Hassleton Inequalities

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"...There is a charming folklore in A P which goes like this: In the dead of the dark monsoon midnight when the Swati Constellation is at zenith in the sky, the thirsty oyster surfaces with its mouth wide open, waiting for a tiny rain drop to fall into it. Its thirst quenched, it clams up and dives down and goes hibernating. After 3 months, lo and behold, the rain drop turns into a glowing pearl of such purity and brilliance that no hi-tech-pearl-culture-technology can ever hope to match...

Moral: The chosen rain drop that finds the oyster’s waiting open mouth turns into a pearl; while its million unlucky friends miss it, slip into the water, merge into the sea, and get lost! "

http://gpsastry.blogspot.com/2009/10/rain-drops-and-pearls.html

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That was about the one in a hundred aspiring kids who get into IITs.

There is another fishy story about a Senior Professor (and a much-loved administrator) getting caught riding his scooter without a helmet and hauled into the 2-Town Police Station at KGP. When asked why he alone is caught when an unhelmeted dozen before and a dozen after him went scot-free, the Traffic Cop went poetic and stated:

"There are hundreds of fish swimming (helmetless) in the river...only the unfortunate one gets caught by the fortunate angler"

The Professor was let go with due apologies after the cop came to know from a third party who he was.

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“A farmer went out to sow his seed. 4As he was scattering the seed, some fell along the path, and the birds came and ate it up. 5Some fell on rocky places, where it did not have much soil. It sprang up quickly, because the soil was shallow. 6But when the sun came up, the plants were scorched, and they withered because they had no root. 7Other seed fell among thorns, which grew up and choked the plants. 8Still other seed fell on good soil, where it produced a crop—a hundred, sixty or thirty times what was sown. 9He who has ears, let him hear.”

http://niv.scripturetext.com/matthew/13.htm

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So, we are all not born equal, eh? Some are privileged and others no?

I was living in the Faculty Hostel at IIT KGP during the Indo-Pak War of September 1965. Since we were handshaking areal distance from the formidable Kalaikunda Air Base, we did see some action. Early one morning we heard earthshaking thuds from East-Pak bombers on our airbase and a scrambling of our fighters and dogfights watched by the lucky few IITians. A couple of Pak fighter planes were downed and a few adventurous Patelians scrambled onto their pushbikes and retrieved some souvenirs...like Virat's son Uttam Kumar cut off the ribbons and epaulets of Kauravas laid in slumber by Arjun as souvenirs for his kid sister Uttara.

The War was declared a Draw. But the enduring boast of the Pak Army to boost the morale of their soldiers was:

"1 Pak Soldier = 10 Indian Jawans"

And they did believe it artlessly till six years later Indirajee caught 93,000 of them with their pants down and herded them all into Dandakarnaya Forest pleasure retreats.

Thereafter, the thousand cuts started and the New Equation seems to be:

"One AK with an AK-47 = 172 or so innocent unarmed souls at CST"

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Sorry, but I am reminded of all this history when I saw a hilarious cartoon in DC from the International Herald Tribune in which a jubilant Palestinian Prisoner, just swapped, says:

"I did the Math: I'm worth 70 grams of Israeli Soldier"

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At KGP I heard it solemnly declared:

"1 occupant of the land of 5 Sindh-Tributaries = 10 Ganga-Kinarewalas"

But didn't the Great Jamuna-Kinarewala declare long ago?

Bahoonaam janmanaam antey jnanawaan maam prapdyantey
Vaasudevah sarvamiti sa mahatma sudurlabhah

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Talk the Walk

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"...The true walker avoids all company. The best companion for a walk is oneself...this being a grand opportunity for sifting and anlaysing life and people and coming to a conclusion over so many matters. Here company is untenable. You might as well say you are unable to contemplate the sunset unless you have a companion chattering away on your side. The true walker, even if he has been with himself for six hours, will never say, "I have been out with the greatest bore on earth, namely myself"..."

...RKN in: The True Walker

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It is well known that RKN used to take long morning and evening walks along the lanes and by-lanes of his Malgudi Mysore all by himself. But he would halt whenever he meets an acquaintance, exchange gossip, and proceed. And drop at his various mamool shops, buy a knickknack and get updates.

