Hope and Faith. They might seem to be synonymous at the first look, but they are not. Let’s see. If I say- ‘ I hope you will do well’, would you feel the same if I had said- ‘I have faith that you will do well’! While both are abstract in pure scientific terms, the first statement probably derives from my past experiences under similar circumstances, which might allow me to raise my expectations for a favourable outcome. In modern scientific parlance, this is called grade 4 evidence, which is based on anecdotes! But when I express my faith on the outcome, science demands the evidence should be derived from a double blinded randomised phase 3 study. And people of science swear by such studies as if they have resolved all the unpredictability associated with human mind, body and life.

In fact, recently a Nobel Award in economics was given for carrying out randomised studies on poverty. Impressive indeed. Define poor people. Divide them in two groups through random picks. Give some money to one group and not the other. And then observe how the intervention changes their lives. Unfortunately there’s no placebo equivalent of hard cash. Or is there? But imagine the arrogance and audacity of the white world- who have become rich by looting the once richer parts of the world, such as Asia and Africa. And now they send the McCauley defined ‘not so white interpreters’ to study poverty in the lands where they have inflicted the same. The loud claps in the award ceremonies, seminars, and conferences, where the randomised studies on poverty are discussed obscure the real and stark truth behind the western interpretation of the current world order. An awarded African wears his traditional robe and an Indian wears a designer dhoti in front of the cameras to smudge the reality. The reality is their urgency to come out of the indigenous clothes and be wrapped again in the coconut shell to enjoy all the whiteness that lies within. While the Guinea pigs in Asia and Africa wait for their turn to be randomised- with Hope? Or with Faith?

In the real world, Faith is not derived from randomised studies and Hope is our eternal weapon for survival. That’s the reason why most of the affluent world needs medications to keep hopes alive and the slum dwellers or the farmers in India, find enough hope to live the next day, if they had a full meal on the day. They repose their faith on nature, on Gods, which might reside in a book, or a tree or a piece of stone in the courtyard- but surely not borne out of randomised studies. Something, I myself had found difficult to understand for a long time due to western tutelage and an overdose of communism at a young age.

Medicine and particularly the art of Bone Marrow Transplantation, which I have been practising for last 30 odd years have blurred the lines for me. With several thousands of scientific studies published every day, we can no longer assimilate the information- we are dependent on Artificial Intelligence. Drowned in the age of information aided and abetted by the technological explosions and big businesses owning them in whole, we have lost the ability to decipher the truth from the lesser truth. Right from the one that seems to be right. And this hits individual doctors with conscience, right on the face. The percentage game- often quoted by young doctors in full Faith, like lines from religious text, the words spoken by the all and mighty in the field, who are often affiliated to multiple big businesses as advisors, consultants and even shareholders. Yet, with time they shall learn that the magic drugs don’t cure them all. The probabilities of survival as predicted by randomised studies are often not what you see in the real world. But you can’t get disillusioned because you are bombarded with more information on more drugs every day. Give A, and then B and then C and go on until the sufferer gives up or your Faith gets shaken by your conscience!

Today, we have suddenly found the magic lamp of Aladdin. We know of all 20,000 odd genes in human body. And more importantly we know how to manipulate every single gene if we want. We now have the ability to weaponise our own immune cells with genetic engineering enabling them to target and kill cancer cells. These have produced unprecedented results, but with toxicities little heard of before. The cost is unprecedented as well, so is the zeal to ignore toxicities and outcomes. If one weapon doesn’t work, I can create another. Nature had created our immune system in a way that it doesn’t harm us and yet keeps us safe. Somewhere in this mad rush and excitement of the newfound power of manipulation of human genes, we have forgotten the fact that abdication of natural laws of the human immune system can only provide a short term gain. We want these genetically altered immune cells,which have overridden the natural function of these cells, to stay in our body forever. Is that the right way ahead? I have Faith in what nature has created and how nature has designed us. So my Hope rests on utilising the laws of natural immune system to cure a cancer. Like we have done for last 50 years.

I am talking of allogeneic BMT. An art form which I have learnt from the wisdom of the pioneers in this field. With limited scope of randomised studies, meticulous understanding of the human immune system and how it behaves in presence of another in the same human body has slowly made us realise that if things fall in place, you live happily ever after. But if you don’t- it falls apart. The frailty of our current understanding of how two cells belonging to two different human beings would behave in the physical entity of one of them, has led to uncertainty and unpredictable outcomes. I wish it was done through a stroke of knife like any other organ transplantation and you would walk on to the next surgery like the quintessential ‘surgeon’ from the movies. With all the swag or arrogance.

Saying that, I was surprised to learn that some of my colleagues are claiming to do the same. Something which even Che Guevara would have shuddered to think of. It’s easier to simultaneously bring about socialist revolutions in several countries than attempting to pull off allogeneic BMTs in different centres, districts or states of a country at the same time. This leaves me with little Hope for the fast forward generation and no Faith on the system, which perpetrates such abomination of the most challenging therapeutic art form.

