Aash Gates Writes

Kolkata in 70's

Imagine Kolkata on an October evening in 1978. The city is ablaze with lights and echoing with the drums of Durga Puja celebrations. Amid the festive chaos, a quiet miracle is unfolding in a small laboratory. Dr. Subhash Mukherjee, an unassuming Bengali physician, is about to change history. On October 3, 1978, he achieved the impossible – the birth of India’s first (and the world’s second) test-tube baby, a healthy girl named Durga (later known as Kanupriya Agarwal). This medical breakthrough came just 67 days after the world’s first IVF baby, Louise Brown, was born in England. You’d expect fireworks, fame, and celebration for Dr. Mukherjee, right? Instead, what followed was a heart-wrenching saga of humiliation, bureaucratic betrayal, and tragic injustice that ultimately drove this brilliant innovator to take his own life.

Dr. Mukherjee

The Revolutionary Achievement That Changed History

Dr. Mukherjee’s IVF success wasn’t a fluke or a mere copy of what British doctors had done – it was a revolution in medical science. Working with bare-bones equipment in his Kolkata apartment lab, he pioneered techniques that were decades ahead of his time. Some of his groundbreaking innovations included:

• Alternative Egg Retrieval: While the UK team used laparoscopic surgery, Dr. Mukherjee used a simpler transvaginal route (colpotomy) to collect eggs from the ovaries – a method much closer to what became standard IVF practice later on.

• Hormonal Stimulation: He was the first to use human menopausal gonadotropin (hMG) to stimulate a woman’s ovaries to produce multiple eggs in one cycle. Today, such hormone injections are routine in IVF to maximize success.

• Embryo Cryopreservation: Incredibly, Dr. Mukherjee froze the embryo for 53 days before thawing and implanting it – the first successful use of embryo cryo-storage. (Louise Brown’s team had done immediate transfer without freezing.) This was truly sci-fi stuff for 1978, considering even basic freezers had to do the job of modern cryo-tech!

His collaborator, Professor Sunit Mukherjee (no relation, just a coincidence in last name), later marveled at how the world’s IVF clinics eventually adopted the same methods Dr. Mukherjee devised in that tiny lab. The transvaginal approach to retrieve eggs, using hormones to get multiple eggs, and freezing embryos for later use – all these are now textbook IVF techniques. And he did it with Jugaad-style improvisation: a household refrigerator became his embryo freezer! It’s like inventing a rocket in your backyard shed.

This should have been a proud triumph for India. In a field dominated by Western science, an Indian doctor working under resource constraints had matched and even surpassed global pioneers. Unfortunately, instead of getting a hero’s medal, Dr. Mukherjee walked into a nightmare.

The Systematic Campaign of Humiliation

Rather than celebrating Dr. Mukherjee’s achievement, the medical establishment greeted it with sneers and suspicion. Jealousy? Disbelief? Perhaps both. The West Bengal government quickly formed an “expert” inquiry committee to evaluate his claims – except the committee had no experts in reproductive science or IVF at all! The inquiry, led by the state’s health authorities and medical association doctors, devolved into a farce. They asked Dr. Mukherjee absurd, ignorant questions, treating this gentle genius like a fraud from the outset.

In medical conferences and meetings, Dr. Mukherjee was publicly ridiculed. Imagine presenting your life’s greatest work, only to be met with mocking laughter. Colleagues circulated nasty rumors, questioning his character and competence. The inquiry committee’s final report outright dismissed his work as “bogus,” “absurd,” and “unbelievable.” One can only gasp at the irony – they refused to believe the evidence even when Durga, the baby herself, was healthy and growing before their eyes!

For Dr. Mukherjee, this wasn’t just professional skepticism; it was character assassination. He was made out to be a liar and a mad scientist. It’s the classic tale of the prophet without honor in his own land. The very people who should have lauded him worked overtime to tear him down, perhaps because his success made them feel small or simply because they couldn’t understand how he did it.

Government Persecution and International Isolation

The torment didn’t stop at public ridicule. The state government took the vendetta to a whole new level. When news of Dr. Mukherjee’s breakthrough spread, scientists abroad were excited. In early 1979, he received a prestigious invitation to share his findings at Kyoto University in Japan , a chance for India to shine on the world stage of science. Guess what the government did? They slapped him with a complete travel ban.

