A nomination for Parveen

Today's McGill Reporter, the administration run weekly campus newspaper, features in full colour the 'Exceptional staff and teachers'. It has the usual mix of professors, deans and other administrators- but what drew my attention was a beaming man in a blue shirt with a broom stick. That is Mr. Pietro who won the Principals award for exceptional staff in trades and service category. According to the report, Pietro is service man in the Arts Building of the University for nearly 35 years, making sure offices, hallways, and classrooms are always clean and functional- conducive for productive research and learning. Pietro is seen proudly grinning with his broomstick.

That made me thinking- if I had to give an award for the outstanding staff in the physics department of IISc, my alma mater, who would I give it to. To Parveen, of course.

Parveen is not a professor; she is not even a research student- she has not yet authored single scholarly publication. Yet, I would say, she is more useful to the department than many of its professors. Indeed, about eighty percent of professors are mere parasites who do not contribute anything to research or learning, merely living on the glory created by the rest.

Parveen is our sweeper. Though she is a good sweeper, what makes an easy choice is that her long time companions have left the scene and she is virtually without any competition for the award.

Eight years back when I joined the department as a graduate student, Parveen was a cheerful plump lady, accompanied by her friends Reena and Shanthamma. I soon found the trio to be a pleasant variation to the department that only had unfriendly and exceptionally dour faces everywhere. They were there on the hallways wherever you went, sweeping, mopping, chatting, and laughing. They even mocked people- we were never short of pompous people who could be helped with a little mocking. It was always Parveen who led the gang, Shanthamma and Reena could only follow her. Indeed, left to themselves, they could only give a timid smile- It was Parveen who made them laugh.

Shanthamma must have been the eldest. It is hard to say from the appearance alone, after years of toil and poverty, appearance can misleading. Nevertheless, she looked old. By far she was the smallest too- she was a short, thin, lady with eyes indicating deep pain and misery, but with a face that always had a mild smile, Shanthamma was a motherly figure in the department. Left to herself, she walked quietly, smiled at everyone, stopped to exchange niceties with people she knew. She considered everyone as somehow related to her, though we, the thankless wretches, did not reciprocate the feeling.

Reena was the youngest, she was in her late thirties. She looked as big and as stout as Parveen- but her face bore a stupid or innocent expression, that made us all think that she was actually an overgrown girl. Dark, heavy, and muscular, she walked with heavy steps, and made the whole building shake under her steps. Come face to face with any of us, she would blush and give us one of her typical smiles.

But with Parveen both Shanthamma and Reena became bolder and talkative, they even did not mind taunting us a bit if Parveen was around. Parveen's energy must have been contagious. Because even when we spoke to her we felt like jumping and shouting afterwards. Parveen's age was anywhere between Reena's and Shanthammas, and she looked ageless between these two extremes.

We were always busy in the department with our experiment, seminars, and various talks and discussions. We had our share of intellectuals, rightists, leftists, Trotskytes, fascists, and Naxals, always engaged in some pointless discussions that made no one any better. Meanwhile Parveen and co came in the morning, did their sweeping and mopping till the evening, day after day. We always took them for granted, and complained if there was more dust in the room. We had our comfortable hostels in the campus; but they came just beyond our walls, from a world we did not know, worked among us to clean the offices and classrooms till evening, and disappeared in the evening to the same mysterious world. While they knew everything about us and our life, little we knew about them.

I once got a hint of what it might be like, when one day for the first time, I saw Parveen crying; she was talking to a professor, pleading to him to put her case in the next departmental meeting. The professor was kind, wanted to be gentle and nice, but he was embarrassed. I do not know if he did put her case to the meeting, but it did not have any effect. I learned later that Parveen was asking for a salary hike. All salaries in the department had gone up in the intervening years by huge proportions, but Parveen and co were working on the same salary they started with fifteens years back. They started with a salary of Rs. 1500. In Bangalore at that time you could not even rent a shack in a slum for that money.

They were all contract employees. Though they were working in the institute all time, the institute was not related to them- as far as the institute was concerned, a contractor supplied them. Parveen, Shanthamma, and Reena were buried in the total number employees contractor provided to the institute. This was just becoming a norm those days, as it was more convenient and profitable. As they were not one of 'our own', their working condition could be safely ignored, there was no obligation when they were sick or dead- contractor would quietly find another one, and the number would not change as far as the institute was concerned. But Parveen believed some day professors would take note of her hard work and dedication, and some committees would take pity and regularise all of them. What did she know about those shrewd policymakers!

