The Garage and the Double Helix
On March 25, 1978, in the clammy heat of Baroda, a twenty-five-year-old woman packed her bags for Scotland. Kiran Mazumdar had a ticket on the Rajdhani Express, a job waiting at a malting company, and a brewing degree from Australia that no one in India would honor because of her sex. The phone rang that morning. On the other end was an Irishman named Leslie Auchincloss, whose accent carried the faint desperation of a man who had flown halfway around the world to find a business partner and was running out of candidates. He wanted to meet. Her train left that evening.
What happened in the intervening hours at the Express Hotel — the only upscale establishment in late-1970s Baroda — would determine the trajectory of Indian biotechnology, though neither party could have known it. Auchincloss described his business: Biocon Biochemicals, a small Cork-based operation that extracted enzymes for use in brewing, food processing, and textiles. He needed someone to run an Indian subsidiary. The country grew papayas; papayas contained papain; the world's brewing industry needed papain to clarify beer. The logic was botanical, the opportunity real, the risks staggering. He asked Mazumdar to be his partner. "You must be joking," she told him. She enumerated the reasons this was absurd — she was a woman in a country that wouldn't let her brew beer, she had no capital, she had zero business experience — with a directness that only made Auchincloss more certain. "I don't know why you're pushing this guy in my face," he said, when she tried to introduce him to another candidate. "I need you. I can tell you have it in you to start a company, because I'm an entrepreneur and you have just as much spunk as me."
She took the seventy-per-cent stake. She skipped Scotland. Within weeks she was working out of the garage of a rented house in Bangalore, India's sleepy "garden city," a place still known as a retiree's paradise where the climate was so mild that colonial officers posted there received no fan allowance. Genentech, the pioneering California biotech company, had started just two years earlier. Mazumdar was twenty-five, had ten thousand rupees — roughly $160 — and a spectrophotometer. Her first employee was a retired garage mechanic. She had, as she would put it decades later, "no idea what I was heading for." She just started.
That garage is now a ninety-acre campus called Biocon Park, the largest biotechnology facility in India, with an enormous sculpture of a double helix at its entrance bearing the words "Recombinant Revolution." Five thousand employees in white and blue lab coats move through corridors of state-of-the-art machinery. The company Mazumdar-Shaw built — she married the Glaswegian textile executive John Shaw in 1998 and took his name — generates $1.9 billion in annual revenue, sells drugs in over two hundred countries, and manufactures the insulin that keeps millions of diabetics in the developing world alive. She is, depending on whose list you consult, the richest self-made woman in India, one of TIME magazine's hundred most influential people on earth, and EY World Entrepreneur of the Year. Forbes puts her net worth at roughly $3.7 billion. She calls herself an "accidental entrepreneur."
The accident, of course, was not accidental at all. It was the product of a specific kind of Indian childhood, a particular cocktail of meritocratic values instilled by a progressive father, a country whose gender biases were so suffocating they paradoxically forced her into a far more ambitious career than the one she'd wanted, and an emerging global industry that rewarded exactly the fermentation expertise she'd acquired while studying beer. The accident was, in other words, prepared for — the way a culture medium is prepared in a laboratory, with conditions so precisely calibrated that what grows in it appears spontaneous but is in fact the result of everything that came before.
By the Numbers
The Biocon Empire
$1.9BAnnual revenue (fiscal 2024), up 35% year-on-year
₹10,000Seed capital in 1978 (~$160 USD)
200+Countries where Biocon sells products
~$3.7BKiran Mazumdar-Shaw's net worth (Forbes, 2021)
1,400Beds at Mazumdar-Shaw Cancer Center, Bangalore
45+Years in biotechnology
1978Year Biocon was founded in a garage
The Brewmaster's Daughter
To understand how a woman who wanted to make beer ended up making insulin, you have to start with the malty aroma of a Bangalore brewery in the 1960s. Rasendra Mazumdar — known to everyone as Mazzy — was the head brewmaster at United Breweries Ltd., the largest brewer in the country. His family lived in the brewery's staff compound, an enclave of tidy colonial-style bungalows with broad driveways and gardens that might not have seemed out of place in the Cotswolds, except for the palm trees and the vast Indian sky. The Mazumdars occupied one of three bungalows; down the road was the extraordinarily large house of the Mallyas, who owned the whole operation.
