Hairfare

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Anything to do with hair is fascinating because of mankind's attachment to it.

See e.g.

http://gpsastry.blogspot.com/2010/11/hairlooms.html

There is yet another routine episode in today's DC:

"Teacher suspended for shaving student"

The details are routine too. Teacher asks the student to cut his long hair short and he refused. And the Teacher became barberous in public and the rest follows as night follows dusk.

Both seem to be giving exaggerated importance to hair and its length.

Well, there are Guinness Book Records of all sorts for hair.

First of all, long hair is a nuisance because it is a handicap in close encounters of all kinds like Rugby.

There is a closeup photo in DC of the latest Royal Wedding in London: Princess Zara Phillips (a former equestrian eventing world champion) kissing England Rugby player Mike Tindall after their wedding.

Tindall is as hairless as a Balajee Devotee at Tirumala after his ceremonial tonsure.

In our youth there was a famous Hollywood Actor Yul Brynner (Ten Commandments) whose signature style was his tonsured head. It became a craze and several of his fans sported a hairless style; while any bald person would give half his wealth if only he gets his hair back (like Groucho Marx said when he was surrounded by a dozen of his half-naked female fans on his pre-viagra 80th Birthday: "I can give a million dollars for just one erection").

Draupadi is said to have the most beautiful tresses of all. And she was a devotee of Krishna whose two legal wives Rukmini and Satyabhama were envious of her lovely hair. And, as day follows dawn, they taunted Krishna that he was partial to Draupdi on account of her hair.

It is said that Krishna then asked them to go and comb her long tresses. When they did it, they found to their bewilderment that each hair of each of her tresses was singing Krishna's name...some special sound effects there.

And it was rather unwise of Dusshasan to drag Draupadi by her terrific hair into the Court. And she then vows that she would do her hair only after her husband Bhim douses it with the arterial blood of that goon...some hair-raising and blood-curdling vow that...why couldn't he drag her by her hand politely...

And there is this Sage Durvasa who was so cut up with Ambarish that he plucks a single hair from his tresses, transforms it into a demon, and commands it to chase Ambarish.

Just one strand of hair!

And I learned in my Physics Class that, of all hairs, horsehair is the roughest and toughest. Apparently in the olden days before the terrific advances in Materials Science horsehair was used in violin bows...it can catch the metal string and pull it in what is known as the 'stick-slip' mechanism of friction.

Also, the routine treatment for warts during our childhood was to tie them with a horsehair and keep pulling it tighter and tighter every day till the wart eventually falls off...never to recur.

Fur is after all hair, no?

I didn't believe when someone claimed that shawls made of Pashmina wool can be slipped through a finger ring all the way.

Till I actually saw the visual in that nostalgic Doordarshan Program called Surabhi of the 1980s:

http://www.indiasurabhi.com/surabhi.html

hosted by Sidhardh Kak and Renuka Shahane (she was in the news recently)

Any talk of good old Doordarshan brings up Bhaskar Ghose...you scratch any good thing of life and you will find a Bengali lurking...

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Best Compliments

Here is a comment from Professor K L Chopra, Physicist-Director, IIT KGP (1987-97 decade) on Pilgrim's Regress:

"GP: Thanks. Quite a rising Ruskin Bond for childrens stories! Keep up the good stuff and eventually publish in the form of a book."

It just happens that this is the second time Ruskin Bond has been evoked by this blog. Maybe there is indeed a dormant child in every reader of this blog, not excluding the formidable KLC who never revealed it during his Iron Rule.

Tailpiece

Yesterday Professor Hassleton rang me up and called me (among other things) a Saint.

I guess I should file a Defamation Suit.

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Pilgrim's Regress

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It all starts with your winning the First Prize in Essay Writing Competition (rigged) in your Class VIII; and your HM Father selecting as a prize for you a cute brass plaque on which is engraved the motto:

"Cleanliness is next to Godliness"

It turns out it is the only prize you ever got in your life and so you become pathologically attached to it and carry it wherever you go nailing it to your wall (hoping folks will ask you where you got it...they won't).

Since the house you are living in is full of kids you ask your mom and get a single room all for yourself. Then you spend three hours cleaning it up and beautifying it.

When you return from your school, you find to your dismay that your room with its books, crayons and drawing sheets has been vandalized by your youngest sister. You revolt and write with a chalk on your door:

"No Admission without Permission",

a slogan you saw on your HM's Office and liked.

Then you join College and ask for a single room in your hostel, the Assistant Warden guffaws and gives you a choice: a Triple Room with your batchmates or a Double Room with your senior. You ponder over it and decide to take the Double Room.

And discover that your roommate is no pilgrim on the holy path leading to the Demigoddess of Cleanliness. And after a week of attrition you lose and take up the whole task of keeping the room clean day in and day out.

When visitors come in and praise your room, your Senior proudly points to the brass plaque on the wall and says graciously:

"That is our motto!"

damn him.

You then join a lowly job and to save money share your digs with three of your Seniors, all of them non-vegetarians, smokers and boozers.

You clean up their ashtrays, bottles and chicken tikka masala remnants before you go to bed.

Then you get married hoping that your wife will keep the house clean for you...Ha!

When you grumble irritably, she offers a choice: she would invite her mom to stay with you saying she is as clean as a bald egg.

You agree to withdraw your complaints if she withdraws her offer.

By and by your infant son arrives and fills your heart with joy, except that the bum has perverse ideas of cleanliness. And you employ a teenage maid to keep him clean...you end up cleaning her leavings too.

And your son grows up and takes up his job as a Programmer (Trainee) and refuses to live with his colleagues since they are all smokers, drunkards and beef-eaters.

And asks you to join him in a rented apartment since you are now retired and unemployed.

Back to square one...you end up cleaning the apartment from his shoe rack to his wardrobe.

You get him married, thinking you can at last outsource your cleaning jobs...Ha!!!

Then you decide to withdraw and live in your bedroom with your book case and stop mixing with others on the Dining Table or Sofa...just so you can keep your simple one-room digs clean. And confine yourself to your bed and become a two-state system, lolling and blogging.

Then Ishani arrives.

After her bath and makeup she ambles to your bed and throws up her tiny hands asking you mutely to lift her up your bed.

And she rumples, crumples and devours all your bedside books and papers with unbounded joy and glee.

You just watch her and decide that no amount of cleaning up gives you a speck of the mountain of the joy you get just watching her.

And you cuddle her and ring up Prakash, the newspaper vendor:

You: Prakash, give us two copies of DC from tomorrow

Prakash: Two copies of the same paper, sir?

You: Yes

Prakash: At the same address sir?

You: Yes

Prakash: But...but...why sir?

You: Never mind why

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After Ishani leaves your room for her mom's, you inspect the ruins, laugh heartily, and paste a paper slip on that brass plaque to read:

"Cleanliness is next to Impossible"

and wait for her to arrive again and again and again...



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Quid no Quo

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Apropos of nothing I recalled this morning a delicious cartoon that appeared in DC about a year ago.

Rahulbaba (as he is lovingly called) started his political apprenticeship with a study tour of election-bound rural UP. He traveled by all sorts of weird modes of transport like crossing streams on boats and walking jungles.

And spent a night in a dalit household as their guest, sharing their humble meal and sleeping on their floor.

The cartoon shows the head of this family with his wife and half a dozen starving kids in rags at Rahulbaba's doorstep later in Delhi announcing themselves to the Gatekeeper who heralds them in with the shout:

"Sir, here is that dalit family and they want return hospitality!"