In an official order dated December 28, 1978, the West Bengal Department of Health Services forbade Dr. Mukherjee from attending any conferences without explicit permission and they flat-out denied him permission to go to Japan. Not only was he barred from traveling internationally, he was effectively gagged from even discussing his work outside approved channels.

This wasn’t just a slight; it was devastating. IVF was a brand-new field, and global collaboration could have propelled his techniques into mainstream medicine far sooner. Instead, he was isolated from the international scientific community. While Robert Edwards and Patrick Steptoe (the UK team behind Louise Brown) were celebrated worldwide, Dr. Mukherjee was being locked in a bureaucratic cage at home.

Think about it: one of the greatest innovations in medical history, and the inventor is treated like a security risk by his own government. It’s beyond tragic – it’s infuriating. As the world of reproductive medicine leaped forward, Dr. Mukherjee was forced to watch in silence, his only crime being too innovative for his time.

That IVF Baby Ms Durga , Years Later on 40th Birthday

The Final Humiliation: Punitive Transfers

As if public humiliation and a travel ban weren’t enough, the powers-that-be found another way to break Dr. Mukherjee’s spirit. They started messing with his job, ensuring he couldn’t continue any meaningful research. He was subjected to a series of punitive job transfers, each one crueler than the last.

In 1980, Dr. Mukherjee was abruptly transferred from his research post in Kolkata to a rural medical college (R.G. Kar Medical College), far from the city and his supportive peers. Imagine being uprooted from your home and lab, basically exiled from the very environment where you made history. He tried to keep his research alive despite the move, but the worst was yet to come.

Just a year later, in 1981, the government transferred him again – this time to the Regional Institute of Ophthalmology in Kolkata. Yes, you read that right: they moved a fertility scientist into an eye hospital, an area completely unrelated to his expertise. To add insult to injury, his office and lab were set up on the top floor of a building with no elevator, even though the officials knew he had a heart condition and struggled with climbing stairs. It’s hard to see this as anything but a deliberate attempt to torment him physically and mentally.

These transfers effectively shut down his research. Dr. Mukherjee suddenly had no access to the equipment, team, or patients required to continue his IVF work. Years of knowledge and momentum were flushed away by a bureaucrat’s pen. Colleagues whispered that this was punishment for his “audacity” – that he wouldn’t bow to the egos of senior officials or play the political games, so they made him pay by destroying his career.

By this point, the message from the establishment was clear: stop what you’re doing, or we’ll stop it for you. For a scientist as passionate and brilliant as Dr. Mukherjee, this was like forcing a musician to live in silence. It was the final straw that broke him.

The Tragic End: A Genius Driven to Despair

By mid-1981, just three years after he delivered baby Durga into the world, Dr. Subhash Mukherjee was a broken man. The relentless harassment, isolation, and heartbreak took a cruel toll. His health deteriorated under stress – he had a heart ailment that was exacerbated by the constant anxiety and depression inflicted on him.

On June 19, 1981, the unthinkable happened. Dr. Mukherjee’s wife, Namita, returned from her teaching job to their Kolkata apartment to find that her husband had hanged himself from the ceiling fan. He ended his life in the same city that could have been celebrating him as a hero. In his suicide note, he wrote, “I can’t wait every day for a heart attack to kill me.” Those words convey unimaginable pain – the despair of a man who saw no light at the end of a very dark tunnel.

This tragedy was layered with bitter irony. Dr. and Mrs. Mukherjee had no children of their own; they had mutually decided to postpone starting a family so that he could devote himself entirely to the IVF research. He literally sacrificed a part of his personal life to give the gift of parenthood to others. And yet, in the end, the father of India’s first IVF baby died childless, penniless, and feeling forgotten.

Namita’s life was shattered. Shortly after his death, she suffered partial paralysis – likely a result of the extreme trauma and grief. Friends recalled how she was haunted by the injustice done to her husband, continually reaching out to officials and journalists for help to clear his name. One almost cannot fathom the depth of her sorrow: she lost her life partner and saw his legacy trampled, all at once.