His walks were meant not only for his health but also to get ideas for his novels, characters and essays.

Khushwant Singh writes:

"..We saw a lot more of each other during a literary seminar organised by the East-West Centre in Hawaii. Having said our pieces and sat through discussions that followed, we went out for our evening walks, looking for a place to eat. It was the same kind of stroll as we had taken in Mysore punctuated by abrupt halts in the middle of crowded pavements till he was ready to resume walking..."

http://www.outlookindia.com/article.aspx?211789

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My Ph D Guide SDM for a while used to come to the Department on his ancient pushbike but on his return trips in the evening to his Qrs, he would prefer to walk, lugging his bike along, with his trademark heavy bag latched onto its carrier. And, since I used to be the last person in his Office, I had to necessarily walk beside him all the way (I had sold my third-hand pushbike to raise money for Wills Flakes).

All along, he would continue his endless one-way-talk, halting his bike many times and turning to look at me for emphasis, stop at the entrance of his Qrs and talk on and on; till his Mrs invites both of us for Tea and Loochies (all is well that ends well!)

By the time he became HoD, he used to hire a rickshaw on a monthly basis for his journeys to and fro. And along the way, he used to pick up Prof GBM (at no additional cost to the poor rickshawala). The two used to have arguments routinely.

One day when I visited his Office, he was glum; and after a while he narrated what happened that morning. Apparently, he was so upset with GBM he got so furious that he asked the rickshawala to halt near Harry's and practically pushed GBM out; and was watched in the act by the Director riding in his Staff Car...

Two Big Kids!!!

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Prof B joined KGP around 1968 and was putting up in our Faculty Hostel for a few months. He was a decade or more older to me and since he told us that he did his graduation at Cornell, we were duly all impressed and expected to learn much from him.

Unfortunately, Cornell didn't seem to have broadened his non-physics mind, since we all discovered early that he was a Hindi fanatic from Allahabad...(he didn't change much even after thirty KGP years...soon after he retired and settled in Allahabad, he sent 5 verses in Hindi composed by him to be put up on the Office Notice Board by a colleague from Sangam with similar views...I guess I too should send my blogs to Pratik for the same purpose...)

Those were the years when the Central Government in their unwisdom tried to make Hindi compulsory and was met with stiff resistance from Tamilnadu and Bengal. The Congress lost both these states and never recovered till now, a half century later.

As a rule I am tolerant except when someone tries to harshly impose his views on others....Majority Bullying:

http://gpsastry.blogspot.com/2009/10/majority-bullying.html

A few days after he joined us, we were at the breakfast table (a rare event) and I was applying butter to my toast. Prof B was a few chairs away and said:

"O makkhan jara paas keejiye!"

And I kept quiet. He repeated:

"O makkhan jara paas keejiye!"

three times (like the cock crew thrice biblically).

And I replied without looking up:

"Nenu ivvanu po!"

which meant: "Get lost, I am not passing it on!"

The two Telugu bearers, Narayan and Laxman, guffawed and B's face fell.

Matters came to a head after a few days. One evening, myself and Prof PCS of EE were taking a stroll. He was one of the most widely read persons I ever met with and it was a pleasure talking to him on a walk. B joined us from nowhere and at once started talking about the 3-language formula and the Constitutional Requirement of having Hindi as the sole National Language and teaching it compulsorily from school level onwards all over India...(RKN has a few very diverting pieces on this, like: "To a Hindi Enthusiast")

That got my goat and I entered into a vicious argument (the only one I ever did) for the next two hours...we went round the Campus roads twice over...like the Lion and the Unicorn...all along Prof PCS quietly listening without uttering a single word!

That was more like: "Quack the Walk"

Myself and DB never had our name plates on our Office Wall for many years, till Prof RNP took over as furniture-in-charge; and made some lovely wooden boards. He asked us our spellings and proper pronunciation and by the time he got them fixed on our wall, we discovered that our names were in the 2-language formula...

India was shining then for a while...but no longer...not even with so many rathyatras of jeesaheb...

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Tense Sentence

From ToI:

"...The victim might have had interfered with the activities of the accused..."