Life in the compound was comfortable, predictable, and dominated by the rhythms of fermentation. Mazzy rose at five to "mash-in" the day's brew, played nine holes of golf, showered, breakfasted, and returned to work. On weekends, his daughter Kiran and her brother Ravi visited the brewery, drawn to the warmth and the wonderful malty smell. The childhood was specific — middle-class Gujarati Brahmin in a British-founded enterprise — and it was formative in ways that extended far beyond the science of yeast. Mazumdar-Shaw would later write, in her book
Ale and Arty: The Story of Beer, that those early years taught her to think of biology as craft, of fermentation as a kind of controlled alchemy.
Her playmate was Vijay Mallya, the brewery owner's son, who would grow up to be one of India's most flamboyant billionaires — owner of hundreds of vintage cars, a castle in Scotland, a cricket team, the Force India Formula One racing team, and Gandhi's eyeglasses and sandals. As a child, though, he was simply the neighborhood boy whom Kiran "loved bullying," as he put it. "She told me if I ran around the house twenty times I'd get to the moon, and I did it."
The Mazumdar household operated by a different set of values than much of India. The country was nominally socialist, dominated by inherited hierarchy and loyalties to region, religion, and caste, but Mazzy preached secular humanism and survival of the fittest. When Kiran graduated from Bangalore University with a double major in biology and zoology and intended to become a doctor, she applied for a scholarship and — in a detail that carries a certain comic inevitability — flunked the psychological test. "They said, You are psychologically not fit to be a doctor. And actually they are right, because I have a real fear of blood." She asked her father to pay for medical school. He refused. "'Kiran,' he said, 'you must learn about meritocracy.' I threw a fit."
What he told her next redirected her life: become a brewmaster. "It's an applied science — it's got fermentation, it's about microbiology, it's about genetics, it's about anything you want." She enrolled at the University of Ballarat, outside Melbourne, the only woman in her class, living alone for the first time, in a remote country, in an era before email and cheap international telephone calls. She loved it. Kenyans, Indians, Filipinos, Australians — the cosmopolitanism was invigorating. "First and foremost, I could compete with them academically, which was a good confidence builder." She topped her class. She earned the degree of Master Brewer in 1975.
Then she came home, and the country said no.
A Woman Cannot Handle the Unions
The refusals were not subtle. Breweries wouldn't interview her; those that did told her plainly that a woman could not manage male employees, negotiate with vendors, or control unions. "I don't remember any girls working in the brewery anywhere," Vijay Mallya recalled. "Science and girls were not associated." She found work as a troubleshooting consultant, solving problems at breweries whose full-time staff couldn't — which only deepened the insult. "I saw all these guys. I said, My God, they're so incompetent! They can't even solve your problems — I came and solved it for you!"
India in the mid-1970s was a country where as many as half of all women couldn't read or write, where honor killings still occurred, where arranged marriages were the norm for ninety per cent of the population. Mazumdar-Shaw had been raised by a progressive father to believe she was her brothers' equal, but the labor market disagreed. The psychological dissonance — competence denied recognition, meritocracy promised but not delivered — produced in her not resignation but fury. A different person might have accepted the consulting role and built a comfortable career within its constraints. Mazumdar-Shaw was on the verge of "storming off in a huff" to Scotland when Auchincloss's phone call intervened.
She tried to talk him out of it. Her self-assessment was ruthlessly honest: "I'm a woman, and I've just been told in this country women don't make good managers. I don't have any money to invest. I have zero business experience. I don't know why you want to even discuss this with me." But Auchincloss saw what India's breweries couldn't — or wouldn't. He was an entrepreneur, and he recognized the species.
What she told him about herself was all true. What she didn't say — because she didn't yet know it — was that every disadvantage she listed would become an advantage. She was a woman, which meant she could attract the educated, underemployed female talent that male-run companies ignored. She had no money, which meant she would have to build a business model based on revenues and profits rather than venture capital, because there was no venture capital. She had no business experience, which meant she carried no inherited assumptions about what a biotechnology company in a developing country was supposed to look like. The biography of Biocon is, in this sense, a biography of constraints transmuted into strategy — though the transmutation was hardly painless, and it took decades.
