Pen & Wink

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Here is something that sounds very like a TRIBUTE!!!

Let us assume so as we used to do in our good old Physics Days.

If it IS a tribute, this is the first I got in what I am told and DQ agrees is the sweetest tongue in the world: Urdu (or is it Hindusthani?).

This kindles many fond memories of Professor STA (now in the US?). To him Urdu couplets, triplets, and quartets used to come like sweet tweets to a warbler; many famous, some original. He was always a big draw in Intro & Farewell Functions which wouldn't be complete without him (audience would walk-out if the HoD drools,,,).

Soumendu hit back with this sher or (is it sahiri?): can't let it get buried as an obscure Comment (we have to highlight everything that looks like a compliment..there are so few coming our way):

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arz kiya hain ...

Unhe pyari hain students ki chitthi
Unhe pyari hain watan ki mitti
kabhi dohratein yaad purani
to kabhi farmatein nayii kahani

hain woh chiriya apni hi dhun mein
dimag chalate hain blog likhne mein
dhoond rahe ho tum unki pata thikana ?
rastein bahut hain padh tum gulmarg se hi jana !

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Here is my humble riposte:

Spellcheck is dicey
Giftcheck is pricey
Paycheck is nicey
But Soumchack is ever whimsy!

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This morning I was quietly sitting and gathering wool in a plush sofa in the Axis Bank, waiting for my son to finish his quota of backlog transactions (he visits his Bank once in a blue moon).

And there rushed in this obviously Software kid, unshaven, in Jeans & T-shirt (without a pocket) to beat the Saturday Closing Time, picked up a Check-Deposit Form hurriedly and sat beside me.

And, in no time, looked at me and said: "May I borrow your pen?"

Nothing new in it...my pen gets borrowed in every queue.....

And for a few seconds, he was pondering wistfully and dubiously, looked up and asked:

"What is the date today?"

This was new....double-dealing...

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I always carry a pen in my shirt pocket...feel naked without it; and a decade later get ridiculed for it by my ex-madchen students:

"...Awww...cho chweet...Sonoo is becoming a reflection of you. Not only does he resemble you more and more these days but he also has a pen in his pocket (even on his honeymoon!!!)...."

THIS is the reward I get for lending my pen in the Class to the front-bench girls.....most other Teachers borrow pens from them for marking Attendance and ruin them (I mean their pens).

There was hardly a Class at KGP when some student or the other didn't borrow my pen. And I used to tell them loudly: "Don't feel shy to return it!", so it evokes a laugh and gets registered.

Students always returned my pens (Grade-Consciousness).

Not so the stranger-gents in the queue. Either I or them forget and part forever.

For a few days I tried lending my pen but retaining its cap....but what is the big use of a cap without its pen?...The chap who took my pen away (looking for its owner everywhere) can still use its bare-headed torso or perhaps borrow a tight-fitting cap from another cloudy Senior-Citizen.

RKN's Umbrella Devotee would surely have declined (not very politely) to lend his pen...but it requires guts (here is Hemingway's celebrated definition of "guts" = "grace under pressure"); especially to refuse pens to Kolkata girl-students of Phy Dept of IIT KGP now sitting in sunny California (I do hope it gets buried under boulders of snow this winter due to this unprecedented Global Cooling....I guess Obama should release more greenhouse fumes);

And then ridiculing her ex-Teacher and his Honey-Mooning Golden Son...

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Feedbacknumbers

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Like the quintessential IITian that he is, Soumendu woke up a couple of days back, and in a "Dayin & Nightout" completed reading all the old Asignments and Posting Comments as he went along.

Since old blogs are rarely read by regular students, his piquant comments would be lost.

So,, here is a Compilation: Enjoy!

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On To B or not to B:

Nano comes in three colors:
Blue, white and red;
A splash in Mamata's metaphors
Turns them all Bloody Red!

- Read a bengali poem that came in some newspaper (or magazine) during the 2008 Durga Puja.

Chaturthi te Nano gelo,
Ashtami te Sourav,
eke eke hariye jachhe
Bangla r sob gourab

aar kichhu ma na niye
tui tule ne sudhu 'Mamata' ke
notun kore bachbo
mora bachabo ei "Bangla" ke

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On: Grand Spam

Night & Day I pray to Allah
Not for gold or mota moola
Just a mail from apoon Laila
Ugh!
Here is one from Coca Cola!

The first three lines were going great (in terms of rhyme & rhythm) and also had continuity of thought (or whatever terminology poets use) and probably an even greater philosophical significance but it was not at all to my liking (though the third line created an expectation that it would end more towards the Laila side of matters - that would be to my liking) and then I got totally bowled over by the way it ended.

I heard a somewhat similar one from a friend of mine at KGP (My batchmates would already know this).

The story goes like this. Four freshers are brought together to a senior's room for ragging. They are told to form an instant poem (an original one) with each guy uttering one line (one after the other) and it should all rhyme, have continuity of thought etc.

The first person who was chosen at random had nothing to lose and said in an off-handed manner:

Maine tujhse pyar kiya

The second person didn't even care to rhyme and chose continuity of thought to be an easier alternative (thereby throwing the burden of rhyming sqaurely on person 3 and 4) and said:

Maine tujhse pyar kiya
Tere baap ne mere ko peeta

The third guy was now tied in a spot and had to get some form of rhyme and rhythm going both for the sake of his health and his friend's (person 4) and blurted :

Maine tujhse pyar kiya
Tere baap ne mere ko peeta
sin theta / cos theta equals tan theta

The fourth guy coolly said:

Maine tujhse pyar kiya
Tere baap ne mere ko peeta
sin theta / cos theta equals tan theta
Tan ki shakti, man ki shakti Bournvita !

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On: Lotus Eater of B C Roy Hall

Conjugation: Blog, Blogger, Bloggest; Like go, went, GONE! - Don't know why but this made me remember a Santa joke.