Sickness did visit them, only they were left to fight it all alone. If it was headache or fever they came nevertheless. The contractor was not a very kind man to allow them to rest at home and to pay them.

But then Shanthamma started taking long leaves. When she came back intermittently, she looked much older. Sometimes we did not see her for weeks and months together, and we did not to bother to find out as long as there was somebody else to do the work. One day we received email from a good clerk in the office- Shanthamma was diagnosed with cancer- and she need our support; after working in the department for more than fifteen years, she had to depend on the charity of its student and professors to fight for her life. Places like Canada would take care of its people when they are ill; but in India you have to face it all alone, helpless and abandoned. To make it worse there are all those doctors, laboratories, and hospitals. These scavengers are much more malicious than the malady itself. Shanthamma must have wanted to die sooner. There was no other way for her.

Shanthamma left us without any complaints. Parveen and Reena continued their work with less vigour. Shanthamma's silent presence had meant a lot for them, and they missed her quite badly. It was Parveen who suffered most. We noticed a visible change in her face that could not have been the result of grief alone. Her cheeks started sagging from both sides, eyes became dull and lifeless. Walking became more and more difficult for her. Suddenly she seemed to have aged. She brought in her daughter with her to help with cleaning. She still foolishly believed that she had some claim on the job, and when the institute regularizes the job at least her daughter would get it. Now there were two people working on that paltry sum still hoping for some miracle.

Then came another blow. One day, Reena died.

It was a massive heart attack. Why it had to be that way, I have no idea. As if they did not have enough trouble already. Reena could not afford to die just then; her husband had passed away a few months back in similar manner. She was the sole bread winner for an aging mother and her three school aged girls.

In our department Parveen was the one who took it hardest. We all were sorry, of course. We would miss Reena and her innocent smile. But Parveen lost her sole working companion. She looked like a ghost of her former self.  Despite her sorrow, Parveen mustered all her courage. To her, it was important to keep the death of Reena hiding from the authorities, and possibly contractor. They should not recruit someone else and snatch away Reena's job when it will be regularised. She found an ingenious plan- she enlisted those small girls to do the work Reena was doing. Everybody knew her intentions, and they all pretended as if they did not know anything.

If you go to the department now you would most probably see a fat old woman, who can hardly walk, somehow dragging herself from door to door, panting heavily every now and then, giving instructions to a bunch of girls who should be at school now. If you have the picture of Parveen as a boisterous lady, as I tried to describe her in the beginning, you would be disappointed to see her now. There is nothing that would show the signs of the Parveen that she was. She and her retinue, all those girls who want to inherit the job some day, would rather look like a funeral procession now.

Or who knows- I am writing this about Parveen sitting across continents. The institute probably has hired a new contractor now who has cleaner looking staff- you know, with nice uniforms and so on. That would have put an end to Parveen's fifteen year old chase after the mirage.

When I saw Mr. Pietro beaming with his award, and proudly showing off his broomstick, I just wished that if we could at least once recognise Parveen for her dedication and hard work, before she too follows Shanthamma and Reena. If we could allow her just once to take pride in what she did all her life. Or is that too much to ask ?

[image courtesy: http://www.guardianangel.in/ga//uploads/mailer_pics/cleaning_lady.jpg]

The Two Cultures

That is how C P Snow described the increasing chasm between the humanities and sciences. In the Oxbridigian tradition, poets and philosophers on one side, and scientists and engneers on the other, represented two distinct cultures. The former had an aura of divine inspiration about them, whereas the latter was concerned about machines and their mechanics- they were considered somewhat of lower class, mere bread earners.

Things have changed since then- sciences have climbed up on the social ladder. But it has also developed its own class structure. The most aristocratic among them, none other than Lord Rutherford, had (in)famously said: all sciences are either physics or stamp collection. And, as it often happens, the classes branch into subclasses; hierarchies develop finer structure. For example, in mathematics, there are the so called 'pure' mathematicians, and the applied mathematicians. The 'pure' would like to think of themselves as the true and purest prodigy of the uncorrupted mathematical traditions, and they accuse the applied mathematicians for polluting it with their association with 'lower' sciences. In physics the beasts are the theoretical physicist and the experimentalist. All theorists think that they are the direct descendants of Albert Einstein, who is their most recognized icon, while the experimentalist do not bother to think much (at least that is how the theory propaganda portray an experimentalist).

