both MGIMS alumni from the classes of 1990 and 1991, respectively, carried his torch, becoming esteemed professors in Orthopedics and Pediatrics. And the story doesn’t end there. Their wives, Sonia and Shuchi are currently leading the departments of Dermatology and Obstetrics & Gynecology. This extraordinary family, with expertise spanning five clinical disciplines, created a “full house” in medicine.

Just four days before his devastating head injury, he walked into my office and sat down. We spoke for an hour—about everything—his past, his present, and what he hoped for in the days ahead. His hands trembled, his steps were unsteady, yet there was no fear in his voice, no trace of anxiety. He simply said, “I take life as it comes,” then, with shaking hands, pushed back his chair and walked away. I didn’t know it then, but that was our last conversation. Four days later, when I saw him again, his words were lost in a haze of confusion, his voice barely recognizable. And for the final three weeks of his jouney after he came back from a Nagpur Neuro ICU, I saw him mornngs and evenings, silently watching him as he almost silently left for the other world. This time, he did not order, didn’t put his foot down, didn’t explain his choices, didn’t help making choices for him.

He fell in his bathroom on February 6th, suffering a brain hemorrhage that began his final struggle. Though he spent six weeks in Nagpur and Sevagram critical care units, we couldn’t get him back to the life he had led. All medical efforts failed—the microbes won. On the ICU bed, he lay still, eyes closed, chest heaving, his breath mechanized. He passed away in the ICU where he had taught, treated, and counseled countless patients.

Today, the Department of Medicine mourns the loss of a beloved mentor. We grieve as colleagues, students, and friends who had the privilege of learning from him. He will be deeply missed—in seminar rooms, where his wisdom guided us; in the wards, where he made perfect diagnoses; in OPDs, where he taught the art of prescribing; and in hospital corridors, where his wit brightened every day.

Rest in peace, Sir. Your lessons will stay with us, always.