टीचर बंता से:
बताओ "तमसो मा ज्योतिर्गमय" का अर्थ क्या हुआ?
बंता: जी इसका अर्थ हुआ
"तू सो जा माँ मैं ज्योति के घर जा के आया"!

In English:

Teacher to Banta: Batao "Tamso Maa Jyotirgamay" kaa arth kya hua?

Banta: Jee Iska arth hua "Tu So jaa Maan Main Jyoti ke ghar jaa ke aaya"!

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gps:

Now for this Sardarjee Variant of a famous last wish:

Banta was caught stealing the daughter of this King and was sentenced to death.

The King gave him a choice:

"You will be hanged if you tell the truth and shot if you tell a lie...Take your pick".

Banta pondered over the conundrum for a long minute and said decisively:

"I will be hanged"

And he was!

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A few blogs ago, in Prejudice - 4, I wrote this:

"....He then turned to me and asked abruptly: "How much more time you guys will take?"

That got my goat..........."

Meaning: I got thoroughly pissed off.

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And then Googled for where this "get my goat" comes from.

Here is an interesting explanation:

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http://www.wanderings.net/notebook/Main/GetOnesGoatOriginStory

Get One's Goat -

Heard about origin of this phrase on NPR. The story starts with a horse's ass...actually, it involves the whole horse--a thoroughbred horse to be exact. Because of breeding, thoroughbred horses tend to be very jumpy, nervous animals. Goats are the exact opposite, tending to be calm and unshakable. Someone noticed this contrast and wondered if the goat's demeanor would have a calming influence on the horse. As a test, a goat was put into the stall of a thoroughbred horse. As hoped, the horse calmed a bit AND, most importantly, the horse ran better in the next race.

Next thing you knew, all thoroughbreds stalls had a companion goat.

Soon some unscrupulous owners began kidnapping (pun?) the goats of competitor's horses, hoping the disruption would help their still goat-calmed horses to win their races.

Out of this practice came the phrase "to get one's goat."

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gps:

Without doubt goats are the most placid creatures I ever watched.

They keep munching their grass as if nothing is going to happen to them even as they see their friends getting serially beheaded.

Just like us humans who never believe we will ever die!!!

Yaksha asked Yudhistir his final viva question (that would bring his brothers back to life):

Q: What is the most mysterious thing in this world?

A: Even as he sees others die, no one believes that he would ever really die.

Wise men say that this is the proof of the immortality of one's Self.

Of course I am not going to die.....who will write this blog???

QED

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Past Perfect

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It is said that Nature abhors Vacuum.

I guess it also abhors Perfection: like Absolute Zero or a Perfect Crystal.

There is always something that spoils Perfection and makes Life interesting.

Yesterday I wrote how Nature spoiled the Perfection of my Ph D Thesis by a weird spelling mistake.

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This is the season of weddings in Hyderabad. The weather is just fine in February, no rains expected, winter chill is on its way out (Sorry Saswat: your NYC is perhaps still buried under yards of snow), summer is still a month away; And if you decide to perform your Maryland Doll's shotgun wedding to that Minnesota Dude in a hurry, you have to travel a hundred miles away from the City to get a suitable Function Hall...every swell thing has been booked six months in advance.

It is thus the season of printing Wedding Cards.

Three years ago almost to a day I got my son's Wedding Cards printed. The Printer tried to exhibit samples from his Historic arXivs: he has a dozen, you pick your choice, and all he has to do is change names, dates and venue: Just a 10-minute affair.

But I being an Original (like Sam Weller), I didn't want to see any but make up one in my own style. And being a Perfectionist, sat with the Printer and went through my Proofs three times, to his utter disgust. But at last I was convinced that I got it Word-Perfect, Spell-Perfect and Punct-Perfect.

And everyone to whom I sent it appreciated it (no one READS Wedding Cards...they just glance at the names, dates and venue...the Printer was right!).

The other day I happened to take a re-look at a spare copy of that old Wedding Card when the Passport of my D-i-L had to be processed.

And, READING it, I found a Full Stop where it ought not to be there at all.

Sigh!

Luminiscence Story once again!

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When my son was an infant he developed an aggressive and fearsome rash all over his face, neck and torso overnight. The Skin Specialist advised us to stop using all oils, lotions, cosmetics and the usual bath-preparations on him since he is prone to allergy.

So, he looked his natural Angelic Self and looked Fair & Lovely.

One day when I was wheeling him around in his pram, a senior-citizen stranger stopped by and rebuked me: "Don't you know that you have to put a black dot on the right side of his forehead to forestall the Evil Eye?".

I made some excuse and hurried ahead.

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Apparently, this Evil Eye Business is not confined to our culture but exists in some form or the other everywhere.

I recall a Reader's Digest tidbit:

This guy from Kenya went to England and made it good and bought a fantastic new car and bragged about it to his mom in Nairobi. Africa being the home of things like Voodoo, his mom asked him to at once wring the neck of a chick and pour its warm blood over the bonnet of his new car; which her very British Kid was reluctant to do.

But his mom persisted pestering him; and so one day he placed an egg on the ground and drove his car over it and reported to his mom that the chick-sacrifice has been carried out successfully.

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When the New Wing of the Central Library at KGP was coming up, I was watching its progress every day and felt how lovely the tiles on its outer wall were looking...perfectly designed and arranged.

But to my consternation one morning I saw an inlaid Swastika Variant fixture on the wall.

And was told that it is a normal custom prevalent in Bengal to ward off the Evil Eye.

Evil Eye on our IIT LIbrary!!!

For housing a copy of my (Past) Perfect Thesis?

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And then I bought this Apartment in my home town, Nellore, and had to shell down twenty thousand costly rupees that bankrupted me further, performing a socio-religious Grihapravesham (House-Warming) Function to please my relatives and propitiate sundry Gods and Goddesses.