Back in my student days, we thought theorists as real charmers, and experimentalists are just there by hook or crook (or black magic). In those days IIT-M had a really star studded theory group, and most articulate of them could start from the properties of a safety pin and end in the symmetries of the universe, all in one hour. We all were or wanted to be budding theorists: none of us wanted to falter in front of black board while trying to write an equation, as most of them from the other side did.

As in any class division, there have been careful propaganda in the form stories, anecdotes, and jokes. They are whispered in the back alleys of physics departments across the world even today. One of them is an apparent conversation between lady Hubble and lady Einstein. Mrs. Hubble took Mrs. Einstein to her husband's famed telescope and boasted in her lady-manner that how her husband solved the mysteries of the universe using the telescope. For this Mrs. Einstein responded that her husband also did the same, but using only pencil and paper.

In spite of all those propagandist stories, many of us came to realize slowly, that physics is an experimental science. period. My real disenchantment from theory came from a several weeks I spent in all theory institute. It was small institute with just a couple of building, in small beautifully landscaped property. But it was filled with selected theoreticians from physics, mathematics and computer science. Two months with the most asocial and unclean crowd was a nerve cracking experience. The scene of unfriendly theoretician with eyes bulging out of their sockets, walking up and down in the corridors in the middle of the night is something that still haunts me in my nightmares. I enjoy the company of experimentalists much more.

In any case, all I wanted was to lead you to following links from CERN. Thanks to Vijay Kumar for sending it to me- theorists and experimentalists in CERN physics group are talking about this division not so seriously. Have a look!

A Defiant Rebel

They say that the power corrupts everyone without exception. The frustrated electorate in Trivandrum this time tried a highly educated and articulate Tharoor and found even he is no exception.

While reading the whole unholy incident and Mr Tharoor's highly embellished statement (more about it here) I could not help remembering Sri Subodh Banerjee. I quote the following touching incident from Sri D Bandopadyaya, who was once the seceretary to Govt of India. (from mainstream weekly)

A Defiant Rebel

Wednesday 8 August 2007, by D. Bandyopadhyay

To write about a politician, one runs the risk of being either a self-seeker trying to get some material advantage if one spoke good of him, or a run-of-the mill faultfinder who failed to get his desired benefits if one wrote against him. But being neither, I do not hesitate to record an incident of great moral magnitude regarding the late Subodh Banerjee.

Subodh Banjerjee was a firebrand labour leader with such incendiary oratorical skill that both his friends and detractors used to say that he could set fire to the sluggish currents of the river Hooghly. Unlike many of his ilk, he was not a purchasable commodity available to the highest bidder. Employers used to be afraid of him so much that they would always prop up another trade union with a pliable leadership to subvert his union. They would concede more to the other union than come to any understanding with Banjerjee’s union. He would fight hard to get his demands met. But once an agreement was made, he would ensure that it was strictly implemented both by his followers and the employer. He would not allow any under-the-table adjustment which would be personally beneficial to the union leaders and, of course, to the management leaving the workers high and dry. All his dealings in labour matters were open and above board leaving no scope for future manipulation by the twist of a phrase or turn of a punctuation. Employers always thought him to be an uncompromisingly obstinate and dangerous leader.

He belonged to the Socialist Unity Centre of India (SUCI). Its leadership believed in the Brahminical tradition of pollution free purity of socialist thoughts and principles. In the rainbow spectrum of Socialist-Marxist parties of West Bengal, it represented an extreme position. Though small in size, it had the reputation of being aggressively combative which could make its followers suffer untold police torture without any demur.