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All of us know roughly what 'quid pro quo' means:

'Do a favor to someone in need and he returns your favor when you are in need'

This is supposed to happen 90% of the time in your social and political obligations.

Well, 'quid no quo' is the opposite of 'quid pro quo'.

Indeed there are three classes of opposites all covered under the blanket 'quid no quo':

Class A:

'Do a favor to someone in need and he refuses to even recognize you when you are in need'

Class B:

'Just do your pleasant duty to someone in need and he does a millionfold favor to you when you are in need'

Class C:

'Do nothing but pray and someone appears from nowhere and helps you in your hour of need'

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Class A:

In Vedantic parlance this comes under 'nijeccha', meaning you do a favor hoping a return.

But it doesn't come.

The classic example is that of Shakuntala and Dushyant.

Let me correct any impression you may have that the Kalidasa's poetic drama is the pauranic truth...no, sir! It is all gul.

The true story as told in Vyasa Mahabharat is more likely to happen with a Raja.

When he doesn't keep his promise of returning within a week to take her to his Palace, Shakuntala thinks he was too busy. But weeks rolled into months and months rolled into years, till one day her loving foster-parent Kanva Rishi decides to unwillingly send her and her son Bharat (that is India) to Dushyant with proper escorts.

When she accosts him in his Full Court, Raja Dushyant tries to evade all knowledge of her till the Kula Guru Rishis (Senate) in his Court bang him left and right for his selective amnesia.

(Giving Ph Ds to QIP Research Scholars also comes under this category; mostly)

Class B:

In Vedantic parlance this comes under 'pareccha'.

This is exemplified by the lovely story of Kuchela (aka Sudama), a poor Brahmin kid (like me). He happened to be a great friend of Krishna when he (Krishna) was a cowherd boy in Mathura. For all I know, Kuchela must have saved Krishna from drubbing by his mom Yashoda (she was a benign despot, tying him up to all sorts of road rollers) by telling a dutiful lie.

Many decades later, as we all know, Kuchela had an unplanned big family and was unable to feed, dress, and house them properly.

And his wife reminds him of Krishna who by now had become the King of Dwaraka (in Modiland).

Reluctantly he travels all the way with just a fistful of chure (beaten rice) as a gift; and gets palaces, servant maids, and dollars as return gift.

(Giving Kuchela-type recos to UG students also comes under this category)


Class C:

In Vedantic parlance this comes under 'ishwareccha'.

The prime example is Lord Krishna rescuing Draupadi in her hour of distress, supplying miles and miles of Gadwal Saris.

(Also, like HNB taking me in as AL at IIT KGP)

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Khadi Gandhi

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Our World Class Cabinet Minister is in the news again (for the wrong reasons).

As far as I could glean from News Reports (surely deniable), the facts of the case are as follows:

He was attending a State Function in Rajasthan. He was offered a spun cotton khadi garland. As is the custom he took it off and placed it on the table. Then, I don't know what happened. Suddenly, he lifted his right leg above his left thigh and took a piece off that khadi garland and wiped his shoe clean with it.

Murphy's Law prevailed, as usual, and the shoe-cleaning ceremony coincided with the moment when the CM of Rajasthan was exhorting the audience to realize Gandhian Values in their lives.

Much happened then which I don't have space to narrate, but it all culminated in BJP Workers burning his effigies saying he insulted the Father of their Nation.

See for more details:

http://indiatoday.intoday.in/site/story/jairam-ramesh-wipes-shoe-with-khadi-garland/1/146222.html

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I want to stoutly defend our Cabinet Minister's unintended offense (if there is one). You must have seen that in my 710 or so blog posts, I have rarely taken up any political issue or event. But I wish to make an exception in this case; for the simple reason that us IITians must stick together when assaulted by outsiders. We may have our differences whether Bombay is more World Class than KGP, but that is between us.

Yudhister laid down the law eons ago:

"Vayam Panchadhika Shatam"

Which meant that Pandavas are 5 and Kauravas are 100 when they fight among themselves. But when Gandharvas attack Kauravas, blood becomes thicker than water, and they make up 105 defending one another.

So here is my Defense:

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1. It is just a weird coincidence...not premeditated that the Rajasthan CM was speaking of Gandhian Values. How could our Cabinet Minister guess that BJP Workers would be offended (the Improbable although not Impossible...he is no Sherlock Holmes!)?

2. Whenever the Resident Crow at Harry's decided to shit on my head when I was preparing for my Lecture on the cement bench, I automatically used to wipe my head with the khata in my hands. It is a reflex action. The QM khata (topoed from Feynman) just happened to be handy. If someone claims that I was insulting Feynman and burns my effigy, they are welcome...Their case wouldn't wash in any Court of Law...Judges too perhaps wipe their dirty gowns with the nearest Law Tome available when they are hit unexpectedly by airborne chappals 'projected' by their Lady Typists in Court Halls:

http://gpsastry.blogspot.com/2010/02/shake-leg.html

3. It must be remembered that it is hardly a week since our Cabinet Minister was promoted to the Cabinet Rank and shifted to a weightier portfolio. I recall when I was promoted (unduly) as a Professor I was walking in a daze on my Cloud Nine and was prone to wiping my Black Board with my hankie...ask Aniket or Kedar or Supratim or Saswat...they must have heard the story if at all there was any inter-batch mixing on Hall Days and their Arabian Nights.

4. Also, the affairs of the New Office which must have been in tatters before he took over must be bothering him inwardly...us Intellectuals are different from the run-of-the-mill aam janata politicos...we come from the Upper House with all its rarefied 'aumbiaance' (as my son corrects my speech...he learns it from his Yankee Customers).

I rest my Case...Ishani is threatening to pick it up from here, and I can't quite trust her...she is not an IITian...not yet.


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Bangle Sellers

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There are at least three Naidus who are rather well known all over India:

1. C. K. Naidu

I am no cricketer (never touched a cricket bat or ball...they were too heavy and too hard for me); but almost every cricket-loving Indian has heard of this Naidu for his buccaneering style of batting:

"...CK's best stint was playing at Edgbaston, he hit a ball into the River Rhea and thus into the next county..."

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/C._K._Nayudu

2. Chandrababu Naidu

A few days back ToI published an article by Mir Ayub Ali Khan titled:

"An Ode to Mir Osman Ali Khan"

on the Centenary Year of the 7th Nizam's Ascending the Aisf Jahi Throne at Hyderabad.

The 7th (and last) Nizam was the richest man in the world during his prime, the source of his wealth being the fabulous diamond exports from Golconda. He had seven wives, 42 concubines and at least 40 children...wow!

But he was different: He rebuilt the city ravaged by the floods of 1908. And transformed it into a modern world class city. Some of his inspired contributions are:

High Court Building, Osmania General Hospital, Osmania University, Legislative Assembly, State Museum (Doll House), Mozamjahi Market, AP Bhavan at Delhi (where an MLA beat up an Officer the other day just for the kick of it) and perhaps Osman Sagar Lake.

The Article says:

"...The only politician who added value to Hyderabad after about 50 years of Mir Osman Ali Khan's rule was Chandrababu Naidu. He gave a new vision to Hyderabad, built Cyberabad and propelled it on to the world map..."

...and gave my son his living {;-}

3. Sarojini Naidu

Ah, she is dear to me for three splendid reasons:

(a) She was the first Naidu I heard of (in my Village School where my Father taught us her poems prescribed in our Text Book).

(b) amaader bauma

(c) The original oasis of our youth, SN Hall at KGP, is named for her.