At the end of the mumbo-jumbo ritual (during which the Purohit pauperized me, asking to place unending tenners here and there), he led me by hand to the outer wall, took a silver plate (which he snatched away later), mixed yellow haldi (turmeric) and red kumkum (vermilion), and wet-lime, and poured water over the concoction till it looked bloody; and asked me to sprinkle the damn thing on the brand new outer walls of my dear home.

I asked him what it was all about and he replied that in accordance with strict good old Vedic Rituals, he has to fetch a goat, behead it and sprinkle its blood; but since we all turned vegetarian after Buddhism took over, this bloody concoction he made up acts like a (poor) imitation of goat's genuine blood.

Why blame African Voodoo...and laugh at that RD British Son of Nairobi?

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My Father used to tell me this typical story of how men are scared of Perfection in their wives:

This well-read Brahmin Youth married the most beautiful girl in the town picked up by his mom, and on taking a first look at her radiant face on the First Night recalled the Sanskrit aphorism: "Bharya Roopavati Shatruh" meaning: "A Beautiful Wife is an Enemy" (ask Menelaus, the husband of Helen of Troy!).

So, he plucked one of her eyes and was looking at his handiwork with quiet satisfaction that her Perfection has been suitably besmirched.

Then he recalled another Sanskrit aphorism:

"Ekakshee Lok Sanchari" meaning: "Single Eye is a Roving Eye".

So, he plucked the remaining one.

Moral: Don't Look at Perfection...few can stand Her glare.

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My Father was a connoisseur of Beauty in his own way.

When I was a boy of ten and was still a male 'madchen', he took me to a movie in which a brand new starlet (later she became a mega-star) was making her debut.

On our way home, he said: "She is the most beautiful film star I saw".

And I, being a novice to this Beauty Worship (I took my own sweet time), asked him:

"How come; she has this one silly tooth growing over the other!"

He replied:

"That is her Beauty Spot".

I am not sure if he would have enjoyed the Perfect Set of Madhuri Dixit's teeth...but of course he would certainly have discovered some other Mar-Perfect Defect as her Beauty Spot.

Any idea who it was that first said: "Beauty is in the eyes of the Beholder?"

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Spellbound

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Some people are very particular about spelling and punctuation (to say nothing of pronunciation): I mean, they are paranoid.

SDM, my Guru and Guide, was one of them.

Here is an SDM Snippet I posted more than 3 years ago but got deleted somehow:

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SDM was very very particular about the spelling of his name: S. Datta Majumdar.

One morning when I was sitting in his room, the postman arrived bringing in a wonderful picture post card, with a few words of adulation to SDM. But, he showed me the address where his surname was spelled 'Mazumdar'. He smiled wryly and commented: "So sorry that these few kind words were not for me but for someone else".

And he recalled the postman and returned it to him, telling him to mail it back to the sender, with 'Addressee Unknown'.

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I myself get upset when I make a spelling mistake or see one. The other day I blogged a Piece called: Mixed Feelings and Don Quixote posted the Comment:

"playing Bridge in the Faulty Club "----Is the "C" missing on purpose?? :)"

I was greatly amused by the bloomer and I attribute the error to my excessive reliance on Blogger's Spell-Check, which is 50% boon and 50% curse.

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My Love Affair with Lincoln started at the tender age of 9. There was this book: "Abe Lincoln, the Frontier Boy", Children Edition that was prescribed as a non-detailed English text.

All Math texts that I had to work through were postponed indefinitely; but all English texts were read cover to cover before the Classes began.

So I asked my Father (my walking dictionary) if there was a spelling mistake in Lincoln (the extra 'l'). He said it was ok ('l' silent).

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This reminds me now of a Sardarjee PJ:

This Officer and his Sardarjee NCO rushed into their trench when there was the sound of an approaching enemy aircraft. And as the aircraft drew nearer the Sardarjee suddenly stood up and shouted: "It is a Bomber, Bomber!".

Upon which his Officer admonished him: "Be silent!; Be silent!".

And then the Sardarjee shouted: "It is an Omer, Omer!"

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I then opened the Abe Lincoln book and was amazed to see that it had many pictures of Abe and his sister Sarah, but all of them were totally black with no facial features seen at all. And I asked my father if he bought a faulty specimen.

He said: "They are silhouettes".

That was a silencer. It took me 25 years to know that silhouette means 'shadow' and its queer etymology:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Silhouette

It was in that Abe Lincoln's book that I read that there were what were called: 'Spelling Bees' and Lincoln always stood first in his childhood. And little Lincoln became my boyhood idol.

And I never got over the mental picture of the feverish 'Bee' that goes from flower to flower and 'Spells' as it flits.

Only now I learned from Wiki where that 'bee' comes form:

.....Historically the word bee has been used to describe a get-together where a specific action is being carried out, like a husking bee, a quilting bee, or an apple bee. Its etymology is unclear but possibly derived from the Old English word bēn for prayer....

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When he at last okay-ed my Thesis Manuscript and dispatched me to the Banerjee Typing Center (that I fondly recollected in: Shyama o Shyamali):

http://gpsastry.blogspot.com/2010/05/shyama-o-shaymali.html

SDM warned me: "Your thesis is going to the US; see to it that there are no spelling mistakes".

And I spent days and nights ensuring that it was spell-perfect (Ha!).

SDM never went through my thesis since he knew what was in it. And C H Papas of Caltech passed it in one short paragraph of three sentences.

So I used to gloat that my Thesis was PERFECT,

A couple of years later there was a National Symposium on Luminescence in honor of HNB who was due to retire on his 60th Birthday.

And I was one of the Editors of the Proceedings that had to be printed.