Do I sound pessimistic? No, I am not. I chose to return to India from a permanent position in another western country. Because I had Faith and I rode on Hope. I was beaten up by the top management and it’s goons in a hospital in Kolkata, where I dreamt of setting up a BMT unit- because I questioned their malpractices! I lost hope for a while but I did not loose Faith. I set up the first BMT unit in Eastern India in another 12 months. Started the first Haploidentical or HLA half matched family donor transplantation in India in 2010. Was again pushed by the hospital management and the Bengali population alike- to challenge the Faith which brought me back to my motherland. But, as Hope never fades and Faith trumps, I met Dr Suversha Khanna. Another person brimming with passion. Met Mr Anil Kumar- who held his nerves and got me at Dharamshila Hospital ( I don’t carry a management friendly reputation). What I witnessed over the next 6 months was a lot of idiosyncrasies but an undying passion and zeal in Suversha Khannah, who made sure that every single requirement for a state-of-the-art BMT facility and a highly equipped research lab that we so desired, is provided in no time. I was proved right once again. If there are people in the country who would feast on your blood, there are people who would pull you out of that as well. Have Faith, Hope would follow.

The last part of the story is like a fairy tale but the princess is yet to wake up. As unbelievable as it might be, we found a way to do to haploidentical BMT, very different from the rest of the world. No genes were engineered, no magic bullets were created. We only analysed a problem in its natural space and found an answer in the most serendipitous manner. The results surprised us to no end. Dr Sarita Jaiswal, who I had initially taught abcd of this discipline like the greats had done to me in late 1990s, returned to India after her training in Italy and USA. And despite all my idiosyncrasies and intolerable behaviour, continue to work together. A lot of doctors, nurses and technicians have come and gone. Usha had started as our coordinator and still remains our heart and soul, scavenging funds for the poorest. We had reposed our Faith in the ‘mission’ undertaken in 2010 and then in 2013. A lot of young doctors express Faith in the way I have looked at science and the nature in the context of human biology. We still search for the ideal donor as per the laws of natural immunity, which is an ever evolving process. Often we succeed. At times we fail- a life crumbles in front of us. With all the experience, expertise, drugs and technology, the frailty of the human life is laid bare. We cannot shed tears. We have to be ready for the next battle. All patients who have spent months or years with us are a part of our family. When we loose one of them, We mourn with their families in our own way by abandoning all festivities for next 14 days. We silently remember them in our work, try to figure out what we could learn from one loss, to save another in the future. Each time a sense of despair and hopelessness sets in, I find my Faith in the many lives that were saved, with the Hope that many more would be saved in the future if we hold on to the Faith. Nature is not always kind- but I have Faith in the absoluteness of Nature.

It was the same time the last year, the air got heavy and dark. I suddenly felt I was choking. Thick clouds of dust and smoke had descended on the national capital. Something I had never witnessed before. I struggled to breathe.

At the same time, there were news of a new respiratory illness in the Chinese province of Wuhan. Maybe a virus. Little did we realise that this funny little virus would redefine our perception of the way we live. Every now and then, we hear about deaths in different corners of our country. Some die of known infections, some of unknown, some due to apathy and some because others felt that they had no right to live. News of deaths from tuberculosis, malaria and waterborne diseases never fetch headline columns, for the life of the underprivileged from an underdeveloped part of the world is often associated with an inevitability. The white world is happy to donate money, build charities and wouldn’t miss an opportunity for a photo-op with a black child and the fruit fly.

But this narrative changed forever, when the Wuhan virus devastated the Rich and wealthy in the European states. The world is not used to the photos of white and rich dying on the streets or wrapped in body bags. Such pictures from Ethiopia or Odisha are acceptable- but Lombardy and NewYork! Never! The alarm spread rapidly and so did the virus. This was unanticipated in the world of the rich and the wealthy. The virus moves, so stop the people from moving. Hence, came the great lockdowns. Initially it was a novelty for the rich. Unannounced holidays- nurture some hobbies dear. The poor already had nurtured hobbies, which include fasting, walking from one end of the country to the other and watching their children die. The virus and the lockdown only reinforced these pastimes to their mainstream lives. The rich were scared to breathe and the poor were not allowed to.

The rich white world was worried how India would turn to a cauldron of mayhem because of the virus. Not to talk of Africa. Yet, one year down the line, the facts didn’t seem to match the narrative of the experts. The virus had a particular liking for the rich, fat men with a whole host of lifestyle diseases. Did not bother the slums and villages of India much, who have lived through and with numerous bacteria, viruses and parasites. The red dots and blots of the Wuhan virus did not leave its mark on Africa either. Things that the experts hesitate to talk about.