See:

http://www.poemhunter.com/sarojini-naidu/biography/

"..She was born on February 13, 1879 in Hyderabad. Her father, Dr. Aghornath Chattopadhyaya, was the founder of Nizam College of Hyderabad and a scientist. Her mother, Mrs. Varasundari, was a Bengali poetess. Sarojinidevi inherited qualities from both her father and mother...

...During her stay in England, Sarojini met Dr. Govind Naidu from southern India. After finishing her studies at the age of 19, she got married to him during the time when inter-caste marriages were not allowed. Her father was a progressive thinking person, and he did not care what others said. Her marriage was a very happy one..."

Almost exactly a century ago, she wrote a charming poem titled:

Bangle Sellers

Bangle sellers are we who bear
Our shining loads to the temple fair...
Who will buy these delicate, bright
Rainbow-tinted circles of light?

Lustrous tokens of radiant lives,
For happy daughters and happy wives.
Some are meet for a maiden's wrist,
Silver and blue as the mountain mist,

Some are flushed like the buds that dream
On the tranquil brow of a woodland stream,
Some are aglow with the bloom that cleaves
To the limpid glory of new born leaves

Some are like fields of sunlit corn,
Meet for a bride on her bridal morn,
Some, like the flame of her marriage fire,
Or, rich with the hue of her heart's desire,

Tinkling, luminous, tender, and clear,
Like her bridal laughter and bridal tear.
Some are purple and gold flecked grey
For she who has journeyed through life midway,

Whose hands have cherished, whose love has blest,
And cradled fair sons on her faithful breast,
And serves her household in fruitful pride,
And worships the gods at her husband's side.

http://allpoetry.com/poem/8496457-The_Bangle_Sellers-by-Sarojini_Naidu

I am reminded of this when I saw a front page Advertisement in DC today by a famous Jewelery Chain.

It has a very cute girl stacking bangle upon bangle into a veritable tower.

The Competition is called: "Tallest Bangle Mela":

"Win a Gold Bangle Every Day!"

"Stack as many bangles as you can one above the other. If your Bangle Tower is the tallest on that day, in that showroom, you win a gold bangle!'

I must say that Bangle Sellers have much improved their Sales Gimmicks in a hundred years.

Well, there may be no itinerant Bangle Sellers in Chandrababu Naidu's Cyberabad, but the 7th Nizam's Charminar - Lad Bazaar precincts are awash with world-famous Bangle Stores and Carts.

And Ramzaan is here presently.

SN will surely recognize them as her own Hyderabadis.

Amen!

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Pie in the Sky

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Here are two Comments tagged to the post Tall Gossip:

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Saswat:

Regarding the 2\pi factors, in my experience, I found that in string theory / high energy physics, whether someone was uber careful about those factors or not depended on whether she/he was a phenomenologist (such as Feynman) or a pure theorist / mathematical physicist (such as Leonard Susskind ). In the period 2000-2010 , when String Phenomenology / String Cosmology became hot, those 2\pi factors made the difference if a model was "phenomenologically viable" or not. And string theory gave anywhere between 1 to 10 such 1/2\pi factors depending on how many dimensions one compactified! So starting from a String / Planck scale, one could come down to GUT / Inflationary scale by using those factors.

gps:

That, to me is a mouthful. But I am told that the good old pi of my boyhood is out of fashion now and is being displaced by tau = 2 pi.

How nice!!!

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Kedar:

I remember reading your blog a while ago about increasing the number of students in IITs. Here is an interesting blog post:

http://dsanghi.blogspot.com/2011/07/inefficient-land-use-by-elite.html

gps:

The Post Kedar is referring to is:

http://gpsastry.blogspot.com/2011/06/pullout-blog.html

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Tall Gossip

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There is a cute picture in today's DC of Indian Officials welcoming their Pakistani counterparts ceremonially through the Wagah Border, which is known as the most ridiculous of all borders; see eg:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NC9NeJh1NhI

One is struck by the commanding height of the Indian and Pakistani rival guards topped by even taller headgear with ceremonial plumes.

This is perhaps the only place other than the Basket Ball Field where, other things (like facial hair) being equal, height is an advantage.

When asked (naughtily) how long should one's legs be, Abe Lincoln (at 6' 4" the tallest of the US Presidents; Obama is 6' 1") is reputed to have said:

"Long enough to reach the ground"

(It is a different matter that Dr David Reuben quotes Lincoln to his hilarious advantage)

In general I have observed that really tall people have a better sense of humor and joke at their expense oftener than folks of average height.

This is a sort of 'Compensation Mechanism' for the unending trouble they face in a world designed for us average specimens.

The essence of the trouble is that while the shorter ones can use many devices to raise their height, the taller folks can in no way 'grow' short that easily.

When I was 8 and skeletal and 3' 6" tall, I was in great demand at the Ticket Counter of the Touring Talkies that used to arrive at our Village Muthukur once in a while for spells of a couple of months during the early 1950s. There was of course no queue discipline and might was right in front of the cubbyhole. My seniors used to drag me along and lift me up their shoulders and negotiate, beating the taller countrymen.

And I was given a lollipop each time I scored a hit.

Like Bernard Shaw claimed he was taller than Shakespeare but admitted he was standing on Shakespeare's shoulders.

My son was a nice 5' 5" in his Class X (and handsome to a fault). But within 6 months he grew by 3" like Alice in Wonderland, and started complaining that he can no longer see the writing on the blackboard. We took him to our very competent Ophthalmologist at KGP who prescribed good glasses.

Within another 6 months he put on another 3" and was complaining of unremitting headache. And I was thinking of taking him to a neuro-physician at Cal. By a stroke of luck, while we two were sitting on the culvert seat near the Main Gate Island, our Ophthalmologist was passing by on his scooter and greeted us. I stopped him and mentioned my son's persistent headache. He asked my son to stand up and said that he has grown too tall too fast for his eye balls to adjust and asked us to meet him in his chamber for a new set of glasses.

And, lo and behold, they worked! Headache gone!!!

But at around 6' my son has ample trouble squeezing himself into the side upper berth of Indian Railways constantly.

Ishani, now 1.7 years, has always been too tall for her age. And it is scary. For, she can reach switches, sockets, TV stand and all gadgets that are potentially harmful (either for her or them).

Our ancestors pondered over this problem of height and created wonderful stories in their mythology. They were ever craving for an 'adjustable height' and mention this capacity as one of the ashta siddhis (8 divine powers):

'animaa mahimaa chaiva garimaa laghimaa tatha
praptih praakamyam ishatvam vasitam chaashta siddhayaha"

Hanumanjee is reputed to have utilized this magical power when he encountered the demon Lankhini (?), the Gate Keepress of Sri Lanka who barred his way in. Apparently, he grew as short as 3 mm, entered her wide open GI Canal, where he grew at once to Abe Lincoln's height, thereby slitting the demon's abdomen, much like the Caesarian Sections of olden days.

And Lord Vishnu is supposed to have shrunk himself to the size of a laughable dwarf (Vaamana) while standing in the queue for donations offered by Raja Balijee; and after getting his requests granted, grew to an uncharitable height and asked for the moon.

By the way, while queue discipline was known then (and forgotten promptly), the story shows that our ancestors were firm votaries of 'flat-earth theory'. When I mentioned this anomaly to my HM Father, he brushed me aside saying that one should take the 'moral' of the scripture and not the 'letter' which is inconsequential according to him.