When I went to HNB's Office to deliver my 'Introduction', written with a ball-pen, HNB glanced through it and pointed out a Big Bug in my Title humorously:

"It will be a Dishonor for me if your spelling of Luminescence gets into print: The word comes from 'luminesce' and not 'luminisce' (I wrote: 'luminiscence').

I was ashamed.

But then I recalled that two years back this word occurred in the Introduction of my Thesis at least once. And ran home, fished the damn thing out, and was aghast to find that it was again wrongly spelled: 'luminiscence'.

Papas was either in a hurry or overlooked my Indian spelling.

Now, now, look:

There is a red underline beneath the word 'luminesce' above (but not here), courtesy Blogger's Spell-check, which offers nonsensical suggestions; but Webster says it is perfectly ok.

I told you: "50% boon and 50% curse"

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T. P. Das was my hero at my University where I tried to do Experimental Research in NQR:

He was the only Indian to write (with E. L. Hahn) a monograph in the Solid State Physics Series (then only 7) edited by the greats: Frederick Seitz and David Turnbull (Academic Pres, New York) on NQR. The first page had frightening Equations talking about mystic things like Wigner-Eckart Theorem and Angular Momentum Matrix Elements (all foreign words to me).

When I ran away to IIT KGP it so happened that TPD was invited to give a talk when he was visiting his Home Town Bhubaneshwar on a holiday from his US. A very young short fair gent in jeans (absolutely unseen at KGP then) who gave an equally mysterious speech, which however had the stamp of an expert.

A decade later, I was glancing through the 'Latest Arrivals' rotating shelf in the Central Library at KGP (the Sanctum Sanctorum of that Temple of Learning).

And there I saw a lovely book by T. P. Das, hard-bound and published by Harper & Row, New York. It was fresh from their oven.

And to my consternation the Title in Big Print on the majestic cover read:

"Relativistic Quantum Mechanics of Elections".

And there was no Spell-Check then to pass on the blame.

TPD must have felt miserable!

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I bought a Paperback Edition of RKN's Ramayan as soon as it was released in the Indian Market in the 1980s (?).

It had a gorgeous color picture on its Cover, but going home, I saw that there were these over-bars (indicating extra length in pronunciation) on the wrong 'a's, reading 'Raamayaana' instead of 'Raamaayana'.

gps & TPD & RKN: great company!!!

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Boost-Boast

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Prospero:

Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd tow'rs, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.

The Tempest Act 4, scene 1, 148–158

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In the life of every Person, Family, Province, Nation and Planet (eventually) there arise moments of distress, desolation and despair when they look for icons of inspiration to keep them going.

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I think Britain takes recourse to her Shakespeare.

When the French used to ridicule her as a Nation of Shopkeepers (a phrase used by Napoleon) without any legacy of culture, arts or literature, the British demurred: "We do have some who wrote pleasing verse", meaning their Shakespeare.

Walking into the Central Library at KGP one evening I found a gorgeous Coffee Table Book titled: Heritage of Britain. Lovely production. I half wanted to steal it because it couldn't be issued (it was Reserved) and there was no way I could buy it. So I read it serially over a week sitting in the CL.

It started with Stonehenge and ended with perhaps the Second World War's Churchill Speeches.

In its Literature Chapter there was this Boxed Shakespeare Quote from Tempest cited above.

Since then I must have read this Quote or looked for it or recalled it a dozen times.

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US being a kid with little burden of History has fewer icons.

But I guess Lincoln takes the lead there. Of all the wars fought by the US, the most distressing must have been its Civil War since it threatened its Nationhood: but for Lincoln, United States could well be Divided States, balkanized and vivisected. In the midst of its far-flung wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, and a sinking Economy, Americans chose a President who chose to take his Presidential Oath on Lincoln's Bible.

It is a different matter that in his youthful ebullience he goofed in public and had to take it again in private:

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He came, he saw, he smiled

"Lincoln climbs down his pedestal to watch Obama take oath":

His dream come true,
He dropped down to view.
When on his Bible
The novice did fumble,
He smiled and withdrew

http://gpsastry.blogspot.com/2009/02/he-came-he-saw-he-smiled.html

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Personally I would like to think that Mahatma Gandhi is India's Icon. Many would disagree violently (in particular, Bengalis and Punjabis who suffered most from Partition for which they hold Muslim-Appeasing Gandhi squarely responsible...history will have the last word on this...many would blame Jinnah or Nehru or even Curzon).

But to me he is the most interesting and iconic Indian of the last century; warts and all.

Government of India (shyly) deputes her Billionaires to bid for his memorabilia.

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My Father, who took over as HM of a new School that he built up from scratch at our seaside Village, Muthukur, had the privilege of choosing the framed photos that would adorn the walls of his Office. And, as HM's son, I visited his Office a hundred times in 5 years, mostly to supply Coffee in a Thermos on Sundays when he used to work overtime. And I used to stare at those huge portraits and get inspired by them... village kids are impressionable. And I found that half of the photos were of Bengalis. Bengal made a great impression on me then on which continues till now.

I guess most Bengalis would vote Tagore as their Icon (Shyamal was almost about to beat me up when I passed a light-hearted comment on Tagore).

Tagore himself is quoted as saying: "Whatever else they may forget, Bengalis would never forget my songs".

I was very impressed when Aniket, who quotes many English poets like Frost at the drop of his specs, chose Tagore's lines when I pressed him into service to write his impression of SDM whom he never saw but admired and got hooked.

The result is striking: Fourfold Way is second only to Reco Mela - 2 in the number of hits it got within 24 hours of posting it.

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For Maharashtra it is Shivajee or none.

Once there was this very charming Dr Chitnis on leave at KGP from Cornell for two years staying in our Faculty Hostel. And during 1967- 69, with Bengal in the throes of Naxal violence, our Bengali brethren were low in spirits.

One after-dinner night, Kunal Ghosh was pontificating that Indians got their Freedom doled out to them, having never won a war.