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Chalk Technology

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My Father was a high school teacher...his father was a middle school teacher...his father was a street school teacher...during our benign British Rule.

So, chalk pieces were nothing new in our homes...

God! How good those chalks were! I bet our British Rulers imported them straight from Dover Cliffs. That is how British Empire ran her economy for two odd centuries. Cloth from Lancashire...after allegedly cutting the handsome hands of Bengal weavers...ask Gandhijee and his motive for khadi.

There were no scams in India then...the whole British Empire was a megascam...and they scowled at petty native scams...that's how Western Democracies run...our Yankee-Phankees were originally unwilling to export their democracies till everything went wrong with their Oil Monarchy Bedmates. They were very happy with petty dictators as long as they got their oil dirt cheap...

But the li'l brother of Sheiks revolted and used his share of pay dirt to export his own World View...hand in skirt with our own li'l sister across the border using cleverly her own dowry from both Sheiks and States...hurrying with the hounds and scurrying with the hares...

Then something nasty happened and our American friends, fed up trying to export their version of democracy, exported their e-crimes all over the world...rather successfully to their own European brethren...sparing largely our own economy...we were busy with our own homespun e-crimes and scams...we were exporting our own e-ore to our own Big Brother Bull across the Himalayas for showcasing his own version of Olympian Rule.

There is a moral law here which ought to be enshrined in the UN Charter...as soon as we get that promised heaven of a permanent seat there:

UN Law 5. something:

"No nation should be allowed to export their e-crimes, scams and Anna Campaigns to other members of the comity of nations against their will by hook or by crook"

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Big historical digression there...

Coming back to chalks, I lived with them all my life...I miss the chalk dust and my white collar.

Over my four decades there, IIT KGP was fighting a losing tech-battle between the blackboard and the piece of chalk.

My friend N taught me a rather cute ME design principle in the battle between the pantograph (the rhombus-shaped metal device that goes up over the engine of the electric train and couples with the zigzag power line overhead) and the standing high tension wire.

Which should be harder?

Answer: The overhead wire

Why?

As the pantograph rubs itself continually against the high tension wire, there is terrific friction between the two, and the softer of the two wears out with time. Pantograph is easy to dismantle and remantle in the workshop, unlike the power lines.

Same with the blackboard and the chalk piece in their daily battle: the blackboard is a fixture and can't easily be taken down. But chalk is cakewalk...let it break into bits and pieces...keep picking up the pieces from the floor...as simple as that...and gives you bending and stretching practice and keeps your waistline trim and slim...provided your pants don't split at the arse.

So, originally dozens of boxes of chalks were there in the Phy Office...just go pick up a box or two and take them to your room. The chalks were snow-white and used to write nicely and legibly...everyone is happy...except that the chalks were so soft that you need to carry a box or two to each Lecture Class.

So, there was a revolt and indents were placed for harder chalks...I guess they were custom-made.

These were long-lasting...one piece of chalk would do for two Lectures...only problem was that they were harder than the blackboard...so they would scratch and screech and make permanent lines and grooves on the wavy wooden board...and the chalks made no visible impression on the students even on the first bench...the ones who didn't snore.

So, wooden blackboards were replaced with green glass boards. And to add zing to the enterprise, boxes of rainbow colored chalks were made available to the teachers. Unfortunately multicolor diagrams were not exactly the domain of Physics unlike say Biology. So, I discovered, after lots of trials and bloomers, that yellow suited my stories.

The year or so of this bliss passed too soon like honeymoon.

I guess budget constraints and audit queries must have been the reason...anyway we were back to monochrome white on green.

But by now authorities realized that there ought to be a satisfactory solution to this problem. So, fresh indents were called and soft but unbreakable chalks were ordered and got. Writing with them was a pleasure and I used to look forward to the Lectures...unhealthy symptom for any teacher, or student for that matter.

There was only one catch...the chalks were so costly that rationing was ordered...and I had to go to the Phy Office before every class and beg Didi to give me a chalk or two...she would delve into the recesses of her cupboard and bring out one...and charmed quarks had to be applied to get the second...