Garage Days
The early operation was a study in improvised resourcefulness. In 1978, there was no biotechnology industry in India to speak of. Uninterrupted power, superior-quality water, sterile labs, imported research equipment, and workers with advanced scientific skills — none of these were easily available. The most complicated piece of equipment in Mazumdar's lab was a spectrophotometer. She began making enzymes from papaya and catfish, along with enzymes for fermenting beer, working with a telex machine that was essentially a typewriter with aspirations.
Pratima Rao, the daughter of the brewery's technical director and Mazumdar-Shaw's childhood friend, joined her in 1979. The two women — in their twenties, with no business experience — were perceived by the Indian bureaucracy as a novelty. "I remember going with her to meet the pollution-control chief," Rao said, "and some of these big government officers might have been kind of amused when these two young girls came to talk about setting up a factory." The amusement was real but so was the progress: within a year, Biocon became the first Indian company to export enzymes to the United States and Europe. Ocean Spray used its enzyme in juices for twenty years.
Credibility was the scarcest resource. Banks refused her loans; some demanded that her father serve as guarantor. Vendors wouldn't extend credit unless she hired a male manager. Recruiting was a particular agony — nobody wanted to work for a young woman running an enterprise no one understood. Her first hire was a retired garage mechanic, selected from a pool of forty candidates, most of whom had declined. "Banks were very fearful of lending to a woman because I was considered high risk," she told the BBC. "I was young, I was twenty-five years old. Banks were very nervous about lending to young entrepreneurs because they felt we didn't have the business experience. And then I had this strange business called biotechnology which no one understood."
A chance meeting with a banker at a social event finally got her first line of credit. She would repeat this pattern — the accidental connection exploited with preternatural speed — throughout her career. But the early years' most revelatory conflict was internal. Mazumdar-Shaw had intended to create "a flat organization," in which all fifty-odd employees would share a sense of ownership. In 1985, Communist labor unions organized her workers. She was blindsided. "I treat you so well! I'm paying the highest wages in this area. I'm looking after my people better than any other company." The workers agreed they were happy. They said they were joining for the future — and because they were afraid of harassment or violence if they didn't.
The late-night phone calls from union leaders threatened acid attacks. "I said, 'Are you a man or a mouse? If you talk to a woman like this, it just shows you have no spunk.'" She arrived at work to find picketers burning her effigy. "I used to joke and say I never wear a sari, so that's not me." The idealism of the flat organization collapsed; she gave workers severance and automated their jobs. It was a brutal lesson in the gap between the India she imagined and the India that existed, and it hardened her management style permanently. The competitive ethos her father had instilled — meritocracy, survival of the fittest — survived the collision with Indian reality, but the egalitarian packaging did not.
Kiran is impervious to any kind of deterrent.
The Unilever Interregnum
In 1989, Leslie Auchincloss sold his share of Biocon to the Anglo-Dutch conglomerate Unilever. For Mazumdar-Shaw, the acquisition was not a loss of independence but a baptism in corporate discipline. "That was a very important inflection point," she later told Harvard Business School, "because, being a part of the Unilever enterprise, I had to conform to their systems. In those ten years we became a very professional organization." The phrasing is diplomatic. The reality, according to accounts in Seema Singh's
Mythbreaker: Kiran Mazumdar-Shaw and the Story of Indian Biotech, was considerably more adversarial.
Unilever's seasoned executives arrived in Bangalore every few weeks, initially extending what a former manager described as "warm, loving attention" that gradually became antagonistic. They wanted control of the Indian operation; Mazumdar-Shaw had no intention of ceding it. As long as she held her majority stake, she could call the shots, and she knew it. In one memorable confrontation, she opened a presentation to a delegation that included the global head of Unilever R&D with a slide declaring that there were three types of companies: those that make things happen, those that watch things happen, and those that wonder what happened. Biocon India, she informed the room, was the first type. Unilever was the third.
"We didn't know where to look," recalled Ajay Bharadwaj, then Biocon's president of marketing. "There were board members, some senior managers and the head of Hindustan Unilever. Those days we did not have smart phones to fiddle with, we just went red in the face."