And now we have produced more than ten different forms of vaccines for the Wuhan virus in less than 10 months, optimism is evident in the stock markets as well as fish markets. We have witnessed a tech revolution, which changed our perception about production of vaccines. Never doubt the ability of viruses to surprise us- they have survived for millions of years before us and they will do so after the human race is extinct. We are in with another annual vaccination, like it or not.

But even after the Wuhan virus recedes from the headlines, I will still struggle to breath. The air is not just about pollutants and pathogens, we can measure, it remains heavy with malice, dishonesty and lack of trust. Can we ever restore the trust and faith we have lost? I live with the hope that we can- if not in my lifetime, maybe sometime later. And that’s our only hope.

It has been a long time since my last blog. While there is a feeling of global static, there have been many silent upheavals. I have been scratching for thoughts, when a dear friend of mine sent me recitation of a poem called- ‘Abani Sir’. Like most acts of creativity originating from the hinterlands of Bengal, it is a heartbreaking tragedy. Telling the story of an octogenarian school teacher, who in his heydays taught with pride. Taught values more than materials from syllabus. Taught more about the inequalities of the world. Collated world literature in his bid to explain science. He shunned materialism. Bengalis have traditionally chosen financially non yielding art, culture, philosophy, politics (of course) and last but not the least ‘religious liberalism’ in the footsteps of Chaitanya, Ramkrishna and Vivekananda.

The poem narrates the dinosaur like existence of ‘Abani Sir’ in a decadent society, where lumpen capitalism had overtaken a value based society. The students of ‘Abani Sir’ are either NRI or office-clerks with mediocre aspirations. This description of the generations of Bengali educated class over the last three decades unwittingly has captured the current state of this hinterland, which once took pride in its intelligentsia, icons and distaste for materialism.

‘Abani Sir’ was asked to vacate his property by the goons of real estate developers, now respectfully called the ‘syndicate’. He remained rooted in his heritage, tradition and unflinching avoidance of materialism and paid the price. His house was burnt down and he lived the rest of his life in a dilapidated place in a ‘locked in’ state of mind, as narrated in the poem. And the poem ends with a few lines from Tagore as the only go-to respite for all Bengalis, from Mamta to ‘Aam Janta’. The lines from Tagore seek punishment from the almighty for the untold sins of the generation.

While the name ‘Abani’ is synonymous with all heartbreaking narratives in Bengali, the reality struck me good and hard, when I tried typing the name ‘Abani’ on my iPad. Every time it autocorrected to ‘Ambani’. This in an obtuse metaphor, which exposes the reality of the day. Whether you like it or not, ‘Abani’s of yesterday are taken over by ‘Ambani’s of the day. Like it or not, a society cannot survive in a ‘locked in’ state abhorrent of wealth. In the process you loose your art, liberalism and culture, which doesn’t survive as an abstract concept in a capitalist world.

Even though I have lived in Bengal for only a third of my life, I have been rooted in this abstract non-materialism for too long. The longing for values of idealism in isolation, in a world of materialism leads to loneliness in the extreme form. ‘Idealism’ is a philosophy based on expectations. The expectation that the right things would be done and the ‘right’ would prevail if you do no wrong. ‘Materialism’ on the other hand doesn’t expect, it executes. Often ruthlessly without consideration of the harm it’s causing. Idealism often gets entrenched in inaction and is engulfed by Vesuvius. When the flight circles over Kolkata or the car drives along the roads of Kolkata, it looks like time has stopped several decades back. It brings back memories of ‘Pompeii’. Every creation coming out of erstwhile Bengal in the 60s and 70s, talked of despondency but ended with a ray of hope that-the change is around the horizon. But ‘Abani Sir’ portrays the undisputed ‘locked in’ state of the current inhabitants of this once glorious past.

The lack of aspiration is reflected in the current state of degeneration and lawlessness. The reality is that you need to yearn for a better tomorrow. Idealism doesn’t survive within mediocrity. Bengalis who aspired have left it’s shores, leaving the languishing lot to succumb in its non aspirational existence. Creating wealth is a crime as judged through the lens of Bengali middle class. Sukanta Bhattacharya and Ritwik Ghatak died of poverty, which is a cause of celebration for Bengalis. Nazrul Islam was in a true ‘locked-in’ state before his four decades of creativity in often penniless existence. He captured the psych of the Bengali when he wrote-

‘ Poverty has bestowed greatness upon me/ Destitution be my destiny.

In the blind worship of Tagore, the Bengalis forget that he was probably one of the few rich Bengalis of his time. He used his wealth to travel abroad, lobby for himself, make the language and its wealth-recognised globally. And finally create the educational hub of his dream. If he had languished in poverty and died young, Bengalis would not have enough to drown in their cultural abundance.

