Somewhere around 26 September 2016, exactly ten years ago, I arrived in Israel after completing my Ph.D. My husband was then a postdoctoral researcher at the Weizmann Institute of Science, and I had followed him to Israel with no clear idea of what I would do next.

The following few weeks were spent looking for postdoctoral opportunities at the Institute. Then, one day, I gathered enough courage to write an email to Professor Ada Yonath. A Nobel laureate.

I was convinced she would never reply. For one thing, I did not belong to her field. My Ph.D. had been in chemistry, and I was trained as an organic chemist. Ada Yonath was one of the world’s foremost structural biologists, celebrated for her pioneering work on the ribosome. Why would someone like her be interested in a young researcher from a completely different background?

Still, I wrote the email.

Almost the next day, a reply arrived. She wanted to meet me. I remember not sleeping that entire night.There was stress. There was anxiety. There was the unmistakable fear of walking into an interview with a Nobel laureate. And this was not merely a courtesy meeting—it was an interview for a postdoctoral position in her laboratory. What would she ask me?

During my Ph.D., I had acquired the reputation of knowing my subject well. I held on to that confidence as tightly as I could.

The next day, I walked into her office. And my first surprise had nothing to do with science. Her office was a simple room tucked away in one corner of the sixth floor of the Kimmelman Building at the Weizmann Institute.

That was not what I had expected. I had imagined a grand office befitting a Nobel Prize winner, perhaps with a large group of people constantly surrounding her. Instead, there was simply Ada. It was strikingly different from what I had often seen in India, where eminent scientists can be surrounded by students, visitors and colleagues every time they step out of their office.

Ada seemed to need none of that. Yet somehow, I made it into her group. And then came another surprise. I was given one of the groups most challenging projects—also one of Ada’s favourites.

She had been pursuing the problem for nearly nine years. I was a young student, coming from an organic chemistry background, stepping into a completely new area of structural biology. But perhaps that was exactly what helped. I brought the way of thinking I had developed as an organic chemist to the problem.

Within a couple of months, we had a result. I still remember what happened next. Ada had an extraordinary travel schedule. It was not unusual for her to travel from Japan in the Far East to the United States in the Far West within the span of a few days.

But when she heard about our result, she appeared at the office the very next day. I sometimes wondered whether she had come specifically to see me. That moment became the beginning of seven extraordinary years.

A mentor who opened doors. Over those years, Ada did many things for me. Some were small. Some were enormous. But one thing she did repeatedly had a profound influence on my career. She put my name forward. Again and again. For lectures. For scientific meetings. For opportunities around the world. There is a familiar story in academia: a young scientist makes an important discovery in a laboratory, and the principal investigator becomes the face of that discovery.

Ada did the opposite. She pushed the young scientist forward. She wanted me to speak about the work. This was particularly remarkable because Ada herself was one of the most sought- after speakers in structural biology. Wherever she went, people wanted to hear her. Yet she seemed genuinely interested in making sure that others were heard.

One incident remains particularly vivid in my memory. Bordeaux, France. It was a ribosome meeting in Bordeaux. Ada was scheduled to deliver the keynote lecture. Naturally, everyone expected to hear the Nobel laureate speak. A few days before the meeting, Ada came to me and said: I will talk to the organizing committee because I think you should deliver the lecture.

I was surprised.

The organizers, understandably, refused. The audience had come to hear a Nobel laureate. Ada could have simply accepted that decision.

She didn’t. Instead, she came back to me with a plan. “Do not worry. You remain ready near the podium. The time allotted is 25 minutes. I will begin the talk and speak for 10 minutes. Then you will quickly come to the stage and speak for 15 minutes & I wasn’t sure whether she was serious.

She was.

And that is exactly what happened. Ada began the keynote. She spoke for ten minutes. And then I walked onto the stage and delivered the remaining fifteen minutes.

I can still remember the feeling.

For the audience, it was a keynote lecture by a Nobel laureate.

For me, it was something much more profound.

It was a lesson in mentorship.

Ada was not afraid of giving away the spotlight.

In fact, she seemed to believe that the spotlight was meant to be passed on.

You should speak.

There were many such moments during my seven years in her laboratory.

She would recommend me for lectures.

She would encourage me to present our work.

She would put my name forward when there was an opportunity.

There was no sense of ownership over the work in the way one sometimes sees in academia.

Instead, there was a remarkable generosity.

She seemed to understand something that is easy to forget in science: a mentors greatest achievement is not always the discovery made in their laboratory. Sometimes it is the scientist who leaves the laboratory more confident, more independent and more visible than when they arrived.

For me, Ada was that mentor.

She gave me the freedom to bring my own scientific background to problems I had never worked on before. She allowed me to think differently.

And when that thinking produced something interesting, she did not hide me behind her name.

She put me in front.

Ten years later

It has now been ten years since I first arrived in Israel.

Ten years since I nervously wrote an email to a Nobel laureate, convinced that she would never reply.

Ten years since I walked into that surprisingly simple office on the sixth floor of the Kimmelman Building.

Seven of those years were spent in Ada’s laboratory.

Seven years that gave me memories I will carry throughout my life.

When I think about Ada today, I think beyond the Nobel Prize.

I think about the young student standing nervously outside her office.

I think about the scientist from a different discipline whom she was willing to take a chance on.

I think about the difficult project she entrusted to me.

And I think about Bordeaux, where a Nobel laureate deliberately gave away fifteen minutes of her keynote lecture so that a young scientist could stand on the stage.

That is not the usual story of scientific fame.

We often hear stories of principal investigators taking credit for discoveries made in their laboratories.

My experience was the opposite.

Ada used her enormous scientific stature to make my work visible.

She opened doors that I did not even know existed.

To the world, she was Ada Yonath, the Nobel Prize winner.

To me, she was the mentor who taught me that scientific greatness is not measured only by what one discovers.

It is also measured by how many other people one helps rise.

Seven years in her laboratory gave me countless memories.

This is only a small part of mine.

But perhaps it is enough to show the world the Ada I knew.

Not just a Nobel Prize winner. But a compassionate human being.

(Contributed by Dr. Tanaya Bose, currently a Scientist D at CSIR-Indian Institute of Chemical Biology, where I have been working since 2023. From 2016 to 2023, she had the privilege of being a postdoctoral researcher in Prof. Ada Yonath’s laboratory at the Weizmann Institute of Science, Israel. Those seven years gave me the opportunity to know her not only as an extraordinary scientist and mentor, but also as a deeply compassionate human being. Among the many memories I carry from those years, I share one with you here. )