Quick came Dr Chitnis's quiet rejoinder: "That depends on who you mean by Indians"...

....meaning their Shivajee won several wars...

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From Boost, let us now come to Boast, something all of us are prone to do once in a while:

The flip side of Big Boasting is typified by this Aesop Fable:

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The Frog and the Ox

"Oh Father," said a little Frog to the big one sitting by the side of a pool, "I have seen such a terrible monster! It was as big as a mountain, with horns on its head, and a long tail, and it had hoofs divided in two."

"Tush, child, tush," said the old Frog, "that was only our Farmer White's Ox. It isn't so big either; he may be a little bit taller than I, but I could easily make myself quite as broad; just you see."

So he blew himself out, and blew himself out, and blew himself out. "Was he as big as that?" asked he. "Oh, much bigger than that," said the young Frog. Again the old one blew himself out, and asked the young one if the Ox was as big as that. "Bigger, father, bigger," was the reply. So the Frog took a deep breath, and blew and blew and blew, and swelled and swelled and swelled. And then he said: "I'm sure the Ox is not as big as this".

But at this moment he burst.

Self-conceit may lead to self-destruction.

http://fiction.eserver.org/short/aesop_fables.html

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Boasting is not altogether bad...sulking is worse.

Let us hear our Autocrat on the subject:

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`"...Audacious self-esteem, with good ground for it, is always imposing...Even in common people, conceit has the virtue of making them cheerful; the man who thinks his wife, his baby, his house, his horse, his dog, and himself severally unequaled, is almost sure to be a good-humored person, though liable to be tedious at times.......".

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I recall with pleasure two of my friends who were the most good-humored at KGP but 'liable to be tedious at times':

1. BM, my erstwhile colleague in our Phy Dept with whom I had the most cordial relations (the one who owed his recruitment to Ukridge) was simply unbeatable at this Boasting Game.

He came form an Aristocratic Family, had a lovely Society Lady as wife, was a Rotarian, was so well-dressed that his Tailor in Gole Bazaar gave him a whopping discount asking him only to 'promote' his name in the IIT Campus, his Chinese Cobbler charged him nothing for acting as his Male Model, his Drawing Room was frighteningly interior-decorated and so on and such...

But he would hog any conversation with his exploits. Whenever someone starts saying something good about himself, he would intervene and say a better thing about himself. Since I had nothing much to boast about except my deep knowledge of Wodehouse, I was his best listener: within a year, I knew all his exploits childhood onwards.

One day I was in a rather fractious mood and when he started boasting about something very clever he did, I butted in and started saying; "Listen BM! I made a big ass of myself today..."

Prompt came the default intervention: "Just listen to what a BIGGER Ass I made of myself the other day..."

2. There was this equally aristocratic SB in our Faculty Hostel, with the added feather in his cap that he did his B Tech at IIT KGP and had been the Culture Secretary of Nehru Hall.

To hear him speak, there was never any Cultural Event at IIT without his finger in that pie: he was into TDS (Bengali & English), TFS, SPICMACAY, SF, TMS, and ABCDEF...

And then there was this Science Congress Mela organized by IIT KGP in 1970. During that one week, there was a fabulous Cultural Event every night...the Who is Who of the Entertainment Industry of Bengal and the Rest of India, most of them in their prime, were there giving their Performances open to all IIT KGP residents: Pundit Ravi Shankar, Usha Iyer (not yet Uthup), Bismillah Khan, P C Sarkar (Original), Kuchipudi and Bharata Natyam Maestros...

SB claimed he was instrumental in fetching them all, they were all on first-name terms with him ("Sonjoy! Meet me when you next come home without fail and bring your friends too"); and what a big mess Science Congress Evenings would be but for him.

And asked me which Entertainment Event I liked best of all.

Trying to outsmart him for once, I replied: "I liked the Pandal best".

He then embraced me for a good 30 seconds and said:

"Shastry! You are the only one who recognized it...what a great trouble it was for me to design, erect and surround-sound it....those Philips guys simply were after me for my suggestions..."

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IIT KGP was too tiny to keep BM & SB within its (non-existent) 4 walls and so they left to better places soon to improve conditions there...

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Lachrymal Taxonomy

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All my tears had to do with Onions.

While I was a Reluctant Bachelor at IIT KGP for 14 lo..oong years I had to resort to survival-cooking for 7 years from the time I was kicked out of the Faculty Hostel till I could find a wife who didn't like my cooking.

Every cook knows that Onion is the friend of all vegetables unlike Tomato which is their Universal Enemy.

A delicately fried Onion added to anything and eaten at once adds its glorious flavor to insipid but inexpensive vegetables like Cabbage, Cauliflower and of course Onion's Bosom Friend: Potato.

On the other hand Tomato, with its ruddy indelible color and sneaking juice, masks the delicious taste of Country Vegetables like the Brinjal (Egg Plant), Ladyfingers, and Karyala (Bitter Gourd).

Mix Onion and Tomato and fry and the result is like the mixture of an Acid and a Base...they neutralize one another producing salt and water...an altogether new product resembling neither.

Anyway, no novice can cut Onions without shedding copious ears.

The experts know there are ways out:

http://www.wikihow.com/Chop-Onions-Without-Tears:

This website lists 13 antidotes, from wearing contact lenses to lighting a candle, explaining the complicated chemistry involved; all of them impractical when you want your cooking, bathing, eating and snoozing done within the Lunch Hour.

Soon after my marriage my wife had to taste my cooking during her Hyperemesis Gravidarum (morning sickness). That was a strong incentive for her quick recovery (She found that my cooking aided and abetted her Hyperemesis like breeze to a blaze).

So nowadays my contact with the Holy Onion is confined to shopping (which my wife refuses to do).