The phrase ‘poisar gorom’ ( pride of wealth) is a very popular in Bengal, where people who are more wealthy are looked down upon. The dislike for’Marwaris’, who have made Bengal their home, stems from the inherent arrogance to abhor wealth. I wonder if it is the lack of it or the inability to create wealth, which makes the average Bengali so insecure of their Marwari counterparts. They often forget in their snooty and irrelevant existence that there would have been no Satyajit Roy without R.D. Bansal. In our family for example, a PhD was a must if you were not a doctor or an engineer. Someone with a PhD and no productivity will still sneer upon someone who is less educated but makes wealth and generates employment. The average Bengali would spend more time searching for the right breed of fish in the morning and raising storms over several cups of tea in the evening, ignorant of his inconsequential existence. Unless the cultured Bengalis can learn as to how to generate wealth from their ‘ less cultured’ neighbours, even Tagore can’t be born again and save their existence.

Wealth is equated with guilt in Bengali educated households. Wealth can be equitable. Lack of it is not. I have personally succumbed to such unrealistic idealism. I lament the current state of healthcare and education! But mere lamenting about it doesn’t set it right. I have failed in generating wealth, fortune or the right avenues to create the alternative model which I dreamt of. Aspirations alone can only bring you this far. If I cannot hold a mirror in front of my failures, I will probably continue to justify the failures masquerading as some act of idealism. Creating wealth is not a selfish act, it entails a lot of sacrifice for the beginner. It requires guts and courage to accept failures as they come. Just as it takes to stand up to the wrongs committed by the strong and powerful. If idealism has to survive it needs wealth. I have failed unequivocally in accepting those chances and realise my dreams. In real life, there’s no free lunch. You have to fund your own dreams. My personal failures in transforming idealism without creation of wealth should be a clarion call for the next generation. Let us not succumb to the loot in the garb of ‘compassionate capitalism’. Otherwise ‘our idealism’ would perish under the brutal assault of those who built wealth and power without ‘our dreams’.

If ‘Abani’s have to be the new autocorrect, they have to become ‘Ambani’s first. Otherwise we have seen the end of ‘Abani Sir’.

Now is the Time

The lines of a poem penned by a forlorn Bengali poet, Jibanananda Das was haunting me over the past few days and weeks. When translated it sounds as follows ( minus its original reverberation):

“A twisted darkness dwells on the world today

Ones who have lost their sight show us the way

Those bereft of love or compassion

Are the ones who give us lessons on life and transgression

Yet there are some who have faith in our existence

A world where truth and devotion still makes sense

But their souls are hounded by hyenas greedy for more blood

While, You and I, wait for the final flood”

My memory trails back some 5 decades. My mother used to sit by the side until I finished my meal. Every time I was about to leave without finishing the last remnant on my plate, she used to remind me that there are millions who don’t get even one meal a day. I had asked her “where are those people”. My mother had told me that they were all around us- only if we have a big enough heart, can we see them”. Over the years I tried to see them around me and they kept fading away as l transcended classes, with an ardent yearning to travel further up the ladder. They were necessary and yet redundant. They were alive but never made a noise. Their deafening silence was portrayed as their inconsequential existence. They were ‘Hidden Figures’

With the nationwide lockdown to save its people from a virus, the roads became empty and the skies turned blue. The media, both social and unsocial, were flocked with photos of wild lives on the streets, the likes of which we had never seen before. But there emerged another species, the silent lives, who we never thought even existed. They came out in thousands and started walking down the empty roads. Roads that they had built some day-with the hope to get one such meal, which my mother used to talk about. They looked like ants parading down to an unknown land. Unknown to us, we never thought ever existed. They are the ‘Hidden Figures’.

They have built our houses. The floor which is translucent enough to mirror my face was polished by one of them. They dug the bore well for my multi-storey but never knew what RO treated water tastes like in the comfort of a reclining sofa, looking out of the windows from some 17th floor. They were there, everywhere, but like ants. We never saw them until they paraded in flocks. Why were they defying the norms- social distancing is a must!! Crazy idiots- uneducated, illiterate with no respect for the law! The police chased them, the drones marked them, the media used their pics to score some TRP, one better than the other. They remained ‘Hidden Figures’.

They did not know what had befallen them one fine morning. Some of them had heard of something new, something fancy, which the rich people brought home from far and wide. Something, which can make guys sick. They always thought that they are the ones who carry the illnesses, so they were made to stay invisible to the rich and wealthy. What is this new thing that the rich folks are bringing home, which is scaring the people around them! They were clueless until that fateful morning of March 24, 2020, when they were told that they have to stay inside and stay six feet away from each other. No jobs, No food- just exist. Some of them were dazed with disbelief, some were bemused. For God’s sake, six of us live in a six feet shanty! But, when the big and mighty told the world of social distancing, to be saved from this dreaded disease, they had in mind the condos and bungalows, built by these invisible ants, who were already socially distant! They were supposed to be ‘Hidden Figures’.