Dr. Mukherjee’s suicide was a dark day for science and for India. It wasn’t just the loss of one man – it was the loss of decades of potential innovations he could have contributed if only he had been nurtured rather than destroyed. The spark of genius was snuffed out by envy and ignorance.

The Champions of Justice: Fighting for Posthumous Recognition

You’d think the story ends there in 1981  a genius gone, his work buried by the establishment. But true brilliance has a way of resurfacing, thanks to people of integrity who refuse to let it die. Enter the heroes of this second chapter: Dr. T. C. Anand Kumar, Professor Sunit Mukherjee, and Namita Mukherjee herself. Each of them played a crucial role in resurrecting Dr. Subhash Mukherjee’s reputation from the ashes.

Dr. T. C. Anand Kumar: The Scientist Who Sacrificed His Own Legacy

Dr. T. C. Anand Kumar

Dr. T. C. Anand Kumar was himself a prominent IVF researcher, known for leading the team that officially birthed India’s first documented test-tube baby (Harsha, born in 1986). For a long time, Dr. Kumar was credited in the textbooks as the pioneer of Indian IVF. But when he stumbled upon Dr. Subhash Mukherjee’s notes and records in the 1990s, his conscience couldn’t let this lie continue.

Dr. Kumar went through every detail of Dr. Mukherjee’s work – the handwritten lab diary, the data, the methodology. What he found left him astonished. He later admitted that all of Dr. Mukherjee’s claims were not only true, but amazingly ahead of their time. In fact, Dr. Mukherjee’s baby (Durga) was born in 1978 using techniques that Dr. Kumar’s team hadn’t even thought of by 1986.

In 1997, with remarkable honesty, Dr. Anand Kumar did something few would have the courage to do: he publicly acknowledged that Dr. Subhash Mukherjee was the true architect of India’s first IVF success. He even wrote a paper titled “Architect of India’s First Test Tube Baby: Dr. Subhas Mukherjee,” laying out the evidence of the 1978 achievement. By doing this, Dr. Kumar essentially gave up his own claim to fame to right a historical wrong. He famously said, “All other achievements dwarf in comparison to what he (Dr. Mukherjee) achieved.”

Think about that level of integrity – it’s like a celebrated mountaineer discovering someone else reached the summit years before him, and then making sure the world gives that unknown climber the credit, even if it means stepping off the podium himself. Dr. Kumar spent the next 13 years campaigning to have Dr. Mukherjee’s contribution officially recognized. He liaised with the Indian Council of Medical Research (ICMR), rallied fellow scientists, and spoke about this injustice in every forum he could. He pursued this mission with what he described as an “evangelical zeal,” refusing to let bureaucracy bury the truth any longer.

Professor Sunit Mukherjee: The Loyal Collaborator’s Lifelong Mission

Sunit Mukherjee with Dura 

If Dr. Anand Kumar was the crusader who joined the battle later, Professor Sunit Mukherjee was the lone warrior holding the fort from the very beginning. This embryologist had been by Dr. Subhash Mukherjee’s side during the creation of baby Durga in 1978. In fact, without Sunit’s expertise in handling the eggs and embryos, the IVF procedure might not have succeeded. After Dr. Mukherjee’s death, Sunit made it his life’s purpose to preserve his friend’s legacy.

For years, Professor Sunit Mukherjee wrote letter after letter to anyone who would listen – scientific bodies, international conferences, journalists, the government – detailing the accomplishments of Dr. Subhash Mukherjee. He carefully safeguarded all the documents, lab records, and data from their IVF project. It was as if he knew that one day the world would need this proof to give credit where it’s due.

He set up the “Dr. Subhas Mukherjee Memorial Reproductive Biology Research Centre” in Kolkata, ensuring that future generations of scientists could learn about the pioneering work done in that small lab. Despite being sidelined in his own career (his staunch support for Dr. Mukherjee didn’t exactly endear him to the same folks who persecuted Subhash), Professor Sunit never wavered in his loyalty.

We often talk about unsung heroes – Sunit Mukherjee is one of them. He didn’t seek fame or reward; his reward was seeing his colleague vindicated. In every mention of IVF history corrected, in every article that finally told Dr. Mukherjee’s story, Sunit found a bit of peace.