And that brings tears to my eyes (like in Oh My Darling, Oh My Darling, Oh My Darling, Clementine!):

Then the miner forty-niner
He began to weep and pine
For his darling little daughter
Now he's with his Clementine

A kilo of Onions are selling at a whopping Rs 60!!!

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Mankind (unlike the Womankind) are not easily reduced to a public display of tears.

There is no doubt that shedding tears is an emotional outlet while inability to do so can sit heavy on the heart.

At KGP I was a witness to the cremation of a woman whose husband was watching it stoically silent. A Dr Know-All from the audience came to me and asked me to slap the husband so he could cry and release his pent-up emotions before they destroyed him.

My internal response was: "You do it first!" much like that Sardarjee of Raamda told his innocent white lady co-passenger who requested him to show "pecchab karneki jagah": "Pehle too dikha!"

I also watched the cremation of another lady whose husband was shedding copious tears all through the 4 hour-combustion (he ill-treated his nice wife who died young throughout their brief marriage).

My HM Father would beat me black & blue mercilessly on some flimsy grounds such as not doing my impossibly intricate Profit & Loss sums right; and then is reported to enter the kitchen and cry to my mom (what is the good of crying over spilt milk?)...I never cried because I got reconciled early to my allergy to Profit & Loss to this day....the Autocrat said famously: "Don't put your trust in Money..put your Money in Trust".

So, my thesis is that male tears show nothing: don't be deceived by them.

Men are like are the Walruses of Alice feasting on poor Oysters:

"I weep for you," the Walrus said:
"I deeply sympathize."
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.

As wise and smart a character as Sam Weller was taken for a unique ride by the frequent and copious tears of his sly opponent Job Trotter whom he variously calls a Pump, Injine, and Chelsea Water-works:

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....At these words, Mr Job Trotter inserted the end of the pink handkerchief into the corner of each eye , one after the other and began to weep copiously.

"Wot's the matter with the man," said Sam, indignantly. "Chelsea water-works is nothi' to you. What are you melting vith now? The consciousness o' willainy?"......

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My wife's grandfather (80) was (unofficially) presiding over the solemn Impromptu 3rd Day Condolence Gathering of a dozen able-bodied men at my father-in-law's residence at Jalgaon from 8 AM to 2 PM, with innumerable cups of Tea served to order, despite which the Big Bad Wolf in our bellies was sending warning signals of starvation.

Finally word came from within the inner recesses of the house that lunch was ready.

Everyone felt embarrassed as to who would take the lead to such a carnal exhibition of hunger as that for food for the body, on such a soulful occasion.

The Grand Old Man broke the ice with a sigh: "Let us go in and have our food....we need energy even to mourn!".

After a hearty meal everyone slept soundly except me who ran away to book my return ticket to KGP pronto.

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Our Ancient Indian Wisemen were experts in Taxonomy: they were adept at dividing any subject into its various parts and each part into sub-sub parts and so on and so on. But they rarely dealt with any subject scientifically in the sense of Controlled Experimental Physics & Chemistry...they were mostly speculating and philosophizing like the Greek Philosophers.

I was astonished to see a mention of Kanaada in Saha & Srivastava as the original proponent of Atomic Theory. Neither he nor his countrymen ever did and analyzed repeatable experiments with sensitive balances, test tubes, burettes, and pipettes or such devices of the sordid Analytical Chemistry (Quantitative), like say Dalton and Avagadro.

But they are poetic and romantic in their own studies in Taxonomy of Human Structure and Feelings.

Looking desperately for hard porn in my teens I purchased the famous Kama Sutra of Vatsayan. It was a terrible disappointment: it was all Taxonomy, little sex, and no mood-elevating photos.

So I dumped it.

But the most interesting Indian Taxonomy is that of Emotions; Rasas:

.....These are shringara (love), hasya (laughter ), karuna (kind-heartedness or compassion), roudra (anger), veera (courage), bhayanaka (fear ), bheebhatsya (disgust), adbhutha (surprise) and shantha (peace or tranquility)................

I must say that all tear-jerkers belong to one or the other of these emotions; I mean each of these emotions can evoke different kinds tears if done right; some from the inner corners of the eyes, some from the outer, and others from all along them like those induced by glycerin on film starlets'.

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I thought Sardarjee Males, being the epitomes of Bravery and Swordsmanship, carrying their kirpan always with them even in Canada, wouldn't show their tears in public.

But MSS (the only Sardrajee in our Phy Faculty at KGP, who was my other Guru in Physics) told me that he used always to wonder, when he visited his rural home town in Punjab, watching males and females both cry like babies when a soulful episode of Ramayan (of all Hindu things) was narrated by a consummate Male Performer who himself would break down often.

And I saw tears in MSS's own eyes in the aftermath of Operation Blue Star...

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Time to get down to Brass Tacks:

I am a cynic as well as a student of Physics...a deadly Queen-Bishop combination against any tendency for tears welling up.

Cynicism (that you would have noticed in the above paragraphs) is typified by trashing the notorious Maternal Instinct by narrating the Controlled Experiment on Chimpanzee & her Baby, where the Mother Chimp and her infant son are placed in a tub into which water is gradually poured: It was observed that the mom holds her baby high up above her head till the water level reaches her nose, after which suddenly the mom chimp throws down her babe at her feet and stands on him.

Any student of Physics (and Cosmology which is now taught even in Class X) can only conclude that the whole thing we call the World and the Story of its Residents is at best a Poor Joke and at worst a Farce.

But I have read the news item that a mom cat rescued all her six kittens one by one from a burning building and then succumbed to her burns.

So, maybe cynicism is not an absolute cred and maybe there is something called love hereunder.

Nor our Great Cosmologists above human emotions...I read that Edwin Hubble, driving down from his Mt Wilson Observatory after taking his sumptuous readings in fine weather, used to smirk in glee if he noticed a huge cloud cover gathering when his rival was going up for his whole-night work...