Reminds me of DB's story about his Ph D Supervisor at Delhi threatening with dismissal any scholar who came to him complaining that '4 pi' factors in front of his integral were not matching the text books. On the other hand, Feynman I remember, says somewhere that the '4 pi' factors are all important, because '4 pi' is an order of magnitude too large to be ignored {;-}, and whoever says they are trivial, has to be hanged like.

Tail Piece

I read today that a certain maid employed in a certain NY Hotel who claims to have been assaulted by a certain luminary is actually taller than him.

'She stoops to conquer' (Oliver Goldsmith)

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Pathology

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A psychologist (Dr P) visits a School for a routine mass check-up.

And this teenager (T) is called in.

And this is what happens:

P says he will draw a figure on the blackboard and T should say what it means to him.

P (draws a straight line): Yes?

T: Sex

P (draws a circle): Yes?

T: Sex

P (draws an ellipse, parabola, hyperbola...): Yes? Yes? Yes?...

T : Sex, Sex, Sex...

P: Can't you see nothing other than Sex?

T: Can't you draw nothing other than Sex?

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I don't know about the liberated West or even the present day Post-Modern India, but in my School and College and University and IIT KGP, any teenager who is honest would support T wholeheartedly.

It was as normal as bunking Classes and postponing Sessionals till the last date...nothing pathological about it.

And the only permanent cure was Marriage, after 3 days of which, T would answer: straight line, circle, ellipse, parabola, hyperbola...and pass the test.

But old men and women invent certain routines somehow or other and become pathologically servile to them.

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My wife (before she reached that exalted status) was brought up by her granpa who was an Executive Engineer. He was inordinately fond of her (she was and is a dear!). He footed her expensive Medical Education till her MD, after which he was looking for suitable bridegrooms for her.

And when he found my CV (in his neighbor's dustbin), he was impressed and wrote to my Father if I was interested. And my Father, reading my badly lacerated mind, said yes.

So, I was invited to their house at Tirupati for the Bride-Seeing-Ceremony a la Delhi-6.

I went accompanied by my married Sister and B-i-L (for moral support).

The Meeting was scheduled for 4 PM.

Everything went on fine. The EE granpa (retired by then) did the introductions and sat in the Driver's Seat on the sofa. The demure Bride didn't open her mouth (except for munching pakoris). Their folks looked at me severely and I, as usual, did all the small-talk (to beat nervousness).

By 5 PM, when the Party gathered steam and was really going strong and my wife ultimately did say 'yes' if she liked coffee, and others were all having their cross talks about the latest sari designs, cinemas and Rava Dosa recipes, the EE abruptly got up, went inside, brought his walking stick and left by the front door without saying as much as a Bye.

The Party eventually broke up and we returned home.

After our marriage 8 months later, I asked my wife why her granpa vanished in the middle of the Party abandoning everybody discourteously.

She was quite apologetic and said that his retired friends would all be waiting for him outside their Gate at 5 PM for their evening walk and EE never misses it come rain or brimstone.

That is what I call Pathological Evening-Walking.

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My friend R had a similar experience.

When he was visiting Hyderabad from KGP, he was asked by his wife to go and meet up her retired Uncle at his place.

And since he was newly married, he had to obey the High Command.

So, he went in search of her Uncle's place, finally found it, entered, and saw the old man seated in his verandah rolling beads silently.

R did his prostration, stood up, and introduced himself as the privileged husband of his niece from IIT KGP, hoping the Old Man would be so impressed that he would fling his rosary, get up and embrace him.

But nothing happened.

The Old Man closed his eyes and continued his meditation.

R was wondering what to do. Minutes ticked by at an abnormally slow pace and R was waiting and waiting.

After an hour the Old Man got up, pocketed his beads, emptied the water in his Holy Grail into the Tulsi pot, and took R inside his house.

On his return to KGP, R asked his wife what was wrong with her Uncle.

"Oh, you must have gone there at the (wrong) hour of his meditation" (as if the fault was entirely her hubby's), "he is very disciplined and never talks to anyone for the whole hour" (rather proudly).

This is what I call Pathological Bead-Rolling.

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I talked about two Old Men.

And every Old Fool has his Pathology.

I am the sole exception (except for Pathological Midnight Blogging)


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Hard Thoughts

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On finishing my School Finals in 1957 from Muthukur, I was shifted to do my one-year Pre-University Course in the College at Ponnur where, as my luck would have it, the Principal was my Uncle under whose care and roof I spent that year.

I was barely 13 and had no pocket money to speak of...every legitimate requirement of mine was met by my Uncle's household.

My cousin GVR was then doing his post-graduation at Vizagh and was visiting home for a fortnight on vacation. He was very much a lovable dude and had a wallet and some small currency tucked in it. And he used to take me along for a cup of coffee here and there in Ponnur.

Then one fine morning there were guests in the form of three rather rustic boys from Nellore visiting us for three days. They knew my Uncle and so were put up in our house. They came to appear in some Civil Services Exam held in our College. They were rather shy and reticent and kept very much to themselves.

The evening before they were to get back to Nellore, their Leader shyly proposed to GVR that they wished to give him a Party in one of the dhabas near our house.

GVR took me along and the five of us had sumptuous dosas and vadas and sweets and coffee.

When the time to quit arrived and GVR was waiting for our hosts to pay the bill, their Leader abruptly gestured to GVR to go ahead and pay.

GVR was rather shocked and stunned as was I. But he recovered and scraped his wallet which luckily had just about the required cash.

And we walked back in silence to our house and they went about their studies.

GVR pulled me aside and both of us concurred that there could be nothing more uncivil than the behavior of these dehatis.

And that night I spent cursing them inwardly, just short of going and banging them on my cousin's behalf.

Next morning, when the time came for them to leave, their Leader gently pulled GVR aside and asked him shyly if he could return the Rs 100 which they gave him for safe-keeping on the day of their arrival, after 'cutting' the dhaba bill of Rs 10.

GVR had forgotten it clean and fished the Note out from the secret pocket of his wallet where he had hidden it away from thieves.

***************************************************************************************************************

As soon as I retired, I visited Nellore where I had bought an Apartment a few years back and which was being looked after by my Sister and B-i-L who were residing nearby.

I was their guest for a fortnight and I was daily going over to 'my' Apartment and getting things done to make it livable, like 'grilling', marble polishing, wall painting and such.

My hosts were then getting the vernacular newspaper Andhra Jyoti daily which was beyond my comprehension since I practically forgot reading my mother tongue and was unaware of the local politics.

They knew that I was hooked to DC in Hyderabad where I contributed to it some prize-winning Letters.

One fine morning when I was sipping her coffee my sister came rushing to me with the day's DC in her hands quite demanding to know if I had ordered it to be delivered.

I was taken aback and said, 'Of course, No!'

After a few minutes my B-i-L rushed to me asking the same question.

I was rather mortified.

That evening, both of them were awaiting my arrival smiling rather contritely.

It turned out that there was a copy of DC in the balcony of every Apartment in their Complex that morning, supplied free as advertisement for its newly started Nellore Edition.

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Most of the romantic stories, dramas and films of our youth were based on this 'formula' misunderstanding epitomized by Elizabeth Bennet and Darcy.

Here is the plot of a prize-winning story of the genre:

Those days, rowdy youth always had a fancy for wearing dark glasses so that they could see and ogle without getting 'fixed' (Ramakrishna Paramahamsa, the wizard of similes, used to compare the Paramatman residing in the hearts of all of us to the burqa-clad beauties of Hyderabad who can see everyone through their double slits without exposing their beautiful face to anyone...one-way traffic).