When I saw them in thousands walking down desolate roads, the real meaning of the word “proletariat” dawned on me. ‘One who has nothing has nothing to fear’. They swam across rivers, crept through jungles, and carried their little ones on their heads. We did not know where they were heading! We were told they were marching back to where they came from. Like army of ants scares a household; they had to be scattered, killed and forgotten. They were locked up, held up, beaten up. Thousands died on their way, young and old alike. Some carried the other, dead or alive, but they kept walking. Just like ‘Hidden Figures’.

One fine morning, we woke up and thought that we need to get rid of them. We squabbled how to! Some said pack them in the trains. Some said buses. Some said we shall not let these unseen creatures bring invisible disease across our borders. A country, which prides of its unity. Sings anthems glorifying how each of its state is bound by a single thread- lost that thread. Suddenly each state, each district, became an island. An island blinded by the newly earned absolute authority and power. These ‘Hidden Figures’ suddenly had an identity- “Migrants”.

I am not sure who coined this name, but it surely is a great way to address those, who built every nook and corner of the urban civilisation. Are they migrants or immigrants in their own country- I wonder. I reflect in true amazement as to how a man could have described these ‘hidden figures’ 200 years back! They are uprooted from their villages. They migrate to the cities. They have no identity as individuals. But when they get together they become a class, a force. A force to reckon with. A force that can challenge the entire nation with its tenacity and its silent power. A long march has started. I can hear a tremor in the roads that lead to power! Can you? Ignore them at your own peril. They are no longer ‘Hidden Figures’.

Four months is what it takes for a foetus to be a ‘life’. A life with endless possibilities. But it still needs to hibernate for another 5 months. A lot can go wrong in these few months but it generally doesn’t. Our COVID baby is now into its fourth month. The fathers and grandparents are taking great care of the mother. To ward off the metaphor early in the discourse, the former refer to the national leaders and the latter are its working people. Everyone knows that this baby was fathered by China but we are like Pandu from the Mahabharata. Pandu was impotent, the gods had fun with Pandu’s wives and five boys were born. Panda had nothing to do with their arrival, yet they were called ‘Pandavas” or Pandu’s children. No one ever asked the mothers what they want. Neither did Pandu, nor did the Gods. So following the age old paradigm the national leaders don’t ask their people what they want to do with the rape-child of China, COVID-19.

The mothers have to stay safe even if it means she is chained to the bed. What if she cannot eat, she has to be safe. COVID has to be delivered safely or else hell shall break loose. The learned and the powerful say that it might end humanity. But it was the mothers who ran the household. Brought and cooked food. As usual they ate last or often didn’t. There are no functioning households with the mothers chained and starving. But China has unleashed the most deadly rape. No one dares to abort. No one can see or feel the foetus COVID. What if they don’t abort and kill the mothers? What if the blood spills from every mother and no one can contain. No one knows what the baby COVID looks like, yet every entertainer has unleashed their imagination. Some say it will be as bad as other rape-children gifted by China and others. Some say this one might be worse.

So what if households are dry and mothers are chained up. The rest are having a blast. They only do business with COVID now. Newspapers have shrunk in size as there are no crimes, movies, sports or political drama to report. Television and social media have no time to sleep or eat. Too busy trying to figure out the biological father of COVID, what COVID likes or it doesn’t and most importantly whether it will be a boy or girl or neither. Courses are being held educating people on COVID and certificates are being issued. But didn’t you just tell me you had no idea about this foetus! Then what is this course all about? I had asked. The answer was blunt. When have we ever done courses to know the truth. All that we need to do is pretend that we know the truth.

Researchers claim to be working on finding out machines to see the real COVID. Some are promising contraception against Such rape. Of course they cannot prevent the mothers from getting raped. Some of these doctors have decided that India is the best place to do their research as NewYork is getting too sweaty. No one has any clue about the monster brewing inside, but there is no ban on pretention. The grandfathers of every household, of every hair colour, black, white, orange or mixed, are often appearing at the doorsteps of the mothers and reassuring them about the fortitude of starvation. The mantra~ “starve to death but don’t die trying to move around with the unknown foetus”. You might die but more importantly the rest of the household, who are busy on twitter and Instagram, appearing on television, webinars and webcasts, might suffer. You might be hungry but they are busy.

As the world has come to a standstill, there are too few deaths from road accidents or crime. The sky is more blue than ever. The grass has never been greener. The world has never been more visibly divided by an invisible enemy amongst haves and have nots. Some are dying from COVID, some are dying in trying to save others from COVID and some are dying of boredom. I do not know if we will be more knowledgeable after 9 months- will there be a spontaneous abortion, will there be full term delivery of a normal child after chaining down every mother of the household for nine months or will there be a life threatening post-pregnancy bleeding! But one thing is sinking inside me- nine months down the line, more would die of starvation, malnutrition and other deadly diseases. That sinking feeling makes me urge the world to wake up to what we know will go wrong and not chain and starve those who feed us, fearing the unknown.