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Soon after my retirement, from 2005 to 2007, I was down in the dumps and could neither read nor write; and gave up all hopes in that direction.

But when Sayan asked me to write a 'Piece' on SDM for (the now defunct) Ansatz, I thought it was impossible.

But my son and my wife who were tending to me for two hopeless years encouraged me to try.

I sat down in front of my son's keyboard and tried fingering.

The whole 17-page SDM Homage Document poured out from nowhere overnight.

In the broad and stark daylight of the next morning, I read it and was convinced that I am on my U-Turn, and there would be no looking back.

I then badly wanted to have a look at my Redeemer SDM after 30 odd years and asked Shyamal if he could hunt down Mampi in Calcutta, SDM's only daughter, who sat in my Class for a couple of semesters at IIT KGP, and after whom I titled an entire Chapter in my Homage: "Mampi & Angular Momentum"; and show the Manuscript of my Homage and get a photo or two of SDM for Ansatz to accompany the Article.

Shyamal being Shyamal, he did it in no time and reported that Mampi said: "lekhata bhheeshon bhaalo hoyechey"; and gave him the color family photo that graces this Blog Post.

Noblesse Oblige! Thanx!

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Labor Yarns Unlimited

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The other day I Posted the Chandamama Story of the Florist, Sucha, scorning half the Ujjain Kingdom and preferring to himself place his Lotus at the Holy Feet of Lord Buddha.

I was then Googling for Buddha and discovered to my dismay and pathos that Queen Mayavati gave birth to her wonder-kid in the Lumbini Park under a Sal Tree but died seven days thereafter.

This terrible story reminded me of how prevalent postnatal maternal fatalities (lots of top spin there!) were during our own childhood.

My paternal aunt died during her seventh childbirth. My wife's granny died during her eighth childbirth. My own mom almost died during her sixth childbirth. The list is endless.

Most of these deaths were due to complications during labor or infections (mostly Tetanus) thereafter.

All of us siblings except one were born within the 4 walls of our homes in makeshift labor rooms in conditions of unimaginable unhygiene (note the unique 'un-un' combo).

There were no trained nurses to assist in the deliveries...only 'country' midwives.

That made me Google for 'midwife'... Interesting word: The 'wife' part is ok, but where does the 'mid' come from? Well, it has nothing to do with the abbreviated 'middle' stump, say, or Mid-Summer Night's (Wet) Dream.

That 'mid' comes from the German word: 'mit' (I had to clear German twice...unique in the history of Ph D Requirements...because the cool but no-fool German Prof @ KGP divined that I forgot the little German I learned a decade ago @ my alma mater).

'mit' in German means 'with'...That tells all there is to tell...the midwife stays 'with' the wife during the latter's labor, mostly for moral support. And moral support is of little use in Breech Pregnancies and Tetanus.

And since my forefathers, unlike us youth banished to KGP or Cornell, never learned how to cook, they had to remarry twice, thrice and so on in a fastly converging series as long as they desperately needed food (till all their teeth are gone like mine, after which one becomes food-resistant).

And, young girls dying like flies all around during their deliveries, they had to marry minor girls ('madchen' in German and 'chick' in American) first, and infants by and by.

My paternal granny's marriage alliance got settled at her age 4.

But she got duly widowed at the age of 25 after her fourth successful delivery and so lived happily everafter till 100. I stayed with her for a year when she was 80 and she was smarter than all of me, my colleagues and genius-students combined. Her younger sister-in-law got widowed much earlier and so lived to a hundred and became another Sakuntala Devi, the number wizard. My wife's paternal grandaunt got widowed at 20 after her only daughter was born and lived to a 100 and died only last month. She brought up my wife's aunties and her too.

The advent of Penicillin and Tetanus Toxoid changed all that since 1950.

All kids of my parents lived on unexpectedly, unprovided for, and unasked (three 'un's this time like 'unwept, unhonored and unsung...Sir Walter Scott's Breathes There The Man With Soul So Dead..rough and tough poem!'). Tables turned on me and my wife and we had to wait till 36 and 29 respectively for our conjugal bliss.

Also Maternity Homes sprawled all over and became inevitable but expensive. This led automatically to single kids like my son, and Cesarean Sections (due to late pregnancies). These latter were also in huge demand as they grew cheaper, since women got afraid of labor pains, not being used to them from childhood.

They became a Fashion.

Also Figure-Consciousness (I mean the corporeal 'figure', not the numerical 'figure', although it too is important in Credit Card Dollars) led to the booming trade in Lactogen and Amulspray.... Every wife wanted to retain her proud hour-glass structure forever (much against Mother Nature).

But I see the tide is turning again.

The Latest Fashion, I am told, is to insist on Normal Deliveries and Controlled Labor Pains in Air-Conditioned 5-star Maternity Homes; just for the heck of it, since it is a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I suppose we get to see T-Tops with slogans such as: "I am no Caesar's Mom".

There has been another distressing trend:

The wife wants her hubby to be present during her unique delivery to participate in the labor and give her moral support......like the earlier midwife.

This may be the genesis of Paternity Leave...unheard of during my times @ KGP.

There are three Principal objections to this otherwise Equal-Opportunity outlook.

1. Labor being the gruesome thing it is (I watched a Video), the hubby may be repelled by the entire affair and walk out like Siddhartha and become a Buddha, inducting nuns and monks in His Order. This will be a Repeat of History where we read that this totally unnatural state of affairs drove Buddhism out of its native land (to be replaced by the totally natural Thug and Pindari Regimes later on till the British arrived with their phlegmatic approach to sex).

2. Paternity being a dubious affair, it is better not flaunted in Public by a GO (unlike Marriage). I am reminded of the fictitious story where the Feminists first went to the Creator and compelled Him to issue a GO that the husband too would get labor pains at the appropriate moment...but soon went on a hunger strike till He repealed His earlier GO.....since it was the Drivers that got the pains....Ouch! my wife hit me on my shin!