The late sixties of the last century witnessed tumultuous political upheavals in West Bengal. In 1967 the ruling Congress party was unseated from power by a hotch-potch combination of Right and Left parties who made a post-electoral alliance. Subodh Banerjee became the PWD Minister. Being scrupulously honest, the Department—which even in the British days had earned the sobriquet “plunder without detection”—felt the sizzling heat of a firebrand honest Minister. His lasting contribution was the removal of all statutes of “guardians and rulers” of the Indian empire from public places in Kolkata. But he did not destroy them. He appreciated the artistic value of many of them and stored them in some other public places not in the public view. The first United Front Government only lasted for seven months. The Ministry was dismissed and President’s Rule was promulgated.

After the election in 1969, the UF again came to power. Subodh Banerjee got the portfolio of his choice, Labour. In little over a year that this government lasted, he left a permanent imprint on the industrial scene by introducing “gherao” as an instrument of industrial action by militant workers. So much was the intensity of this new method of labour action that the word “gherao” got inducted into the English languge. The Concise Oxford English Dictionary, Eleventh Edition, 2004, on page 598 has the following entry: “Gherao: n (pl. gheraos). Indian; a protest in which workers prevent employers leaving a place of work until demands are met. Origin: From Hindi.”

So the English language was enriched by his gherao policy. Though as an incidental side-effect, the investment climate in West Bengal collapsed and a long process of de-industrialisation started. The second UF Government imploded because of its own internal contradictions. After a spell of another President’s Rule during the Bangladesh war, the Congress came back to power in 1972.

UNDER the new government, I was posted as the Labour Secretary. Dr Gopal Das Nag, a well-known general physician, became the Labour Minister. He was an amiable person and had excellent relationship with all trade union leaders irrespective of their political colour. One day he sent for me and asked whether I knew Subodh Banerjee. I told him that though I did not directly work under him during the two UF governments, I had had interaction with him in land maters. Notwithstanding his notoriety in the corporate circle, I found him to be an extremely friendly and polite person.

Dr Nag then told me that Banerjee was very sick. He had been admitted to the School of Tropical Medicine. He said he would have himself gone there but for some reasons he was unable to go, so could I go and meet Banerjee and find out from his family members and attending physicians whether Dr Nag could render any help either as a Minister or otherwise.

I could easily appreciate Dr Nag’s predicament. As a gentleman he wanted to be by the side of his predecessor in office. On the other hand, during the period of “restoration” if he were seen publicly with the “gherao Minister” it might be misinterpreted both in the business and political circles. With alacrity, I agreed to be his personal emissary to visit Subodh Banjerjee in the hospital. I was also to find out from the Director of the School whether any special medicine would be required which Dr Nag could procure quickly avoiding the usual medical red tape.

During the visiting hour on the same day, I went and met Subodh Babu. He was in a small ordinary cabin on the ground floor. He was very happy to see me. His voice had become very feeble. His body was frail. I could see that it was a strain for him to talk to me. He thanked Dr Nag and then me for coming to see him. He inquired about many officers of the Labour Department. After the usual pleasantry when I inquired whether we could do anything for him, he gave a benign smile and told me that he was already in a government hospital so he had nothing more to ask of Dr Nag as a Minister of the government or as a person. It was very kind of him to make this gesture. When I was coming away, he dropped a hint he would not mind my coming again for a chit-chat.

Thereafter, I went to the Director’s office. Dr Nag had already informed him that I would be visiting him. I found a number of other physicians in his room, I was ushered in the midst of a medical conference. When I inquired about the prognosis, he told me it was bleak and he did not expect Subodh Banerjee to last more than a fortnight at the outside. He had a bad type of blood cancer for which there was no specific medicine available in India. But some of the physicians who were doing research on the subject were aware of a new drug just made available in the market in the UK which, according to some medical journals, may prolong the life for a while, though it could not cure the ailment. In fact, the conference was about the possibility of using that drug for Banerjee.

That drug was not available in India. By the usual procedure it would take months before it could be accessible here. I requested him to give me the full specifications about the drug. With that I returned to office.

Though it was late, Dr Nag was waiting for me. He had a talk with the Director so he knew about the drug. Those were the days of strict foreign exchange and import control. Even by extraordinary measure an indent from the Government of West Bengal to the Health Ministry at Delhi would take days if not weeks to get processed. When he were discussing about the matter, it struck me if some Kolkata managing agency houses, which were now owned by Indians and which still had their London offices, could be approached to procure the medicine in the UK and send it to India by hand. Dr Nag told me that he was also thinking on that line. He then rang up the chairman of a well known former sterling company which had an office in London and told him of this problem. The gentleman agreed to come to Writers’ Buildings at once to discuss about it.