The decade under Unilever's nominal umbrella taught her quality systems, regulatory compliance, and the discipline of world-class manufacturing — the corporate equivalent of military basic training. When Imperial Chemical Industries bought Unilever's stake in 1997, and then agreed to sell its shares to John Shaw, Mazumdar-Shaw's husband, she emerged with a professionally managed organization, a deep understanding of multinational corporate dynamics, and an absolute determination never to let anyone take her company again. Shaw and Mazumdar-Shaw eventually bought back the Unilever stake for approximately $2 million. She would sell the enzymes business to Denmark's Novozymes in 2007 for $115 million. The differential between those two numbers — $2 million in, $115 million out — tells you something about what the Unilever years had been worth.
Two Indias
Between Mazumdar-Shaw's estate, Glenmore — a Spanish hacienda-style house with a red tile roof, set among the palms of a former plantation, decorated with Scottish and Indian art — and the throbbing traffic jams of downtown Bangalore, there are stretches of bean fields and clusters of corrugated-tin shacks where people live without electricity or running water. One morning, eating sliced fruit on her terrace before being driven to the office in a chauffeured Mercedes, she acknowledged the geography of this contradiction with characteristic bluntness: "Living in a place like ours, you could be in California. Then you step outside and see poverty. That's not a nice feeling."
The phrase "two Indias" has been used by everyone from economists to politicians, but when Mazumdar-Shaw says it, the words carry a specific professional weight. India has an estimated fifty million diabetics and one of the world's highest fatality rates from the disease — roughly a million deaths per year from complications. Three-quarters of the country's 1.2 billion citizens live in villages where life hasn't changed much in centuries, where people with the pigment disease vitiligo can't get married — even their cousins and siblings are seen as tainted — and arthritics can't do the manual labor that dominates the rural economy. India accounts for eighty-six per cent of oral cancer in the world, largely among tobacco chewers who rarely seek help before the disease has created holes in their faces.
The country's private hospitals are so good that medical tourists from Britain come for world-class care at a fraction of their home prices. But India spends barely one per cent of its
GDP on primary health care. The maternal mortality rate is two hundred and thirty per hundred thousand live births — six times the rate in China.
Mazumdar-Shaw's strategy, in business and philanthropy, is to bridge this chasm by beating the West at its own game. The logic is circular and intentional: by developing drugs in India at a fraction of Western costs, she can make medicines affordable for the developing world while building a profitable enterprise that generates the revenue to fund further research. "If you are a large Western pharmaceutical company, and you want to hedge your bets, you start your own centers in India, China, Brazil," Devesh Kapur, the director of the University of Pennsylvania's Center for Advanced Study of India, explained. "It's not surprising, if you believe talent is distributed roughly equally across populations. With the sheer size of China or India, the top one per cent is going to be pretty good."
The question is whether the private sector can compensate for the state's failures. Kapur compared modern India to the United States of the 1890s, when robber barons created infrastructure and public works. "It will be one of the big historical questions in fifty years: Can the private sector compensate for the state's failures?"
Selling Science While You Sleep
The Y2K panic of the late 1990s — when businesses worldwide feared their computer systems would crash at midnight on January 1, 2000 — turned out to be a pivotal moment not for the technology industry alone but for Indian biotechnology. As companies outsourced their IT emergencies to India, where talent was plentiful and cheap, Mazumdar-Shaw saw a parallel: "If the I.T. sector can provide business solutions, why can't we provide research solutions?"
In 1994, she founded Syngene International, a contract research company that would develop drug components for international pharmaceutical firms. It was, by most accounts, Asia's first such enterprise. Among her early recruits was Dr. Nita Roy — raised in Calcutta, trained in molecular biology at Cornell, a researcher at Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center in Manhattan — who had given up a prestigious American career to return to a country where, at the time, people used to ask Indians, "Do you have beds?" Roy served as Biocon's head of biology for years, petting South African cheetahs on safari and defending Indian science to skeptical American clients.
"What you are selling is expertise," Roy explained. "When you sell science to people, they are threatened — these are Indians taking your jobs. We have to convince them we are not threatening you. We are complementing you. While you are sleeping, your Indian lab is working."