I have grown up witnessing the brilliance of a woman who spoke very little, but had an unfathomable talent, which very few could grasp. My mother used to submerge herself in reading- anything that came her way, Bengali or English, Trash or Classic. Very rarely did she express her thoughts. Women of her time were told to marry, bring up children and keep the husband happy, and of course, they still are. She had avid faith in Ramkrishna genre of religion, but utter disdain for rituals. She spoke of Christianity and Islam, Jainism and Buddhism with equal elan and fondness. My father used to howl, seeing me with books which my mother devoured. My mother had a very calm retort- “books can only make a man better! There is no age barrier when it comes to books. Why don’t you spend more time reading!!”

Manashi Chakrabarti, my mother was born to an elite Brahmin family. Her father was a brilliant individual who was not only a pathologist, who made many path-breaking discoveries in his field, but also a devout reader of Sanskrit, Bengali and English literature. His library occupied an entire room. Hovering through his treasure of books is one of the fondest memories of my childhood. My mother was brilliant with numbers. She inherited this gift from my grandfather. The conservatism of the patriarchal family denied college education to my mother. But my grandfather home tutored her and she graduated as a private candidate. I had seen a hand written English to Bengali dictionary in the small trunk my mother possessed. I was amazed at the effort it must have taken to create something like that. My mother had later told me that my grandfather had written this for her, when she was only 10 years old- so that she can read the vast treasure of English literature that he had piled up. Dr Ganendra Chakrabarti had left no stone unturned to give her first born daughter a glimpse of the entire world within the four walls of the conservative household.

My mother was married off in her early twenties to a family equally high on education and culture. My grandfather, had left the erstwhile East Bengal (now Bangladesh), with little savings, as the villages and cities were burning with religious hatred, just to fulfill the personal ambitions of Nehru and Jinnah. Being a reputed doctor in the town, he was not harmed physically, but he had lost his life’s savings and most importantly-his faith. He was an active member of Indian National Congress. He was jailed numerous times for the anti-British movements. Until the last day of his life, he struggled to fathom the greed of the top leaders of his own party which allowed division of their motherland along religious lines. He could not understand the hatred which had spilled onto the streets overnight. Where was it all along? Where was the hatred when he had saved those lives, who had come armed with swords and axes to throw him of his house-the only place he knew to be home.

Anyway, my paternal grandfather had allocated rooms to his four sons in the order of seniority, in his new abode. My father was third on the list. One room and one common toilet for the four families. That’s the room where my mother spent the rest of her life. Prior to her marriage she played the sitar, a difficult-to-play string instrument, which required years of dedication to master. She did not carry it along to her in-laws place. She never played it again. She had numerous song books and a sweet voice. She never sang again. As I grew up, I argued with my father to move to a place of our own which will be away from the communal living. It is not that he could not afford, but he was always concerned about my cousin sisters, who we never considered anything but our own. At the same time I could see the pain in my mother’s eyes. There was a time, when she had to even cook in that single room we lived, under unforeseen circumstances.

Her silence had grown deeper. She never expressed her sadness in words. Silence was her only expression. Seeing her suffer in silence made me angry and vocal. Despite the rants of my father against my political views in my college days, my mother indulged in the new set of books I brought home. Books by Gorky, Hardy and numerous other Russian, European and Chinese literary figures. She barely discussed her thoughts, but spoke profoundly when probed. This is something she never did with others or in public. I used to scream in exasperation- “Why did you spend your life in silence!” Her retort was a one liner. “You are there, you will say all that I could not say”. She silently supported my decision, when I was only 12 years, to not have a sacred thread ceremony or “poite” – a ritual for Brahmins. Silently, she had taught me over 12 years to denounce caste as an identity.

My mother had suddenly slipped into a coma and passed away a few hours later, in June 2005, while I was pondering if I should visit my father who was in the hospital, or wait for a few days. The pattern was recurrent and he had come out of it several times. As a doctor, and not as a son, I had told my mother, in a matter of fact way, that my father didn’t have a great chance of making it- over the phone. She must have pondered in silence, if I, their only son, who was supposed to be a brilliant clinician- did not have time for her husband- his father. She did not insist me to come. She was silent. She did not want to have a life dependent on her offspring, whose life was running on a track different to hers. Her silence was enough to say that “I would live my life far from yours”. She knew that her silence and aloofness was barely understood by people around me. I never hold grudge against people who have done me wrong or harm. I take it as their shortcoming and forgiveness comes easy. My mother is my only religion and my only God. My forgiveness doesn’t extend to those who failed to appreciate her silence and aloofness. Her sainthood lies in the way she absorbed everything and never gave vent to any ill against others. Her silence at different times has been more poignant than any word ever spoken.