Namita Mukherjee: The Widow’s Silent Struggle

Behind many great individuals stands someone who shares their burden and fights for their memory. For Dr. Mukherjee, this was his wife, Namita. After losing her husband to suicide, Namita’s life became a quiet tale of resilience and sorrow. As mentioned, she suffered paralysis on one side of her body, a sign of just how deeply the shock and grief struck her.

Namita didn’t have the scientific prowess to prove her husband’s work – but she had something just as powerful: undying love and conviction. She knew what Subhash had accomplished; she had been by his side through the triumph and the subsequent trauma. Even as she battled her own health issues, she supported the campaigns led by Dr. Anand Kumar and Professor Sunit. She gave them access to Subhash’s notes and records, provided her testimonial of events, and most importantly, she demanded justice from authorities.

In a particularly heartbreaking incident, Namita wrote to the government asking for a proper investigation into her husband’s persecution and death. In response, the state’s bureaucrats (displaying their signature mix of callousness and cluelessness) sent back a letter transferring Dr. Subhash Mukherjee to a different post – nine years after he had died. It was like rubbing salt into a wound; they couldn’t even acknowledge that the man was gone due to their actions.

Namita Mukherjee passed away years later, but not before seeing her husband’s name cleared and honored. Though she lived her last years with a broken body and heart, one hopes she found some solace in the world finally recognizing Subhash’s genius. In many ways, her struggle is a reminder that these scientific heroes are also real people whose families suffer terribly when unjustly treated.

The Path to Recognition: A Victory Hard-Won

 

Thanks to the unwavering efforts of Dr. Anand Kumar, Prof. Sunit, Namita, and a handful of others, the wheel of justice slowly began to turn. The Indian Council of Medical Research (ICMR), the top scientific body for medical research in India, eventually took up the case. They convened a panel in the early 2000s to examine Dr. Mukherjee’s records and verify his claims. This time, the committee actually included experts who understood IVF. (Better late than never, I suppose!)

In 2002, 21 years after Dr. Mukherjee’s death, the ICMR officially acknowledged that India’s first IVF baby was indeed born in Kolkata in 1978, and that Dr. Subhash Mukherjee was the scientist behind it. They concluded that “due credit was not given to Dr. Subhash Mukherjee for his work.” It was a vindication long overdue. Following this, Dr. P. M. Bhargava, a renowned biologist who was part of the inquiry, publicly declared Dr. Mukherjee as “the father of Indian IVF.”

Finally, the history books were corrected. Dr. Mukherjee’s name was included in the National Guidelines for IVF clinics in India as a pioneer of the technology. One could almost hear a collective sigh of relief from all who had fought for this day. Dr. Anand Kumar remarked that this recognition made him feel as if a personal burden had been lifted. It took two decades of tireless campaigning to get here, a testament to just how stubbornly institutions can cling to their mistakes.

However, this victory was bittersweet. One can’t help but ask: Why did it take so long? Why did a man have to die and then wait 20+ years to get his due? The celebration of his recognition will always be tinged with the sadness of what could have been, had justice come while he was alive.

The Indian “Crab Syndrome”: When Jealousy Trumps Science

Dr. Anand Kumar once described Dr. Mukherjee’s fate as a case of the “Indian crab syndrome.” If you put a bunch of crabs in a bucket, you don’t need to put a lid – whenever one crab tries to climb out, the others pull it back down. None of them escape. In Dr. Mukherjee’s story, the “crabs” were those threatened colleagues, shortsighted administrators, and risk-averse bureaucrats who simply could not let him rise to glory.

Professional jealousy is sadly common in many fields, but here it literally killed innovation. By pulling down Dr. Mukherjee, the Indian scientific establishment also pulled down the nation’s chance to be a world leader in IVF. Remember, Dr. Mukherjee had matched the West in 1978. If he’d been supported, India might have become the hub of fertility research, attracting talent, investment, maybe even Nobel Prizes. Instead, we gifted that head start away. In 2010, when Robert Edwards (one of Louise Brown’s creators) won the Nobel Prize for IVF, many in India had a rueful moment of reflection: that could have been (should have been) Dr. Subhash Mukherjee on that stage.