That was the time when they offered me the Jumbo Lecture Class of hundreds of unwilling students and I jumped at the offer...no more chalks and boards...I had gone hi-tech into the OHP, Transparencies, Laser Pointer and the Milk White Cinema Screen...that is quite another hilarious story for another day...

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Collage from DC today:

National Innovation Council
Call for Proposals

"...a section of prisoners of the Kannur jail devised the technique after they failed to damage the jammer by pouring boiling water and urinating on it.

They sought the help of an engineer who was detained in a case...as advised by the engineer, the prisoners preserved the pinch of salt provided with their meals. They formed a human pyramid to help the engineer reach the jammer that was placed at a height. The engineer placed the salt on the jammer and within a few weeks it became defunct...

Jailbirds arrange for their friends to throw cell phones over the huge wall of the prison after packing them in plastic bags."

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Handsome

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Hands fascinate me. They always did.

Whenever my wife calls one of her cousins or aunties on her mobile and starts speaking with them, I slyly watch her phone-free left hand. That hand is never quiet. It always gesticulates. In a hundred different movements each suited to what she is arguing about...but the funny thing is that she never knew it till I mentioned it to my D-i-L and asked her to watch. And, it is only on phone. When she meets one of them face to face and talks, she never gesticulates...some psychology there...

As a rule I avoid mixing with my senior-citizen classmates spread all over Hyderabad. But the other day, I got an unexpected call from Krishna Mohan asking if he could come over and meet me after half a century. I jumped up and gave full address and driving instructions to my place. And was eagerly waiting for him. For one thing, he is the only one among our crowd who can be labeled bindaas. More importantly, I recalled vividly that he always gesticulated while he spoke and I used to watch him transfixed. Well, he didn't disappoint. As he was speaking to my wife, son, D-i-L and Ishani, I was quietly watching his dancing hands. And he too never knew he was doing it...

Talking of hands-free, I was most relieved when my son bought what he called a Bluetooth ear thing. Now I relax when he is driving with me by his side. His cell phone is never silent...either he is calling or they.

But of course, my friend N told me earlier on of an advertisement for snuff. The main point that is emphasized is that unlike a cigarette or a pipe which you have to keep holding in one hand, your both hands are free once you inhale the snuff pinch. What is not mentioned is that there is a sequel. The intake and power strokes are followed after a while by a series of exhaust strokes which will require the chap to blow his nostrils each in turn to clear the accumulated fluid which Mrs N likens to the reddish-brown mustardly juice of mango pickle. The whole world is an ashtray to a carefree smoker and is a spittoon for a paan chewer, while it is a mucusbin for our snuff-sniffer.

At KGP I don't recall being fascinated by the hand dance of any of my colleagues...they were all eloquent and didn't need any accompaniment; except Raam-da who had a stammer. As I mentioned earlier, while teaching collisions to a First Year Class, he would hold two imaginary balls one in each hand as they approach, collide and scatter away. MSS told me that he once watched Raam-da unfettered by a 3-body collision... he would use his nose to hold the third participating ball.

One evening, my son asked me to watch his performance as the Captain of his Central School on their School Day in the OAT. I took my back seat and was watching the prize-distribution by Mrs Diro who was standing and doing the honors to fifty odd kids. She would stand upright and as each kid bends and touches her feet, she would bless each with a deft tap on their head...an absolutely reflex action...Bengali moms must have been used to this ritual. This masterly performance reminded me at once of a familiar framed picture in our households of Sri Raam Pattabhishekam (coronation) with Raam lightly touching the kneeling Hanuman's head without bending:

http://www.google.co.in/imgres?imgurl=http://www.gsbkerala.com/gforms/rama.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.gsbkerala.com/rama.htm&h=227&w=168&sz=11&tbnid=tWoD3Y-zPRMFFM:&tbnh=95&tbnw=70&prev=/search%3Fq%3DSri%2BRama%2BPattabhishekam%2Bpicture%26tbm%3Disch%26tbo%3Du&zoom=1&q=Sri+Rama+Pattabhishekam+picture&docid=1S5wqtqCY2kdbM&hl=en&sa=X&ei=5BWbTt7bA8bTrQeT1syjBA&ved=0CC8Q9QEwAw&dur=85

The late unlamented 9/11 mastermind was a master of hand movements...half his charm lay there while the other half in his cool demeanor.