The gentleman was told about the urgency of the problem because the physicians did not expect him to last beyond a couple of weeks. He went back to his office to call his London office. Next morning Dr Nag told me that the London office of that Indian company had been advised to procure the medicine. The prescription of the Tropical School of Medicine had to be faxed to London to enable them to buy it. As a humanitarian measure the company would buy the medicine on their own and would not accept any payment. The problem was how to send it quickly. Dr Nag was a Press-friendly person. So some of his friends in the Press came to know of the whole episode. The next morning two important dailies of Kolkata carried news about procurement of a rare medcine for Subodh Banerjee from London. Seeing the report the local manager of the British Overseas Airways Corporation came to the Minister and told him that if the medicine could be handed over to a particular officer of the BOAC in London, they would have it transported to Kolkata free of charge on humanitarian ground. The BOAC then had three flights a week from London to Kolkata. So by the fifth day from the day the prescription was received the medicine would arrive in Kolkata.

ON the morning of the sixth day, the manager of the BOAC Kolkata brought the packet himself and handed it over to the Minister. Dr Nag sent for me and gave the packet with the request to rush to the hospital to hand over the medicine to the Director. I went to the hospital, As I was going towards Subodh Banerjee’s cabin I met the attending physician who was coming out of the room. I told him that I had the medicine and I would like to hand it over to him. He suggested that I should keep it in the patient’s room for the time being till they start administering it.

I went to Banerjee’s cabin. His condition had visibly deteriorated in the last few days. His voice was so feeble that it was not audible. He had a slate and a piece of chalk. Looking at me his eyes sparkled and he broke into a pleasant smile. I kept the packet on a stool by his bedside. His wife and daughter were on the other side of the bed.

He spoke something to me. I could not hear. His wife told me that he wanted to know who had bought the medicine. I could understand the catch in his question. I replied that the BOAC brought the medicine free of charge from London. He again said something. It was not audible to me. His wife told me that he knew about it and that he was grateful to the British public sector corporation for taking this trouble but he did not get the answer to his query. I thought it would not be proper to parry his question any further. I told him at the request of Dr Nag the chairman of an old managing agency house procured the medicine in London on the basis of the prescription of the School of Tropical Medicine and that the company refused to accept any payment either from the government or from Dr Nag personally. The company donated the medicine for a humanitarian cause.

His face hardened. That pleasant smile vanished. For a fraction of a second his eyes blazed. I could perceive that something was boiling within him. Then he gradually calmed down. Again he resumed his pleasant self. Then I noticed a flicker of smile on his lips. He took the slate and the chalk. With his unsteady hand he wrote a few incomplete sentences and handed over the slate to me. There I found, he profusely thanked Dr Nag and the chairman of the managing agency house for their kind gesture.

Then came the bombshell. He wrote that he fought against this managing agency house for their unfair labour practices throughout his trade union career. He could not and would not accept the medicine from them. Then there was almost an appeal to me: “Please do not try to pollute me in the remaining hours of my life.”

I was stunned, I just could not react. I stood shell-shocked for a while. When I got control over myself, I thought his wife and daughter had the right to disagree with him so that the medicine could be administered. I gave the slate to his wife. She said nothing but nodded consent with her husband’s stand. I then gave it to his daughter with the faint hope that she might disagree. To my surprise, she also agreed with her father.

There was a patient who was to die in another 72 to 94 hours. There was the medicine procured from half the world away which was to prolong his life by three to six months. And here was that determined and dauntless non-conformist who would not accept the medicine donated by his class enemy. I did not know what to do: I looked at him directly in the eyes. I saw a naughty look of a child who had just outwitted his headmaster. There was again that pleasant smile indicating that he was totally in peace with himself and with the world outside.

I bowed and picked up the packet. I went to the Director’s office where he was conducting a meeting with his fellow physicians about that medicine. I kept the packet on his table and told the dumbfounded audience that Subodh Banerjee refused to accept the medicine given by a corporate house.

A couple of days later, while I was having tea I heard in the news of the All India Radio that Banerjee had passed away in the wee hours of that morning. I was alone in my room. I stood up and bowed to the indomitable spirit of a defiant rebel.