The “crab syndrome” is a cautionary tale. It’s not just about one man. It’s a mindset that can infect any organization or community where egos loom larger than the shared mission. Unfortunately, it’s a phenomenon still observed today: bright individuals get thwarted by peers who would rather maintain the status quo or their own dominance than let merit shine.

Cultural Legacy: Art Imitating Life’s Tragedy

Dr. Mukherjee’s story is so poignant that it inspired a critically acclaimed film, “Ek Doctor Ki Maut” (“Death of a Doctor”), released in 1990. Directed by Tapan Sinha and starring Pankaj Kapur and Shabana Azmi, the movie is a thinly veiled retelling of Dr. Mukherjee’s life. If you ever watch it, keep a tissue box handy – it brilliantly (and painfully) captures the frustration of a well-meaning doctor whose breakthrough is met with hostility instead of applause.

In the film, the protagonist faces ridicule and bureaucratic roadblocks just like Dr. Mukherjee did. The sense of injustice is palpable. The fact that the film struck a chord with so many viewers suggests that Dr. Mukherjee’s plight wasn’t unique – it symbolized many underdog geniuses being smothered by “the system”. With an IMDb rating above 8/10, Ek Doctor Ki Maut became a cult classic and is often used as shorthand in India for referring to any incident where a talented person is destroyed by jealousy and red tape.

The cultural impact of this film helped keep Dr. Mukherjee’s story alive during the years before the official recognition came. It made people ask uncomfortable questions about how we treat our innovators. It’s art doing what art does best – holding up a mirror to society. And in that reflection, many saw the need for change.

The Living Legacy: Durga’s Testament

Often in great stories, there’s a living witness to the truth that nobody can ignore. In Dr. Mukherjee’s saga, that witness is Durga, the baby he helped bring into the world. Durga, who grew up with the name Kanupriya Agarwal, is now a 47-year-old woman (and a mother herself!). Her very existence is the ultimate proof of Dr. Mukherjee’s success. You can deny papers and data, but you cannot deny a living, breathing human being.

Kanupriya Agarwal has been vocal about her “birth father,” Dr. Mukherjee. In interviews, she’s expressed deep gratitude and also anger at how he was treated. “My creator, Dr. Subhash Mukherjee, had to face several challenges and criticisms,” she said, highlighting the injustice done to him. She often points out that while she leads a normal life – a career, a family, a child of her own – it’s all because of one man’s dedication and innovative mind. And yet, that man didn’t get to see any of it, nor was he acknowledged for the longest time.

It’s quite poetic: the baby named Durga (after the Hindu goddess) became a symbol of both creation and truth. In a way, every time someone asked, “Did Dr. Mukherjee really do it?” the answer was right there in Durga’s smile. Her life story underscores the magnitude of what Dr. Mukherjee accomplished under those adverse conditions. Every IVF clinic, every happy couple with a test-tube baby, carries forward the legacy of that initial miracle in Kolkata.

From Mukherjee’s Lab to Modern IVF: How Far We’ve Come

Dr. Subhash Mukherjee’s techniques weren’t just ahead of his time – they laid the groundwork for many advances that have come since. It’s astonishing to think about how IVF technology has leaped forward, and it also makes us appreciate just how visionary his 1978 work was.

Today, IVF is a high-tech affair. Walk into a modern fertility clinic and you’ll find things that sound like science fiction:

• Artificial Intelligence (AI) systems analyzing embryo images and time-lapse videos to pick the healthiest embryos. (Yes, computer programs now help decide which embryo has the best chance, and studies show AI can be as good as experienced doctors in this task!)

• Robotic tools assisting embryologists in delicate procedures. For instance, a new technique called ROBO-ICSI uses a tiny robotic hand to hold an egg and inject sperm with machine precision. This reduces the risk of human error or tremors in the crucial moment of fertilization.

• Advanced Cryotechniques: Freezing and storing embryos (and even eggs or ovarian tissue) has become routine. What Dr. Mukherjee improvised with a home refrigerator is now done with specialized cryo-freezers using liquid nitrogen. Women can freeze eggs in their 20s and use them decades later – something made possible by the very idea of embryo/egg freezing that Dr. Mukherjee demonstrated.