One day a young and vivacious lady entered the compartment of her train and took her regular window seat.

And noticed, after settling down, that a handsome youth wearing dark goggles was occupying the seat opposite hers and staring at her quite steadily and shamelessly.

She got angry and tried to avoid his stares.

But he bent down as if to recover his luggage and quite clumsily started groping her legs.

She got wild and slapped him hard.

So hard that his goggles fell away to reveal a blind handicapped soul.

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Recall Bharavi's Atonement on hard thoughts?

http://gpsastry.blogspot.com/2010/07/bharavis-atonement.html

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Iconophilia

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"Shilpa Shetty has a penchant for Ganeshas. She has more than 1,000 Ganeshas in her house"...

.....DC, 23 July

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When I was in the Final Year of my M Sc at AU (circa 1963) I happened to visit my cousin, Moorthy, who was in his Final Year M Sc at SVU at Tirupati.

This is the only bit of our conversation I remember after half a century:

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Moorthy: Which book did you follow for your EM?

Me: Starling

Moorthy: Does it use Vector Calculus for Maxwell Equations?

Me: No

Moorthy: How does one understand EM without Vector Calculus?

Me: Umm, ugh, ahem...

Moorthy: Do you mean to say you don't know Grad, Div, Curl, Lapla, Gauss Theorem, Stokes Theorem, Greens Theorem...?

Me: Well...

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A couple of years later, I joined IIT KGP as a Physics Teacher. The first thing I resolved was that my students shouldn't be subjected to such ignominy.

So, I read up all the hi-fi books on EM available in our CL ending up with Panofsky & Phillips & Jackson.

Incidentally, if one wants to learn the basics of Math, one has to start from good Physics texts. And if one wants to learn the basics of Physics, one has to start from good Engg texts {;-}

There was this Senior Prof L in ME Dept who was considered their best teacher. He was a couple of decades older to me and commanded respect. He was famous for his Engineering Mechanics lectures. He was so famous that I almost envied him {;-}

It so happened that one day I was representing Phy Dept in one of the meetings he was chairing. This is the conversation that took place between us:

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Prof L: Do you teach Mechanics in your Dept?

Me: Yes, sometimes

Prof L: Do you use Vector Calculus?

Me: (brightening up) Oh, yes!!!

Prof L: It is silly...I never used it. Mechanics can very well be taught without all that baggage.

Me: Yes...yes...Whittaker doesn't use it

***************************************************************************************************************

A decade later I had to teach Special Relativity for our Phy students. SR can very well be taught without tensors, like in Resnick. But I decided to teach it from Landau & Lifshitz Classical Theory of Fields (First Edition which used the ict metric for EM without superscripts and g-mu-nu that Feynman joked about:

"...They would have their heads kind of in air, and they would be talking to each other, not paying attention to where they were going, saying things to each other, like, 'G-mu-nu, G-mu-nu'...His face lit up. 'Ah, yes,' he said, 'you mean Chapel Hill!")

Another decade later I had to teach QM (First Course) for our Third Years. I knew there was strong resentment in the hearts of our Phy students because they were taught QM only in their third year, while their Engg friends were taught (by me too) in their second year. Apparently the Engg guys were bragging about it in their Halls of Residence.

So, I was meeting a bunch of kids with a negative attitude. So, I decided to teach QM to them from Feynman 3rd Volume which teaches QM the wrong way round from 2-state systems, 3-state, n-state, discrete infinity-state, and finally continuous infinity-state Schrodinger Equation for a free particle (with which B Techs start).

And to add spice and masala to their bravado, I started with kets and bras, a cut above Feynman.

Their joy knew no bounds...serious case of iconophilia.

Another decade later, there was this all-powerful External Review Committee visiting all labs. Although I was not the Fourth Year Lab-in-Charge then, but only Guide & Adviser, I took on the stalwarts from Cal and Jadavpur.

And I decided that showing them Electronics and Optics kits would be no good because they would act like Bertie Wooster asked by his Aunt Dahlia to sneer at the cow-creamer.

Fortunately we had in our lab something they never saw at Cal: MIT's Spacetime Software and QM Software playing with Feynman Path Integrals.

That did it.

The QM Expert from Cal almost slapped me on my meek back and proclaimed:

"I have stopped teaching, from last year, QM with Schrodinger Equation...it is junk...I start with Feynman Path Integrals"

Bless his Soul!

***************************************************************************************************************

Tailpiece

DC Obit:

"...The 20th century painter Lucian Freud died on Wednesday night in London, grandson of Sigmund Freud (father of psychoanalysis)..."

gps: And so, son of psychoanalysis?


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Anonymity

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Prince or pauper, saint or sinner, student or teacher, everyone gets this terrific urge to run away from it all once in a while. This is perfectly legitimate and natural. No one need be upset with it.

When my son was about a year old in the deserted campus of IIT KGP, my wife once let out, with tears in her eyes:

"I am tired of seeing him and you day and night month after month"

I told her she indeed needs an escapade. Next week, I saw her off on Madras Mail to attend the marriage of her cousin, telling her that I can take care of our toddler son with the help of friends and neighbors. And asked her to return in a couple of weeks.

She was back in two days...and it appeared from her joyous reunion with us as if she was away for a year.

Since then I periodically give her a holiday alone with her folks without myself or my son hovering over her.

Nowadays, we are too old to take ourselves physically away; so I escape into my blogosphere and she into her 70-channel TV surfing.

And Ishani helps...it is her mom who needs an escapade once in a while and gets it.

I hope you watched the Hollywood Movie Roman Holiday starring Gregory Peck and Audrey Hepburn. And the Raj Kapoor - Nargis film Chori Chori, both on this theme.

Well, this topic came to my mind when I read in DC today that a certain sidekick of an estranged politician, who had always been trying to grab the limelight in the tele-space has now gone almost underground.

Apparently he badly needs his Roman Holiday.

While Lord Krishna, an avatar of Vishnu, was fully aware of his godliness and went about displaying it by sundry miracles and magic, Lord Raam, also an avatar of Vishnu, is supposed to be often unaware of his genesis and went about anonymously like a mere human like you and me.

But it is supposed to be sort of drama, as this story tells:

One day Shivjee and Parvati were traveling on their chopper holiday viewing the happenings on the earth beneath them patronizingly.

Then they find Raam and Laxman going forth in their futile search of Sita in the Dandakaranya forest, Raam in tears, weeping on Laxman's shoulder inconsolably.

Parvati is amazed at the ignorance and folly of Raam, the all-knowing Vishnu Himself, and asks Shivjee how God himself can be so miserable like a grief-stricken human being.

Shivjee smiles and tells Parvati that Raam is merely play-acting and asks her to go test it for herself.

Parvati then disguises herself as Sita and hides in a bush in the path of Raam and Laxman, who, while scouring the bushes discover her.

As Laxman goes into ecstasy, Raam looks at the fake Sita and asks her:

"What are you doing here in this wilderness, Parvati, all alone? Where is Shivjee? And why have you disguised yourself like Sita hiding in this bush? I do hope everything is ok in Heaven."

That about sums up our efforts at anonymity.

We can change our surroundings but can we change the baggage of our inner being?