(Courtesy : The Statesman)

The author was the Secretary to the Government of India, Ministries of Finance (Revenue) and Rural Development, and the Executive Director, Asian Development Bank, Manila.

Koyakka

    

Boys in my place these days make fun of Koyakka. They laugh at his rather strange uniform, his odd appearance, and his rickety pushcart on which he sells vegetables. After all, it is very easy to make fun of the old man. If it is a good joke he will join you with a hearty laugh. If it is rather painful, as youngsters are more prone to do these days, he would smile sadly and walk away.

Of course, you do not know Koyakka. In the recent past, when many of these youngsters were yet to be born, Koyakka was a security guard. That is where he got that uniform from. In those days he used to wash it with starch and press it to finish. He was proud of it. It was much more respectable to be a guard then. Simple folks in our place held guards in hospitals and film theaters in high regard. But now they are all the same. There is nothing enviable in being a guard these days. Most of them are boys barely out of their teenage years, always scared of something. Looking back, I think Koyakka was the only guard I knew by face, by name, and in fact he was the only guard I knew was a man like us. Other guards I come across later had always one face, rather grim and expressionless, and had only one generic name, 'guard!', and we never knew what kind of men they were.

Koyakka was not even a guard to begin with. He had a small, I mean very small, shop in the corner of our street. There was not many things worth buying there. He had only one kind of soap, the colorless and odourless lifebouy, that too old and dusted. The bananas in his shop were black and about to fall apart. He kept cheapest candies in his shop that, incidentally, sold well. Among the old curiosities in his shop, he also looked another worn out item. But by evening he was a transformed man. His shop was a gathering place for local intelligentsia where they discussed the collapse of eastern Europe and fate of Poland. Koyakka thought about everything, and had read all newspapers during his eventless day-time, and participated in these discussions as passionately as the headmaster of our school.

He had a penchant for international affairs. Koyakka did not know or care much about who played for Santhosh trophy, but always knew about latest additions in Manchester United.

He was a far more cheerful man those days. He had a small house in the woods, with a nice garden in the courtyard. His grand daughter used to be a local beauty, and he would spend most of the money on colourful frocks and hairpins. His days were spent between his rose plants, his grand daughter, and his shop. Though he was rather poor, he did not seem to mind it, and though he borrowed money from almost everyone, they all spoke to him with respect.

But then gradually city started invading our little hamlet. One by one big buildings started appearing, Cadburies became a rage, and kids were no longer interested in the candies he sold. His shop became drier every day, and occasionally he did not open his shop to attend a friend's house warming or a neighbour's wedding. Then his shop was left closed for a week. We slowly learned how to buy dry fish or tapioca from nearby shops, and when he understood that we could get along without him, he closed it forever. Along with his shop Koyakka also whithered away from our landscape.


He came weekly back to the place. He bought new and expensive chocolates from the city that he generously showered on all of us, his former customers. He said he is now a security guard in a big hotel in the city. That was a very big hotel, he said. A tea was forty rupees there. We gaped with amazement. For us, who always sacrificed tea worth fifty paisa for an extra parota, that was the ultimate wastefulness. He was full of stories about his new job. Rather funny stories that made us laugh our inside out. He showed us how he held the door and did his salute, banging his foot on the floor, when
customers came to the hotel. We were all laughing mad when he imitated how a 'society lady' scolded him in English- with lots of 'shoo shoo's and eneded with a 'bludddy ffool!'. He also laughed heartily with us. Of course, we did not notice the slight twitching of his lips or the sparkling in the corner of his eye when he laughed. You see, Koyakka was a proud man.

When I saw the guards in my institute in Bangalore, sitting shelterless in heavy rain,or in the harsh Banglore winter, trying to make maximum out of their torn jackets, I thought of him. What he might be doing. In cities I saw them in front of shopping malls, restaurants, with the cloak of servility, I wondered how did he manage.