3. Post-Natal Inequity: I see no way a hubby either being made to or assist Breast-Feed the baby, the other trendy fad...short of painful hormone therapy that made Gandhijee renounce cow's milk famously.

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Enough of this lowly Labor...let us move on to a higher level of Labor:

June 1977:

My eldest B-i-L, IAS, got posted as Collector & District Magistrate of a drought-prone District in Tamilandu: a Year's Plum Posting.

I don't know now but those days Collectors were like the earlier Maharajas: they were the Monarchs of all they Surveyed. And they lived in Palatial Mansions with a dozen rooms under high ceilings, a vast garden, Malis, Coolies, Chaprasis, Drivers and Gate-Keepers (that is why the Posting is limited to just one year...everyone wanted to taste that plum pudding once in a lifetime).

And I being in the cadre of the proverbial Saalas of the Maharjas who wielded second hand powers as ECCPs (Extra-Constitutional Centers of Power), I wanted to visit my B-i-L's Palace and taste his High Living before he got promoted and posted to the Secretariat at New Delhi, where he will be one in a crowd of hundreds.

As I lugged my suit case and backpack to the Collector's sprawling Bungalow and tried to gaily rush its Main Gate, I was abruptly stopped by the awesome hairy hand of a large mustachioed khaki-pant-shirted, turban-crowned, swarthy Giant with a broad silky Sacred Thread hanging North:North-East to South:South-West across his Holy Vestment and a brass dawal shined by Brasso declaring in letters of Gold that the Wearer, Palaniappan, is a Government Servant, proved by its 3-Lions Emblem.

I got frightened at his immense bossy figure and tried my KGP Small Talk. It fell flat since the only lingo Palani understood was Tamil and I could neither read, write, speak, nor reckon in that flowing DMK tongue.

Sign Language didn't help either since he wasn't trained in the News of Doordarshan for the Visually-Impaired (what euphemisms for good old 'blind, dumb and deaf'!).

Ultimately I could somehow impress my claim on him that I am the saalah of the Collector.

Upon which he gave me one of those famous smirks that said:"Everyone says that!".

And demanded to produce my Visiting Card.

None of the 300-odd Profs @ IIT KGP then had Visiting Cards: the Glow of Wisdom on their faces was supposed to act as Open Sesames wherever they go: Much like Oscar Wilde's boast at the US Customs & Immigrations: "I have nothing to declare except my Genius".

So I was in the predicament of the Research Scholar RK when he tried to enter the Heat Engines Lab in the ME Dept of KGP where his bosom friend Rajaraman was working under Prof Mokadam, notorious for his tongue-lashing.

Unfortunately for RK, Prof Mokadam was exiting his Lab just as RK tried entering it.

Mokadam scowled at the Intruder.

In a fit of airy ebullience, RK said: "I am a friend of Rajaraman!".

And was shooed out by the Prof with this curse chasing him like a fiend: "No friend of that bloody Rajaraman is welcome in my lab...Push off pronto!"

Anyway, word spread of the Encounter at the Gate and my sister came out, said something in Tamil to Palani, and escorted me inside.

I spent 2 whole days and nights in that Bungalow but couldn't befriend Palani by means fair or foul...the guy was a tyrant.

And then my B-i-L explained:

Apparently Palani won a Bhutan Govt Lottery of Rs 50 Lakhs only the other day. Everyone rejoiced and expected Palani to resign, quit his lowly ill-paid job at the Collector's Gate, take Voluntary Retirement and live happily everafter in a sprawling mansion on the famous Coromandel Court of the Yanghy-Bonghy-Bo, where early pumpkins blow, shrimps and watercresses grow, and prawns are plentiful and cheap.

But Palani sneered at any such suggestion saying that a mere 50 Lakhs in the SBI FDs can noway compete with the Power and Might of the Collector's Gatekeeper (Bernard Levine's Theorem).

Also the job he got has been acquired by dint of merit and hard labor for 25 years and is a Distinction of what he has achieved in Life rather than a chancy windfall....

Dignity of Govt Labor!

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Let us now move on to the Sublime Heights of Labor: the Intellectual variety, typified by Retired Daily Bloggers [sic] gpsastry.blogspot.com:

The other day our Watchman, high and mighty like Palaniappan, entered our Drawing Room bringing a couple of Business Cards from two gents who arrived in a fleet of cars, one in BMWs and the other in Rolls Royces.

On close inspection (I am half-blind), I saw just one gold-inscribed name on each: 'Mukhesh' and 'Anil' and nothing else.

I asked my Watchman to produce them; and in they were ushered.

I escorted them to our 'two old chairs', asked my D-i-L to make two cups of Tea without Sugar (sugar is very expensive), and asked them what brings them to us.

Both said in a chorus that by a sheer chancy chancy coincidence both of them were going to have a grandniece each in a month. I said I too acquired a 'spiritual' one last month and know the bliss that accompanies such an achievement.

They both said that they have heard of my Ishani Series of booklets and wanted to bid for my forthcoming booklets to be named after their forthcoming grandnieces; and whipped out their check books.

I said I don't deal in money: the copy rights, TV rights and Film rights are owned by Ishani and so I have to consult her; and I Roll-Called her.

She came ambling in like a drunk (she is just 1 year old) and jumped into my lap.

Though she can't speak but just nod her head this way and that, she understood my question and whispered her Offer in my ear.

I translated to my Guests Ishani's considered opinion:

"She says she has no objection if both the forthcoming girl kids are named 'Ishani' like her"

Mukhesh & Anil jumped up, embraced her and left in a Cloud of Glory.

I winked at Ishani and she smiled knowingly.

The Brothers made it to their Twin-Hotels Taj Krishna and Taj Deccan not wise to Ishani's skulduggery:

Nothing has changed for us!!!

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