The value proposition was devastating in its simplicity. Drug development costs more than a billion dollars per compound in the West; only one compound in ten thousand becomes a salable drug; the testing process can take decades. India offered the same talent at a fraction of the cost. Multinationals initially hired Syngene for basic research — a single piece of a complex puzzle. Within years, they were sending over their high-level R&D. "We were given D to K — now we are given A to Z," Roy said. "
Cost is no longer the only factor. Now it's about talent."
The model also worked in reverse. As Western pharmaceutical companies faced patent cliffs — Lipitor, the best-selling drug in the world, came off patent on November 30, 2011 — they compensated for revenue losses by liquidating their research departments. "It's a vicious circle: no R&D investment, no drugs, no revenue, no R&D investment," said Mardi Dier, then the CFO of Portola Pharmaceuticals. "The model is broken." India, and Mazumdar-Shaw, stepped into the breach.
The Holy Grail and the Placebo Effect
Since 1996, Biocon has been developing its own pharmaceuticals — not just generics or biosimilars but novel drugs. The flagship bet was oral insulin, a product that the pharmaceutical industry had described as its "holy grail" for decades. Insulin taken by mouth would be revolutionary for the world's diabetics, eliminating the need for injections, improving compliance, transforming lives. India alone had fifty million diabetics; the global market was enormous and growing, because "as the world becomes more affluent, diabetes gets worse."
In 2001, Biocon became the first Indian company to receive U.S. Food and Drug Administration approval for the manufacture of a cholesterol-lowering molecule. Profits jumped more than forty-two per cent in 2003 alone. The 2004 IPO was wildly successful — oversubscribed thirty-three times — making Biocon the first Indian biotech company to go public and bringing Mazumdar-Shaw's net worth to half a billion dollars. She held nearly forty per cent of the stock.
In 2010, Pfizer paid Biocon two hundred million dollars to license its generic insulin, which would become increasingly profitable as competing products went off patent starting in 2015. Mazumdar-Shaw chose October 18th to close the deal; her mother had consulted the Hindu calendar and advised her that it was an auspicious date. The combination — a $200 million pharmaceutical licensing agreement timed to the Hindu astrological calendar — captures something essential about the woman and her country, the coexistence of cutting-edge global capitalism and ancient tradition, the refusal to see these as contradictory.
But oral insulin proved treacherous. The latest round of clinical trials, as of late 2011, had not gone as hoped. The placebo effect was very high — patients in the control group had suddenly started exercising and eating better, eager to impress their doctors. "We had inadvertently unblinded the trial," Mazumdar-Shaw said, and shrugged. She did not seem particularly discouraged. The game-changing would just take a little longer.
I always tell people success is about going from failure to failure without giving up.
Compassionate Capitalism
The phrase is hers, and she deploys it with the precision of someone who has thought carefully about the difference between charity and systemic change. "We must get away from this mind-set of charity," she told The New Yorker. One-time donations — what she called a "turn-on, turn-off mentality" — wouldn't bring change. The market had to adjust.
The model she built at the Mazumdar-Shaw Cancer Center, a fourteen-hundred-bed facility she opened in 2009 in partnership with the cardiac surgeon Devi Shetty — a man whose commitment to affordable health care is legendary in India, who operates on children's hearts at a fraction of Western costs, and who shares Mazumdar-Shaw's belief that scale economics can solve problems that charity cannot — is elegant in its ruthlessness. The wealthy pay market price for MRIs and other diagnostics, subsidizing discounts for the poor. But everybody gets what they pay for. At four in the morning, it's free. From eight to five, it's full price. Six to ten in the evening, it's half price. Convenience is the currency that the rich pay with; time is the currency the poor have in abundance.
Her husband, John Shaw, had been diagnosed with renal cell carcinoma in 2007. Her best friend, Nilima Rovshen, was simultaneously battling the same disease and was in a critical state. Even Rovshen, a successful professional from an affluent family, had struggled with medical expenses because she had to import drugs and travel abroad for therapy. Mazumdar-Shaw watched cancer's financial devastation up close — the surest route to indebtedness and bankruptcy in the developing world — and the experience radicalized her philanthropy. She has spent more than fifteen million dollars on the cancer center and her rural health programs. In 2016, she became the second Indian to sign the Giving Pledge, promising to devote at least half her fortune to philanthropy.