But as I heard later, he did not manage. Not because he could not learn to be servile- he learned it very fast- or because he was not willing to endure hardships. But boys from his dream-land came in large numbers to Kerala for jobs. Boys, barely out of their teenage years, came from Bengal and Orissa, closely packed in general compartments and trucks. They slowly replaced construction workers first. These boys were amazing, willing to work in any condition and for lesser wage, they camped on construction sites, worked like donkeys from dawn to dusk and slept in nearby tents. They would start work early after a heavy breakfast, and would continue non stop till evening, unlike the worker from Kerala, who wants a break for food every two hours. A Bengal version of perpetual motion machines - contractors just loved them.

Koyakka would not have grudged losing his jobs for Bengali boys. Koyakka, like many in his generation, loved Bengal and Jyoti Babu. So when they came ready to do any job, he only praised their hard work, calling them "that's Jyotida's boys". When someone mentioned that Jyoti Babu's only boy is a big businessman he got into a heated arguement. He then picked up an old pushcart and started selling vegetables in our village.

The village was no longer the old village, and Koyakka and his cycle had no place in it. His odd appearance made all of us a little uneasy.

We would rather see him in his spotless white shirt and dhoti, scoring a point with our headmaster. How much we love to see him sitting on an easy chair in his villa tending his rose garden and sharing a sweet with his grand grand daughter! How much more comfortable all of us would have been if he was dead and gone!

But that it is not to be. He wanders through the town in his ridiculous old uniform, with a rickety cart, carrying rotten vegetables.

When Jyoti Babu passed away, he pasted red portrait on the cycle.

[image from: http://farm1.static.flickr.com/141/319730022_41d8aac3e9.jpg?v=0]

Scientists Find a Way to Starve Malaria to Death

[Reported for one of the campus newspapers]

We have been losing the battle against the malaria at the rate of a million lives a year. Scientists now have found a novel way of attack that might turn the tide against this persistent disease.

An international team of researchers have unraveled the structure of digestive enzymes in malaria that would potentially lead to the creation of new drugs. The parasite has been increasingly getting resistant to traditional anti malarial drugs. Now a multidisciplinary team of researchers including McGill's own John Dalton have discovered the key enzymes that help the parasite to survive inside humans. These enzymes help the malaria to digest the proteins inside the human red blood cells, leading to the proliferation of the malaria and the destruction of the red blood cells. The new study have revealed the three dimensional structures of these enzymes thereby paving way for developing drugs that can attack these enzymes specifically. This way the malaria could literally be starved to death.

Professor John Dalton from the Institute of parasitology at McGill and his collaborators have just published their study in the Proceedings of National Academy of Sciences elucidating the structure of the enzyme. Dalton has been focusing on the malaria for fifteen years, and in the last year he and his collaborators announced the structure of the first enzyme in the same journal. Within a year the team has solved the mystery of second enzyme too.

Malaria has only one copy of each of these enzymes. Other parasites usually have several copies of similar enzymes, and if any of them is disabled they switch to another. But the researchers have shown that in Malaria, if either of the digestive enzymes is knocked out the parasite cannot survive. According to Dalton this is real breakthrough in the search for an effective anti- malarial drug. They also have demonstrated some of the specific drugs that can inhibit the function of these enzymes.

The development of the drug will have to go through various stages of testing and screening. Scientists believe that if everything goes well they will start trying them in humans as early as three to five years. They are aiming for a drug that could inhibit both enzymes at a time, or a combination of drugs that would target these enzymes separately which can be later combined in treatment. By attacking both vital enzymes at a time limits the ability of the parasite to develop resistance to the drug.

Researchers have been active in developing new classes of drug against malaria. A multidisciplinary approach was requires to tackle the problem. This was what Dr Dalton and collaborators were able to achieve. Dr. Dalton's collaborators came from various backgrounds with different types of expertise that helped them to take up this challenge together. Their team includes biologists studying the life cycle of malarial parasite, bioinformatic experts analyzing the malarial genome to pinpoint the exact enzymes, chemists to isolate these enzymes, and crystallographers to determine the structure of these enzymes. His collaborators are located in Australia, UK, Poland and McGill.

They have published the structures of these enzyme along with possible drugs in a public database, which other scientists can use independently to develop the drug. "Anyone who has experience with drug design would know how important is the structure of two potential targets. These structure will be in the public database. Also in last three months we have released a whole panel of potential compounds targeting these enzymes. They were also released to the public database. We have been very keen on giving everything to the public database. We did not want to hold them to ourselves." Dalton said.