Hands have always been used in various salutes...the Nazi thing the most kiddish. And in greetings too. I am told that Westerners are surprised by the Indian gesture of Namasthe instead of a handshake...and took it as a symbol of untouchability. I was stunned when my cousin who is a practicing physician told me that she never shakes hands with anyone because she is afraid that her 'power' would flow out to the other like Parashuram lost his to Bhagavan Raam.

Ishani's hands are always busy. Ever since she learned to sit and handle her toys and then the household knickknacks, she has always been fiddling with them, trying to open closed caps and close the open ones. It is fascinating to watch her...till the other day she learned on her own how to unscrew. That is when all screwed bottles had to be kept up and above her reach...after she opened the Vim Liquid Bottle and tasted the contents.

And finally hands in sports...and the Hand of God!

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Nostalgia

From DC 50 years ago:

"Major Yuri Gagarin will be staying with Prime Minister Nehru at his residence here during his official visit to India this month...

...After that, the spaceman is flying to Bombay where he will meet top film stars"

gps: The aam admi in Russia knew only two Indians by name and fame...Nehru and Raj Kapoor...the first for his Fabian Socialism and the next for his Awaara Socialism.


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Guestricken

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I heard people say he is a cynic and that's why he didn't get the Nobel. But I guess sometimes Maugham speaks the bitter truth. The opening sentence of what he says is his best novel, Cakes and Ale, goes something like this:

"When someone calls you and leaves the message that it is very important, rest assured it is important to him"

I for one never got a missed call offering me a million dollars, Bill Gates apart.

Anyway, I get cynical when I recall that I have been uniformly unlucky in my casual guests, or for that matter, casual hosts.

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Decades ago, one day at KGP, I got a letter from an old classmate of mine at Vizagh saying he needs my help despo. His only daughter, who never left AP, never stayed in a hostel, and lacks social skills, was arriving by Mail in the evening to appear in a PG Entrance Exam; and that I should receive her at the station, put her up at our home, take all care of her as if she were mine own daughter for auld lang syne bla bla bla...

When I went to the KGP Station in the evening and was looking for a girl of my (nonexistent) daughter's age, there was a tap on my back and there she was, smiling and ringed by half a dozen body-guards, all looking severely at me. Somehow she teased herself away from her boy friends and we reached home in a rickshaw. By the time she took her bath and refreshed herself, there were those body-guards of her in our verandah; and she asked my wife if she could just go over to the Library for last minute preparation. My wife offered her tea and since she can't bloody well sip tea alone, my simple wife made so many cups of tea.

I had to take my pushbike and pedal towards the Library a couple of minutes after its closing time; and by the time I returned home empty-handed and heavy-hearted, there she was, smiling and saying tata bye bye to her bodyguards...my wife told me she refused to eat since she was not hungry...Nair Canteen dosas were too heavy...

You can imagine the rest...I asked her next day how her exam went and she smiled guilelessly and said: "What exam? We all wanted to have a lark!"

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One day at KGP, my brand new wife announced that her very fond Uncle (it is always her Uncle) was arriving with his wife, on their way back to Delhi from a wedding at Balasore and that I shouldn't be groucho with them.

I did my best to please them and pump them and feed them and show them around Cal which they said they were dying to see. After a couple of days of severe hospitality, I gently asked my wife when they were due back at Delhi since I was unable to prepare for my upcoming QM Course. She inquired and said: "Wednesday next"

Since my wife was new and I needed her then badly, I put up and shut up.

And my wife said how nice it would be to gift her bloody Uncle a pant and shirt and his wife a silk sari. And while stuffing them into their suitcase and preparing to board the rickshaw tearfully, her fat Uncle embraced me and made me promise I would call on them and stay with them for a whole week when I next happen to be in Delhi which was not often.

It just so happened that I was forced to accept an official assignment to IIT Delhi within a few weeks of their departure. And was put up by IIT Delhi handsomely in their Nalanda or whatever Guest House.

A day before my leaving Delhi, my wife called me and insisted I look up her blasted Uncle at his R K Puram Flat. And I took an auto and climbed three flights up and rang the bell. A disgusted-looking lad of 20 opened the door and let me in.