In the village of Huskur, about half an hour from Biocon Park, Dr. Prakash Sankalagere Chikkaputtaswamy operates a three-room clinic established by the Biocon Foundation's Arogya Raksha Yojana — "Health Help" — program. He serves fifty thousand patients within a ten-mile radius. The most common ailment is "diabetes foot" — gangrene that forms when barefoot diabetics get wounds. Another persistent malady is "cancer cheek," which afflicts tobacco chewers whose oral cancer creates holes in their faces by the time they seek treatment. The foundation hired local girls to go door to door offering screening services, taking cell-phone pictures of lesions to send to the tumor board at the cancer center. "Girls are easier to find locally because guys go to cities," Chikkaputtaswamy said. "And they're quite polite."
Convincing villagers that they needed health insurance was, at first, a miserable failure. India's literacy rate is only seventy-four per cent, and in rural areas it's far worse. The notion of paying for something intangible was bewildering. "'So you want me to pay a hundred and fifty rupees a year and what if I don't fall ill?'" Mazumdar-Shaw recalled the villagers asking. "'I say, Guys! If you don't use it, you should feel very happy!'" The program eventually reached sixty thousand people and hundred-per-cent re-enrollment. "We're helping change the behavioral-psychological factors of rural folk," she said, with satisfaction.
The Creamy Layer
Bangalore society, like much of India's upper class, is a tight group. "The thing about India is it's a billion people, but everybody knows everybody at the creamy layer," John Shaw observed one evening, standing by the pool at the Taj West End hotel, drinking wine in an emerald-green jacket and tasselled loafers, attending a book party for Shobhaa Dé — "the Joan Collins of India," in his wife's description. Waiters circulated among the uplit potted palms bearing trays of salmon tartare on ceramic spoons. The previous evening, the same crowd had attended a concert at the local maharaja's palace where the composer A. R. Rahman — "the
Mozart of Madras" — was carried out on a throne while dancers circled a new Indian-made Toyota spinning onstage.
Shaw, a Glaswegian who first came to Bangalore in 1991 as chairman of Madura Coats Ltd., a large textile company, had fallen in love with the city's balmy climate and eventually with its most prominent female entrepreneur. Their courtship was unhurried. "We were both so involved in our careers that any personal thing just wasn't a consideration," he said. It took his 1997 relocation to Amsterdam — "the great catalyst" — to reveal how much he missed her. He proposed during one of her business trips to Europe. Her mother had foreseen the match: "He likes golf; Kiran likes golf. He's a C.E.O.; Kiran's a C.E.O."
After they married, the negotiation was swift. "We sat down and Kiran said, 'Now, John. You've got a career in the textile industry. I've got a career in the biotech industry. One of us has got to give up our career, and it's not me.'" He looked at her ledgers. He agreed. He became Biocon's vice-chairman in 2001 and, by all accounts, a man entirely comfortable in the supporting role — a rarity in Indian business culture and, truth be told, in most cultures.
Mazumdar-Shaw's greatest extravagance is art — landscapes by Scottish painters George Devlin and Archie Forrest, Indian and Scottish works collected with her husband, displayed on the cream-colored walls of Glenmore. After her father died in 1993, she cheered up her mother by buying her a laundromat to run. She wears costume jewelry. "Because she's got this tag," Shaw said, "everyone thinks — " "'Oh, my God, it's very expensive diamonds,'" Mazumdar-Shaw interjected, pulling on her necklace, a strand of beads.
The modesty is partly temperamental and partly strategic. In a country where money does not tend to be displayed in understated fashion — where Vijay Mallya owns Gandhi's eyeglasses and a fleet of vintage cars — Mazumdar-Shaw's relative austerity signals something important about the kind of capitalist she intends to be. She is the richest self-made woman in India, but the word "self-made" is the load-bearing term. Not inherited. Not married into. Built.