• Genetic Screening and Beyond: IVF labs now can screen embryos for genetic diseases before implantation. While not directly related to Dr. Mukherjee’s work, it shows how far the field has progressed in ensuring healthy outcomes.

When we see these modern marvels, we have to tip our hat to pioneers like Dr. Subhash Mukherjee. He envisioned a world where infertility could be overcome with science, and he dived right in to make it happen with the tools he had. If he were alive today, can you imagine his joy at seeing AI helping choose embryos or robots assisting in IVF? Perhaps he would have been leading the charge on these innovations – after all, he was never one to shy away from new ideas.

The connection between his work and today’s tech is direct: the hormone injections for egg stimulation he did are standard procedure now. The embryo freezing he achieved is standard practice now. The transvaginal approach he used is essentially what’s done now (albeit with ultrasound guidance and needles instead of a surgical cut). In a real sense, every IVF success today carries a piece of Dr. Mukherjee’s DNA (pun intended) in its methodology.

A Continuing Tragedy: Have We Learned Our Lesson?

One would hope that after Dr. Mukherjee’s ordeal became public knowledge, things would change for the better in India’s scientific and medical community. There have been improvements, yes – more transparency, more respect for researchers, and certainly a recognition that “That which happened to Dr. Mukherjee should never happen again.” However, old habits die hard.

Even in recent times, whispers emerge from various institutions about researchers facing harassment, or innovative projects being squashed by bureaucracy and petty rivalries. It’s not on the same brutal level as what Dr. Mukherjee faced, but the “crab mentality” still lurks in some corners. Young scientists sometimes fear rocking the boat, worrying that if they outshine their seniors, they might face backlash. The shadow of Dr. Mukherjee’s story looms as a warning: we still have to be vigilant.

This is not just an Indian phenomenon, by the way. All over the world, mavericks and trailblazers often struggle against establishment pushback. But in Dr. Mukherjee’s case, the contrast was especially stark – he was right, and yet he was destroyed for being right too early. It’s a lesson in how not to handle innovation.

Conclusion: Justice Delayed, Recognition Earned

Dr. Subhash Mukherjee’s life is a poignant mix of triumph and tragedy. On one hand, he achieved something in 1978 that changed the lives of millions (the countless IVF babies and their families who followed). On the other, the very society he uplifted pushed him into despair. Eventually, justice was served and his name now rightfully adorns the pantheon of medical pioneers. But the delay cost him his life and cost India a brilliant mind.

As we celebrate his contributions today, we must also reflect on the lessons his story teaches us:

• Support Innovators: When someone comes up with a groundbreaking idea or discovery, our first instinct should be to support and verify – not to dismiss or deride. If their idea holds water, help them develop it; if it doesn’t, critique it constructively.

• Bureaucracy Must Enable, Not Stifle: Red tape and egos should never stand in the way of progress. We need checks and balances, yes, but those should protect against harm, not protect the turf of a few. Dr. Mukherjee’s work was harmless and hopeful – bureaucracy had no excuse to throttle it.

• Honor Unsung Heroes Promptly: Let’s not wait decades to acknowledge the contributions of brilliant individuals. Posthumous recognition, while important, is a sad consolation prize. It’s far better to celebrate and reward pioneers in their lifetime, when they can further guide and inspire others.

Ultimately, Dr. Mukherjee did achieve a form of immortality. Every time a couple struggling with infertility holds their newborn thanks to IVF, a little bit of Dr. Mukherjee’s legacy smiles. His name may not be as globally famous as Louise Brown’s doctors, but in the corridors of IVF clinics and among India’s scientific community, he is revered as a legend – the one who was far ahead of his time.

It’s up to us, as a society, to ensure that future Subhash Mukherjees are nurtured, not neglected. His story stands as a powerful reminder that innovation is a treasure to be protected, that genius can come from the most unexpected places, and that no visionary should ever again be made to feel so alone that they see death as the only escape.

Dr. Subhash Mukherjee’s tale was indeed like a tragic film – but it doesn’t have to repeat. By remembering his journey and championing those like him, we can strive for a world where brilliant minds get the recognition and support they deserve, exactly when they deserve it. Let that be the legacy we build in his honor.

 

Written By 
Aashik J Krishnan
Yeah the guy known as Aash Gates
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