A dozen of the apparent neighborhood were sitting everywhere around a new TV and watching a Cricket Match (for money I learned later). My wife's lousy Uncle looked at me, smiled wanly, and his lovely wife offered me a glass of water and a place on the floor...Kapil was just then hitting what would have been a sixer but for a dolly catch at the boundary line...there were sighs and chea-cheaches...

After ten minutes by when a couple more wickets fell like ninepins, I got up and oozed towards the door, when my wife's sighing Uncle turned round and asked if I should really go...and I said I better...and banged the door shut and ran down the stairs.

When I reached home at KGP and asked my wife what is wrong with her bleeding Uncle she said she forgot they used to call him: "Kanjoos Makkhichoos Mama"

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Before I got married, for a year my younger sister was staying with me at KGP while she was doing her PG Diploma in Physics. She declined to stay at SN Hall and so I took the Qrs C1-97 and bought a gas stove and bare minimum utensils to cook us through.

One evening when we were sipping coffee in the only Southee Restaurant in Gole Bazaar, a couple of lads arrived, recognizing my sister, joined us in our coffee and insisted they pay the bill. Apparently they were her classmates in her M Sc at Tirupati and were doing their PGs in Chemistry.

So, I and my sister invited them for a high tea next evening at our C1-97 and they tilted their shy heads at an angle of 45 degrees of arc and nodded them in SHM. We took it for a Yes.

The whole of next day, myself and my sister were planning what to feed them in our humble kitchen; and zeroed in on Thick Payas laced with cashew nuts. And after consulting one another a dozen times along the way how to go about it, we finally got the vesselful of steaming Payas.

And we waited and waited for our honored guests, till we despaired far into the night.

I had a cup and she had a cup and we had another each and we were too full for more.

And there were ten more cups in the vessel and we didn't have a fridge.

I then recalled that I always wanted to feed our backyard dog till he is fed up and says 'no more'

We switched on the backyard light and I made the familiar dog-call...and he rushed in leaps and bounds wagging his happy tail.

And we dumped the semi-solid Payas on the cement floor and he devoured half a cup and slunk towards the fence...responding no more to my: "chu chu chu..here here..."

Both of us agreed the chap must be diabetic...


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Spectator Quarks

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I first met with the word Spectator in my Pre-University English text which had a piece from the journal of that name by Addison and Steele. As a name for a periodical, it meant something like an impartial observer viewing the events without participating in them.

All of us are spectators in cinemas, theaters, cricket matches; and Romans in amphitheaters watching with tense anticipation the duel between the Slave and the Lion. From a safe distance.

But sometimes the bull in the ring jumps the fence and attacks the spectators. It is a price we pay for our violent entertainment.

But Spectator Quarks are a little different. These ride along with the two fighting contestants without actively participating in the fight; maybe cheering them up.

Lord Krishna was the epitome of a Spectator Quark...he had promised not to take active part in the battles but only to ride Arjun's chariot as a chauffeur. There was this Salya who was chosen as his chauffeur by Karna because Salya happened to be the best in his profession among the Kauravas. But unfortunately Salya was fond of the righteous Pandavas and so he was not exactly a Spectator Quark...he was constantly criticizing the technique of Karna. And nagging. That was the last straw.

I had this distressing experience in my Ph D Viva. My External Examiner, Prof T Pradhan was very kind to me and appreciating my answers. Our HoD, HNB was always kind to me and asked no questions at all, and smiling encouragingly. But my own Supervisor, the great SDM, would keep scowling and poking needlessly while I was battling my Arjun. A lesser soul than me would have hurled a deftly aimed piece of chalk.

About a couple of months back, Annajee was taking on our PM. There were Spectator Quarks on both sides. And a huge crowd of spectators in the Ramlila Maidan. Well, Annajee won the round handsomely.

But it so happens that one of Annajee's Spectator Quarks was beaten black and blue yesterday in front of TV Cameras by three intemperate youth, who were arrested.

Today I read that while the three were coming out of the courtroom, the Spectator Quarks on the other side smirked. And there was a pellmell and a thorough brawl.