I hope you remember the story of Hittorf I blogged sometime ago:

http://gpsastry.blogspot.com/2010/05/dr-dracula.html

Here is the entry:

"Coming back to Hittorf, a Senior Professor of Physics & Chemistry at Munster, his brilliant young students gifted him the brand-new 2-Volume Set of young Maxwell's 'Elecricity & Magnetism' just hot from the Cambridge University Press. Hittorf eagerly carried the Volumes home and stopped coming to the University for a week. His colleagues and students were concerned by this unusual absence of Hittorf, and visited his Home. Only to find that Hittorf was lolling in his bed declining to eat or sleep. On persistent questioning, his wife told them that he turned morose ever since he brought those books home. He was taken to their Family Physician who discovered that Hittorf was depressed that such a Senior Professor such as he was, he couldn't make out a single Equation of the young & upstart Maxwell.

The Physician advised the students to see that Hittorf takes a Holiday for a month in a nearby Beach Resort.

And while doing a final check-in of his trunk, his students found that the 2 cussed Maxwell Volumes were hidden wrapped up in a long coat!"

**************************************************************************************************************

That brings me back to a question I am unable to answer:

"Why do some readers of this blog choose anonymity even when their comments are perfectly innocent?"



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GSS

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Anonymous has left a new comment on your post "Footloose":

Prof G S Sanyal of IITKGP has passed away. We would like to hear your experiences with Prof Sanyal


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gps:

I know.

I will post a full blog on him one of these days, perhaps after this August 18.

Meanwhile the Search Engine of my blogspot tells me that G S Sanyal is mentioned in at least 5 of my earlier blog posts:

http://gpsastry.blogspot.com/2009/10/sdm-slap-or-stimulus.html

http://gpsastry.blogspot.com/2010/05/everyman-his-own-boswell.html

http://gpsastry.blogspot.com/2010/07/mirrors-monkey-tricks.html

http://gpsastry.blogspot.com/2010/09/old-is-gold.html

http://gpsastry.blogspot.com/2011/01/donkeys-feet.html

The last one has this para about GSS:

"Although I lived in Bengal all my Working Life, I didn't touch the feet of either HNB or SDM: one gave me undue promotions, and the other an equally undue Ph D apart from endless intellectual fun (and does so even now blogwise).

But last January when we revisited KGP after five years I and my wife touched the feet of Professor G S Sanyal (90) in his Office rather abruptly. He was taken aback.

This is because I have a peculiar sort of admiration for him.

Apart from being a Great Teacher, he took care of his students so well while they were at KGP that he won their hearts. I came to know of this first-hand when I was at IIT Delhi on an official visit and a famous Physicist and Bhatnagar Awardee whom I came to admire gave me a letter to be delivered in person to GSS saying: "GSS is God!".

Also Sri and Srimati Arjun Malhotra (of the 1965-70 ECE Batch) funded a thriving School of Telecommunications in the name of GSS at IIT KGP (rather than their own names) in 1996.

And decreed that they will bear the expense of housing GSS in the Campus in Qrs and Office as long as GSS wished.

I happened to be riding (parasitically) in GSS's car one of those days and I said honestly to GSS that it is a symbol of the greatest respect any student can show to his favorite Teacher.

Upon which GSS blushed and confessed that he avoids going anywhere near 'his' School since it embarrasses him so.

*****************************************************************************************************

Of all Investments, the one that gives unfailing returns is Investing in Love of one's students...it never obeys the Law of Diminishing Returns..."

*******************************************************************************************************

gps:

Meanwhile, let me mention that his only son, Bratin, is a KGPhian, circa 1985.

I last met Bratin while he was taking a nostalgic walk on the road from Gate # 5 to the B C Roy Island with his infant son in his arms and his proud wife beside him, around the turn of this millennium.


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License Please!

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Napoleon is reputed to have said a mouthful:

"An army marches on its belly"

Fine. But a Government doesn't march, no way. It is supposed to be 'run', but most of them 'squat' on their subjects in an uncouth way. It doesn't matter whether it is democratic, autocratic, plutocratic or ahem kleptocratic. They are all the same. They try to squeeze every drop of juice from their unfortunate lemons.

Let us take the Gold Rush State of California, often touted as the ultimate heaven to starry-eyed Indians like me. Typically a KGPian, after much stress and strife, lands a job there, rents a studio apartment, saves some nickels, finds a girl willing to marry him and settle down, and walks to the Registrar of Marriages. You would expect that She would clap and be delighted that the couple is doing an enormous favor to the community with their combined input of software, hardware or finance expertise and would in due course bring forth more profitable versions. And that She would write a check for a grand and ask them to go forth and have a blast.

But what really happens? They are slapped anything up to $100 of scarce money as license fees!!!

Governments all over and all along would like to tax any thing and everything they see. Ben Frank or someone equally bright said that nothing is certain in this world except death and taxes.

Why, our own Mughal Emperor taxed long hair on the crowns of infidels and called it by the fancy name of zizia.

And the more sagacious Brits taxed the salt of our seas; and came a cropper when Gandhijee marched to Dandi with his army on their dandas.

When I was a kid of 8, I was once visiting my Literary Uncle's place in Nellore. He was then working as a youthful clerk in the Post Office, a job that I always craved. In those days, there were no scooters or motor bikes. When a Royal Enfield Bullet of a Madrasi dandy passes by, everyone in the town would stop whatever they were doing and gape.

After saving for over a year, my Uncle bought a second hand push bike and was riding it to his Office that day as I watched him mount his bike with gaping admiration and envy.

Within minutes he rushed home and frantically concealed his bike in the backyard and tried to pretend he never saw a bike in his life.

I gathered later that the Nellore Municipality issued licenses to be renewed annually to all the roadworthy push bikes in the town and that day there was this spot check by the police who stopped every bike plying on its arterial Grand Trunk Road and heaved the defaulting bikes on to a truck. The license used to come in the shape of a metallic token with a numeric ID fitted to the frame behind the seat.

Can you beat it?

The practice stopped when the Rayleigh Company became a Sen-Rayleigh affair and produced so many bikes at an affordable price that it became impractical, impossible and unprofitable to go about issuing licenses, renewing and checking them. In their heart of hearts they would be happy if all their honest citizens (unlike my Uncle) came every year on their own to the Municipal Office, queued up for hours and put their cash in a piggy box which could be opened by the charwoman every evening and handed over to her Lord without pocketing a penny or two. But human nature being what it is, they scrapped the whole business. My Uncle must still be having that memento of a metal disk in his vault...he is a fond collector of odds and ends.

When I joined IIT KGP and bought my own third hand push bike and was riding nonchalantly to the Gole Bazaar, I was stopped by a cop and ordered to 'fall out'. I was surprised since I was told there is no licensing of push bikes in Bengal.

But I was told by the cop that a brand new rule has been introduced that week that every push bike should be equipped with a 'head light'. I asked him how. He said there were many options...attach a dynamo kit to the rear wheel and a torch light bulb to the handle bar, or, have a kerosene kit available in Gole Bazaar. He didn't say it but he would have unwillingly let me go if I could equip my forehead with Sir Humphry Davy's Miner's Lamp.

He let me go with a warning. I bought one kit from Gole Bazaar and attached it to my bike. Needless to say, it got stolen the third day and I stopped going to Gole Bazaar till they blew 'all clear' after finding it impossible, impractical and unprofitable.

Then I saved some pennies and bought a first hand Murphy Radio in Gole Bazaar. They gave me what I thought delightfully was a pass book along with it. I was told it is the Radio License Book. Apparently I had to go to the Post Office by the Railway Station every January, stand in a queue and pay the license fees and get it stamped in the pass book.

I never went since the radio never worked...it just about creaked. But I was told that the defaulters will be 'checked' at their residence and penalized heavily and the radio set confiscated, unless I get a certificate from them that the kit had stopped working irreparably and 'condemned' officially.