The System Is Corruption
India's government is famously, relentlessly, creatively corrupt. Nearly a fifth of parliament members have been indicted for at least one crime, according to Edward Luce's 2007 book In Spite of the Gods. "Many people, especially foreigners, do not appreciate the extent of corruption in India," a former Cabinet secretary told Luce. "They think it is an additional nuisance to the system. What they do not realize is that in many respects and in many parts of India it is the system."
Mazumdar-Shaw's relationship with this system is adversarial, productive, and apparently inexhaustible. She has been "shouting myself hoarse" for years trying to convince the government that improved health care will be necessary to pull India's vast underclass — about a third of the population — into modern prosperity. "Politicians are a very strange lot," she said. "They're the most corrupt, but, when they see people like us who are success stories despite their presence, they have respect. That's when you use that clout to shape them."
When the activist Anna Hazare undertook a hunger strike to protest corruption, she tweeted support to her followers. When the finance minister proposed a new tax on health-care diagnostics — applying it to air-conditioned hospitals, apparently not understanding that diagnostic instruments require air-conditioned rooms — she was furious. "Who is the bloody jackass who has gone and made this tax? The finance minister — he needs his head examined."
She hosts a weekly talk show, "India's Healthcare Challenge," on Bloomberg UTV, aimed at shaping public opinion. She is a vocal critic of Bangalore's politicians, whose inaction, she argues, has left the silicon valley of India with crumbling infrastructure and short-sighted development. She lobbied for road upgrades. She attended ribbon cuttings. She exhausted governments rather than being exhausted by them. Her friend Suhel Seth, a marketing consultant, described her company as run with "deep corporate nationalism — you know there is going to be no tax fiddle." In a country where civic-minded business leaders are increasingly "picking up the pieces" of Indian society — about eighty per cent of hospitals are privately owned — Mazumdar-Shaw has become a kind of national mascot for rectitude.
The performance of rectitude is itself a form of power, of course. But the performance is credible because the record supports it.
The Wrinkles of the Mind
At a Bangalore book party for Shobhaa Dé, Mazumdar-Shaw sat on a panel alongside the author and Geetanjali Kirloskar, wife of the industrialist Vikram Kirloskar. The discussion turned to aging, to women's options at sixty, to a village where "on a woman's sixtieth birthday, the family feeds her poison and she's asked to go off and quietly die, because she's no longer of any use." Dé, who is sixty-three but looks thirty-six, recommended that women "just let it all hang out."
Mazumdar-Shaw smirked. "I hope you'll permit me, I just thought of a song," she said, and offered an improvised rhyme: "Shobhaa, tell us. All modern women are jealous. How do you manage to look so terribly young, without Botox and suctions and treatments far flung?" The audience laughed and applauded. Then she concluded: "It's the wrinkles of your mind that are more important than the wrinkles on your skin."
The line is vintage Mazumdar-Shaw — improvisational, genial, lightly barbed, with a philosophical payload that arrives disguised as a compliment. She has spent her career in rooms where she is the only woman, or the most powerful woman, or the woman everybody expected to fail, and she has developed an emotional register that moves fluidly between warmth and steel. "Typical stag night," Suhel Seth said of the event. "Kiran was the stag, as it were, and John was the spouse."
In school, I used to love Ayn Rand — these characters are doing such awesome things and they don't mind fighting the whole world! I used to love stories of creative excellence, people doing things that are exceptional. That's why I wanted to be a brewmaster.
In her office at Biocon Park — modest, decorated with mementos, a framed caricature of her with a double helix over her head from the Times of India, a photograph of her father grinning — she looks out at the almond tree where she sprinkled his ashes after he died in 1993. "He didn't live long enough to see me at this level," she said, "but he was very proud of everything I did."
Mazzy, the brewmaster who taught his daughter that fermentation was an applied science containing everything — microbiology, genetics, possibility — didn't live to see the IPO, the billion-dollar valuation, the Padma Bhushan from the President of India, the Pfizer deal timed to the Hindu calendar, the ninety-acre campus with its double helix monument, the fourteen-hundred-bed cancer center, the girls with cell phones in the villages sending pictures of tumors to save lives. But the brewmaster's competitive ethos — secular humanism and survival of the fittest, preached in a Cotswolds-style bungalow inside a Bangalore brewery compound — fermented into all of it. The enzyme was already in the culture. The conditions just had to be right.