It remains inexplicable in many ways as to why I returned to India, when I had no family left to take care of. This decision caused a lot of hardship to my children, who were flourishing in the UK at that time, both in academics and in sports. It was felt that fierce pride in my national identity prevented me from taking up citizenship of another country. This has heavily disadvantaged my children in their choice of education and jobs. Yet, for me, my motherland is where my mother was born, lived and stayed. I don’t have the courage to visit our old house, the room where she spent all her life, emotionally shackled and silenced. A feeling barely understood or appreciated. My mother passed away in her sleep, whilst her only son could not assure her of her future, a son in whom she had invested all her silence. Little did she realise that her son would suffer in silence too.

Perhaps, not everything was in vain. I have tried to silently support many women, who thought that their lives would pass in silent suffering, oblivious to their own talents. Some had garnered the courage to stand up against all odds and flourish. They were not supported by their own family, discouraged, emotionally tortured and made to feel small, for considering their own talents and careers over the conventional pathway of “taking care of their children and husband”. The pain they had to go through made me wonder if any man, who survive in the privilege of gender superiority, be able to garner such courage. For women to come forward and assert themselves, away from the ritualistic bindings of the shackled society, can never be appreciated by men. I draw solace from the fact that I had the privilege of knowing such women, who, through their acts and not words, have beaten the odds. They tend to be the beacon of light for a million others. Much of which was taught to me, by the silence of my mother.

My silence over the past couple of months mark my sadness at the current state of decadence in our existence. I was prompted by a lot of well wishers to pen my thoughts on the current turmoil in the country and elsewhere. But I cannot help but let my memories travel back to the 70s and 80s and feel the pain and anguish at the bankruptcy of morality of the present generation of youth.

There was a time when the youth across the world raised their voice against the American atrocities in Vietnam. Poetry and music fazed the globe with its anti-colonial rhetoric. Students marched down the streets of Paris, Athens, New York and Kolkata, the vibes the same, the rhythm same and the goal was the same. The universality of youth transcended geographical and linguistic boundaries. The 60s and 70s saw the birth of new art forms led by the Parisians. The new age cinema saw a whole new set of Indian film makers challenging the existing order of song and dance sequences created by the traditional filmmakers and endorsed by the establishment.

In the midst of the craving for a new world order, a not so well known member of the then communist party of India, called on the youth to wage a war on the state. The prudence was questionable and the intentions unclear. The time was such, the emotions were bursting at the seams and reasoning was a thing for the weak. Several million youth believed this to be the clarion call. Ideology was true, intentions were genuine but the reality was different. In a bid to counter the state, run by stooges of neo-colonial countries, they fantasised of a world described in the imagination of Marx and Lenin. A world which never saw the light of the day.

After the success of the Bangladesh war in 1971, the Indian army was asked to march through the jungles of Bihar, Bengal and Orissa, where thousands of brilliant minds with dreams in their eyes were hiding in the wait for a new world to bloom. The fantasy of youth was crushed by the brute force of state power, military, paramilitary, police and goons of the then ruling party. The jungles of Bengal, the streets of Kolkata and the expanse of keonjadh and koraput were soaked in the blood of a million dreams. A genocide never witnessed before. A country annihilating it’s own flesh and blood. The greatest minds, the selfless souls and the honest dreams of a nation were decapitated without hesitation. The nation silently witnessed its own carnage.

When we look at the current state of the country, we realise that we had wiped out our future in one fateful move, crushing a million dreams. The youth aspire for a better tomorrow. They might not be correct in their means but they are not wrong in asking for one. When we have killed the tigers and lions in the jungle, we are only left with hyenas preying on their blood and flesh. If you kill Bhagat Singhs and Subhash Boses of the world, you will obviously be left with the Gandhis and Nehrus.

I don’t see any resonance of honesty, aspiration or brilliance in the youth of the day. The considerations are not about giving a better life to the deprived, but the battle lines are drawn along religions and caste. When we grew up in the 60s to 80s in Bengal, we did not know how to judge each other based on religion or caste. Until today this concept is alien to me. The world is fragmented along lines of narrow identity. The youth today is what is left after elimination of brilliance three decades back. What is left of the LEFT, is bankruptcy of thoughts, ideals and morality. In India, everything said and done, religion doesn’t discriminate. Poverty does. At the end of the day, in the unabridged version of capitalism, its money which speaks. Dwelling on eradication of poverty is the luxury of the rich and not the right of the poor.

Why is there silence over International terrorism launched by Russia and America far and wide! Why is your dislike for me likely to annihilate me while the world watches in silence! Why don’t I crave for the golden mist on the young daisies any more! Why has the world sold it’s soul to the few and mighty! If change is the only constant, I shall wait for the young minds to change the way they think of the world within their narrow limits of perks and packages. I shall wait for the youth to rediscover themselves for the sake of our survival. I shall wait for them to take the stage occupied by Hynkels and say it loud and clear that ‘ I am sorry, I don’t want to rule or conquer anyone.
We want to live by each other’s happiness.
Not by each other’s misery.
We don’t want to hate and despise one another.
And this world has room for everyone, and the good Earth is rich can provide for everyone.
The way of life can be free and beautiful, but we have lost the way.’