However, nothing drastic happened because by then the market was flooded with 'transistor' pocket kits....

And then they latched on to B-W TVs...

As I said, every Government worth its salt would tax you till it becomes impractical, impossible and unprofitable.

Marriage???

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Footloose

==========================================================================

Imelda Marcos, wife of President Ferdinand Marcos of Philippines, was often in the celebrity columns of our youth. Known as the Steel Butterfly, she declined to buy the Empire State Building saying that at 750 million dollars it was overrated and not worth it. She did buy the Crown Building, the Woolworth Building and the Harold Center though (they must have been ok at about 300 million dollars).

But she is famous most for her signature collection of 2,700 pairs of shoes...wow!

didi!!!

As I said earlier, none of us boys and girls at our Village School in the 1950s ever had any footwear.

Not that all of us were as poor as church mice. We had our Reddy landlords at either end of the high street, and between them they owned the bulk of the Village farms, very fertile. They didn't farm them with the sweat of their brows though. They had a couple of chauffeur-driven Fords and Chevrolets in their stables alright.

But their kids were footloose like us...born free, living free and forever free like Joy Adamson's lion cubs.

The concept of students shackling their tender feet was just not there. Our teachers did wear ancient chappals to the School Assembly as part of my HM Fathers' dress code, but were happy to leave them in their common room.

My father bought his chappals from the gray market of Nellore; and they were forever keeping him busy with his hobby of nailing. He had this 'nails-box' of which he was proud, and that deal-wood thing had his signature collection of 'chappal-nails', two hammers (the parent one for nailing his walls and the baby for nailing his chappals) and tweezers to pluck the bent nails. I have a suspicion he used to straighten them with another tool in his kit.

There were no cobblers in our street.

My mother, like any other middle class brahmin housewife, didn't stir out of our home much till all her seven kids grew up and she lost her youth thereby. Then on she wished to visit temples and ashrams and I guess she inherited the 'ex-chappals' of her college-going daughters. She is now 89 and her wealthy daughters gift her Imelda-style footwear, but she is happy with her didi-style rubber ones.

In fact the arrival in the Indian market of Hawai Slippers in the 1960s revolutionized our foot-habits. They were dead cheap (like our cell phones) and even village belles took to them like their cell-phones now. They were not regarded as 'bathroom' wear...who needs footwear to the bathrooms anyway?

When in the 1980s KGPian students started wearing their Hawai Slippers to their Exam Halls, there was an uproar and a dress code was invented by the authorities. And us invigilators were supposed to inspect their feet (instead of their roving eyes) and warn the miscreants.

This shows how fashions change...what was high class in the 60s became taboo in the 80s...sigh!

All I have against the ever-convenient Hawai Slippers of our University Years was that their straps tended to ease out of their holes while we were running desperately to catch the city bus to the Exam Hall. And the only thing you are supposed to do is remove and push them into your book-bag if you are lazy enough to carry one for a last minute 'preparation'. And, once seated in the bus, you try and push the dangling strap back into its hole and be careful. Ladies had the advantage that they carry safety pins with them in their money purses and so can use them to 'fasten' their temperamental slippers.

Like in any culture, you can't cultivate this footwear habit if you are not born to it (Ishani has a collection of half a dozen shoes with Son et Lumiere effects).

So, I am so happy and comfortable nowadays in Hyderabad. After exhausting all options, from Chinese, Batas, and other fancy brands, I have settled down to what are called Diabetic Chappals...not that either me or them have sugar complaint. Just that they are soft on the skin, wear out uniformly, and their straps don't come out of their holes.

Sweet and Sugary. They do cost a bit and at times I feel like Imelda pampering her feet, but what is a son for, if he doesn't care to pamper his Papa's Holy Feet?

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Drill Class - 3

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And now Thurber in University Days:

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"...As a soldier I was never any good at all. Most of the cadets were glumly indifferent soldiers, but I was no good at all. Once General Littlefield, who was commandant of the cadet corps, propped up in front of me during regimental drill and snapped, 'You are the main trouble with this university!' I think he meant my type was the main trouble with the university but he may have meant me individually. I was mediocre at drill, certainly--that is until my senior year. By that time I had drilled longer than anybody else in the Western Conference, having failed at military at the end of each preceding year so that I had to do it all over again. I was the only senior still in uniform. The uniform which, when new, had made me look like an interurban railway conductor, now that it had become faded and too tight, made me look like Bert Williams in his bellboy act. This had a definitely bad effect on my morale. Even so, I had become by sheer practice little short of wonderful at squad manoeuvres.

One day General Littlefield picked our company out of the whole regiment and tried to get it mixed up by putting it through one movement after another as fast as we could execute them, squads right, squads left, squads on right into line, squads right about, squads left front into line etc. In about three minutes one hundred and nine men were marching in one direction and I was marching away from them at an angle of forty degrees, all alone. 'Company, halt!' shouted General Littlefield, 'That man is the only man who has it right!' I was made a corporal for my achievement.

The next day General Littlefield summoned me to his office. He was swatting flies when I went in. I was silent and he was silent too, for a long time. I don't think he remembered me or why he sent for me, but he didn't want to admit it. He swatted some more flies, keeping his eyes on them narrowly before he let go with the swatter. 'Button up your coat!' he snapped. Looking back on it now I can see that he meant me although he was looking at the fly, but I just stood there. Another fly came to rest on a paper in front of the general and began rubbing its hind legs together. The general lifted the swatter cautiously. I moved restlessly and the fly flew away. 'You startled him!' barked General Littelfield, looking at me severely. I said I was sorry. 'That won't help the situation!' snapped the General, with cold military logic. I didn't see what I could do except offer to chase some more flies toward his desk, but I didn't say anything. He stared out the window at the faraway figures of co-eds crossing the campus toward the library. Finally, he told me I could go. So, I went. He either didn't know which cadet I was or else he forgot what he wanted me to see about. It may have been that he wished to apologize for having called me the main trouble with the university, or maybe he had decided to compliment me on my brilliant drilling of the day before and then at the last minute decide not to. I don't know. I don't think about it much anymore."

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Drill Class - 2

===========================================================================

My aversion to Drill is shared by at least two of my favorite authors.

RKN in My Days:

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"...At school, a repetition of my previous performance. Old Venkata demanded to know where I had gone, and I told him I had had fever. The additional worry this time was that I was asked to conduct drill for some class at the end of the day. I protested. The headmaster said, 'Every member of the staff is expected to handle drill classes once a week by turn.'

'I don't know any drill--never attended any class even as a school boy.'

'Keep them engaged for an hour. Don't let them off. We are trying to teach them also Surya Namaskar.'

'I know nothing about it.'

'We will help you to learn it by and by. Today keep them engaged. Take the roll-call and make note of the absentees.'

And so I found myself in the drill field surveying an array of fifty boys standing in two rows under the evening sun. The sun hit us from the west. Many others, including teachers, stood around to watch my performance. I inspected the boys closely, like a commander reviewing an army cried, 'Right, left, right, left,' marched them, made them perform high jumps, long jumps, swing their arms, kick their legs in the air. I engaged them as long as I could, still no bell rang to indicate the end of the hour. I cried, 'Stand at ease!' and then, 'Dismissed!' and the whole crowd vanished in a second.

...(Next day) I got ready for the school. The man left for his bank. I suddenly felt it would be impossible to spend another day at school or in this house. I knew the bus would be coming in half an hour under the tree. Got a coolie to carry my box and roll of bedding, banged the street door until she came up behind it, mentioned to her that I was leaving for Mysore, and caught the bus for Mysore again."

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gps: I guess we should thank the HM...

==========================================================================

Drill Class - 1

==========================================================================

Every red-blooded student who has a semblance of individuality hates the Drill Class.

Sorry if I hurt anyone with this sweeping generalization but I won't retract it.

This afternoon I took out my car from its parking lot intending to drive to our Township's Supermarket for replenishing my stock of cool drinks.

And then I saw the Officer of our Security Staff bellowing commands on a 3-line array of his subordinates whom he collected for a Drill Class...and my blood rose and I was feeling sorry for the poor blokes.

I could have taken the left and avoided them, but by an impish impulse, I took the right turn, approached the Class and honked. and felt happy for them when the Officer shouted a command at them to give way and possibly disperse...his spell was broken and I felt I did my duty.

In our Village School we had a Drill Teacher called Jessey sir (I guess it was a common name for all Drill Teachers in all schools at our time).

Jessey sir was as reluctant to drill us as we were to be drilled. So, he gave out Games after Roll Call; and I believe got rebuked by my HM Father.

Anyway we became so expert at Games under his benign supervision that we were selected for the Finals of the Annual Griggs Memorial Tournaments.

And I was the Center of our Ball Badminton Squad.

Jessey Sir collected the 'cash' from the HM and we all (about 25 of us) were led by him to our District HQ, Nellore on a bus. Jessey sir parked us all in the student's hostel, whispered something in the ears of our SPL (School Pupils Leader) and vanished.

We never saw him again for three days...SPL and us managed somehow with the pittance of 'cash' that Jessey Sir pushed into the pocket of SPL.

By the way we lost narrowly to the Town's RSR Badminton Squad (I suspect the linesmen, who were from Nellore, cheated us).

We made our ignominious way back to our Muthukur sans Jessey Sir, who was discovered in a stoned condition in one of the hovels of Nellore and fetched back...I think his 'case' wasn't settled till my father's retirement.

My next encounter with the Drill Class was in the Final Year of our M Sc at AU in 1963. The Chinese 'invaded' our country and gave us a bloody nose which rankles still and frightens our Leaders whenever the Dragon wags his tail (Do dragons have wagable tails? I have to check).

The upshot of this one-sided affair was that all students at AU were forced to enroll for NCC with the sweetener of a 5% grace marks in the Final Exams. So there was this mass upsurge in the NCC Classes whose Teachers were unprepared for anything more than giving Drill Classes by the thousand.

But we were in our Final Year and the Teachers were our Juniors who had enrolled voluntarily in their First Year and rose to become Colonels or stuff. And they depended heavily on our Text Books, Lecture Notes and Lab Manuals in their Final Year.

So, we all pleaded sick by turns and were left out to mug up and prepare for our Exams...I don't think I was 'drilled' for more than 5 minutes in my life.

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Fortunately I am not alone in my aversion to Drill.

I don't know if you have read PGW's Performing Flea. It is not a widely read book. It is semi-autobiographical. Almost half of it is 'instructions' on 'how to write' to a friend of his. The rest of it is a hilarious account of his imprisonment by the Germans in a Camp for English senior citizens caught napping in France during the Second World War.

PGW apparently had a not-so-bad time and was asked to broadcast about the nice time they gave him for propaganda purposes by Goebbels. PGW, not knowing what nefarious things were going on outside their Camp agreed to deliver three or four talks on radio and got into serious trouble in England and had to shift base to the US.

Anyway the only unpleasant task that the Germans imposed on their senior citizen prisoners was to attend Drill Classes morning and evening, more for the Roll Call to see if everyone was in and ok.

At the end of it all, PGW writes in his Performing Flea, the only wish he had in his retired life was to buy a German Soldier, put him up in his house, drag him every morning and evening to his garden and bark at him...Left, Right, Left, Right, About Turn, March, Double Up...Achtung!!!

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Pseudo-nostalgia

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The first time I read 'pseudo' and elicited a rare boisterous laugh from my HM Father was when I read 'pseudonym' aloud...I pronounced the 'p' emphatically...unlike Peasmith of PGW.

The next was when MSS taught me all about pseudo-forces in mechanics at IIT KGP.

The pseudo that looked very original was when two unknown kids from IIT KGP Phy Dept wrote:

"Your article has once again stirred up that wishful pseudo-nostalgia in us!"

The article mentioned was my SDM Homage that was about to appear in Ansatz, their (extinct) webzine, as they called it.

Later on it was explained to me that real nostalgia is fond memories of an experienced past; while pseudo-nostalgia is fonder memories of a vicarious past, viz. a past others experienced and told you tall tales about.

That brings me to the genesis of this blog that has grown from an aquarium fish into a Loch Ness Monster.

The initial reaction to the SDM Homage from KGPhians (such as the pesudo-nostalgia it evoked) was so heart-warming that I wished to post a few sdmsnippets (now deleted it appears) on the web. And my son created this blogspot for me.

The usually sedate Sachin once was so taken by his latest century that he flamboyantly 'dedicated' it to Tiger Conservation.

My blogspot gul dashboard tells me that this is the 700th post.

Let me follow Sachin's example and dedicate these 7 centuries to the Conservation of KGPhians.

If at all there is a targeted audience for these tall tales it is the KGP Phy brood. Indeed a CSE lady reader complained to me of this 'focus'.

There was a time when KGP (Integrated) Physics was about to become extinct...there were not even the required minimum number of 4 JEE students opting for Physics...it was the local talent that saved and sustained it.

I do hope that such a crisis will never erupt in future.

Here is to KGPhians and their pseudo-nostalgia!

For, when everything is said and forgot, Physics remains one of the good things of life.

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Fact Files

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When all of a sudden the number of IITs were doubled and the intake in each increased fivefold or so, there was hue and cry. I recall I posted a blog about it.

Now listen to today's news:

The intake of Engineering Colleges in AP has been enhanced by 42,000. This takes the total intake in AP alone to about 3 lakhs in its 714 Engineering Colleges. But there are only about 2 lakh aspirants. They have to merely appear in an Entrance Exam, just to get their inter se merit rating. The absolute marks they get could be zero or even negative.

DC: "As per a recent Nasscom survey, only about 10% of students graduating out of engineering colleges in the state are employable".

gps: It doesn't mention what the others do with their degree...your guess is as good as mine.

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DC: After the 9/11 attacks, there have been no terror attacks in America because of its policing apparatus, but Mumbai continues to face terror strikes time and again...

Julius Ribeiro: You cannot compare the situation of Mumbai with that of the United States. We live in a very dangerous part of the world whereas the US is far away from the hub of the Islamic world.....

gps: As Thurber's Mathews put it neatly: "The setup is different"

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DC: At best, former Scotland Yard senior officers acknowledged in interviews, the police have been lazy, incompetent and too cozy with the people they should have regarded as suspects. At worst, they said, some officers might be guilty of crimes themselves...The scandal has embroiled Britain's police, who are accused of being too close to News Corp, of accepting cash from the now defunct News of the World tabloid that was at the heart of the scandal, and from other newspapers, and of not doing enough to investigate phone-hacking allegations that surfaced as far back as 2005.

gps: Deja vu from Robert Clive and Warren Hastings...it is tough to say whether they corrupted India or vice versa...I guess for over two centuries India and England lived in a cozy symbiotic relationship...each learning from each. I am told that Napoleon scornfully remarked that Britain is a nation of shopkeepers...I think India should protest vehemently.

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Ishani is here...Joy in the Morning!

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