I shall wait for fallen Hannahs to look up at the sky without the veil that hide their dreams, our dreams, the dream of the mankind for a better tomorrow. We shall wait——.

All of you must have heard of ‘Boson’ at some stage of your life. Or if not, then the Bose-Einstein theory. Now it sounds familiar! Right! Once you have the name ‘Einstein’ added to it! It is some guy, a bong to be precise, with the surname ‘Bose’ – must have done something with Einstein. Yes friends, the gentleman was ‘Satyendranath Bose’. He conceptualised something radical in the world of theoretical physics. Bose had sent a manuscript embodying the concept to a British journal. What happened is anybody’s guess. The journal was British, the author was Indian. What else, but reject it outright. What followed next is history. Bose sent his ‘paper’ to Albert Einstein who adopted the same and was later known as ‘Bose-Einstein Theory’. It could have been known as ‘Bose Theory’ . But that is not how it happens in the academic world, which is owned by the Anglosphere. The same happened to another ‘Bose’, Jagadish Chandra Bose. He had pioneered the concept and working of radio waves and frequency. Yet, we are taught it was ‘Marconi’ who invented radio. Nevill Mott, who won the Nobel in 1977, had said it was all due to J C Bose, who was 60 years ahead of his time. J.C.Bose was also responsible for our current understanding of plant physiology. How many can you name who have contributed to two different branches of science in such pioneering manner?

None of the ‘Boses’ won the Nobel, despite making discoveries which changed the way we think about science. By the way, they were married to ‘Abala’ and ‘Ushabati’, not Annabelle or Emily – if that helps in understanding the phenomenon. They changed the world, sitting in a country which was ruled and looted by a handful of ruthless British mercenaries. Yet another ‘Bose’, who was fortunate to be born in the blessed land of USA, set up his own corporation and changed the way we are supposed to listen to sound. I am talking of Amar Bose and the ‘Bose Sound Systems’- a ‘Bose’ headphone or speaker being the aspiration of all music lovers.

And might I mention another Bose to make all Indians blight in shame! You guessed it right this time- I am talking of ‘Subhash Chandra Bose’ or ‘Netaji’, as he was known in those days. Whilst, the British ruled India with a few white masters and innumerable native servants, this guy had the audacity to challenge the ‘Empire’ by raising an army of Indian origin- called ‘Indian National Army’ or ‘Azad Hind Fauz’. While we keep on debating on the role of women in the ‘Army’ and call many as the first ‘woman’ in various ranks in the army, Netaji Bose had ‘Rani LakshmiBai Regiment’ in his armed forces in 1940, lead by Dr Lakshmi Swaminathan (later Saigal). An ordinary act by an extraordinary man, much ahead of his time. Such was the impact of Netaji Bose that Nehru and his scions had spied on his family for two decades after independence to find out if he was alive. Even today, 75 years after his death, the documents related to his disappearance have been hidden in a government closet- claiming them to be classified.

‘Bose’s have become ‘Basu’s mostly now-a-days. Kolkata has rapidly dwindled to oblivion, from once being the hub of brilliant minds and nurturer of excellence. India is growing and Indians are now heading international corporations. But science has ceased to exist in Indian soils. India has numerous organisations, CSIR, ICMR, DBT and DST to name a few, who sit on millions of dollars of grant money. But what can money achieve, if we have lost the brilliance of our minds. We have forgotten how to innovate, how to think independently, how to think for ourselves and how to be us- the ones like the Boses, Bhabas, Sarabhais. We are ridiculed by the Liberals and Lutyens when we talk of how scientific thinking and discoveries happened in our soil 5000 years back. Our minds have been shaped by servitude of 300 years preceded by death and destruction for 1000 years prior to that. We have lost the self-belief that we can discover, we can invent and we can lead. Science is not about funds, it is about the thought, the attitude and the courage to challenge the existing paradigm.

Science is an ‘Art’. An art of thinking. Thinking beyond the realm of possibility and yet making it possible. Let us not pull down fellow Indians who have dared to do the same. Let us have teachers and scientists, who can think outside the norms set by the dominant forces. Let us allow the students to think and not study alone. Let us not make a degree of PhD, a means to get grant money for ourselves or a visa for the student to pursue his/her ambitions abroad. Let us not heap funds on influential government and private institutions to pile up expensive equipments, which often do not see the light of the day. Let us herald Indian journals as the gateway to information on cutting edge research and not a safe haven for researches rejected by the anglosphere. Let us not live on borrowed ideas, steal or cheat our way to the ‘House of the Lords’. We are better than this. Let us acknowledge that refractory blood cancers can be cured without CAR-T cells and it has been achieved in our own soil. Let us not search for the debris of ‘Vikram’ in the moon. Let us rejoice the fact that Vikram went near the moon. Let us rediscover ourselves.