And I guess there will be many more encounters of the quark kind for us to watch from the sidelines...unless the bulls cross the fence.

Maybe such heinous interactions are 'allowed' in Quantum Chromodynamics...I don't know.

Here is a charming account of such a brawl from Pickwick Papers:

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...Mr. Pickwick entered every word of this statement in his note-book, with
the view of communicating it to the club, as a singular instance of the
tenacity of life in horses under trying circumstances. The entry was
scarcely completed when they reached the Golden Cross. Down jumped the
driver, and out got Mr. Pickwick. Mr. Tupman, Mr. Snodgrass, and Mr.
Winkle, who had been anxiously waiting the arrival of their illustrious
leader, crowded to welcome him.

'Here's your fare,' said Mr. Pickwick, holding out the shilling to the
driver.

What was the learned man's astonishment, when that unaccountable person
flung the money on the pavement, and requested in figurative terms to be
allowed the pleasure of fighting him (Mr. Pickwick) for the amount!

'You are mad,' said Mr. Snodgrass.

'Or drunk,' said Mr. Winkle.

'Or both,' said Mr. Tupman.

'Come on!' said the cab-driver, sparring away like clockwork. 'Come
on--all four on you.'

'Here's a lark!' shouted half a dozen hackney coachmen. 'Go to vork,
Sam!--and they crowded with great glee round the party.

'What's the row, Sam?' inquired one gentleman in black calico sleeves.

'Row!' replied the cabman, 'what did he want my number for?' 'I didn't
want your number,' said the astonished Mr. Pickwick.

'What did you take it for, then?' inquired the cabman.

'I didn't take it,' said Mr. Pickwick indignantly.

'Would anybody believe,' continued the cab-driver, appealing to the
crowd, 'would anybody believe as an informer'ud go about in a man's
cab, not only takin' down his number, but ev'ry word he says into the
bargain' (a light flashed upon Mr. Pickwick--it was the note-book).

'Did he though?' inquired another cabman.

'Yes, did he,' replied the first; 'and then arter aggerawatin' me to
assault him, gets three witnesses here to prove it. But I'll give it
him, if I've six months for it. Come on!' and the cabman dashed his hat
upon the ground, with a reckless disregard of his own private property,
and knocked Mr. Pickwick's spectacles off, and followed up the attack
with a blow on Mr. Pickwick's nose, and another on Mr. Pickwick's chest,
and a third in Mr. Snodgrass's eye, and a fourth, by way of variety,
in Mr. Tupman's waistcoat, and then danced into the road, and then back
again to the pavement, and finally dashed the whole temporary supply of
breath out of Mr. Winkle's body; and all in half a dozen seconds.

'Where's an officer?' said Mr. Snodgrass.

'Put 'em under the pump,' suggested a hot-pieman.

'You shall smart for this,' gasped Mr. Pickwick.

'Informers!' shouted the crowd.

'Come on,' cried the cabman, who had been sparring without cessation the
whole time.

The mob hitherto had been passive spectators of the scene, but as the
intelligence of the Pickwickians being informers was spread among
them, they began to canvass with considerable vivacity the propriety of
enforcing the heated pastry-vendor's proposition: and there is no saying
what acts of personal aggression they might have committed, had not the
affray been unexpectedly terminated by the interposition of a new-comer...

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Chalega!

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Over the past few days I have been reading every word of every obituary of Steve Jobs that came my way; and wondering.

Unlike me, my son is a gizmo-freak and a music addict. The first thing he brought from his US visits was what he called an i-pod. He tried to fix its earphones on me and played what he called an 'energy music' (like that 'dhantana' thing). But of course the whole exercise reminded me of the Hindi saying: "Bhains ke aage been bajana"

A couple of years later, he got married; a good 9 months after his engagement. And he showed me the first gift he got from his beloved...an i-pod, but half its earlier size.

The other day the electrical induction heating stove I gifted my wife conked off. And I wanted to buy her a brand new replacement. Hearing which my son asked me: "Why don't you gift me an i-phone? I have been stuck with this Nokia - E60 for the past couple of years"

That is all the interface I had with Steve till the other day.

The obits were moving; Uncle Tom even went to the extent of wistfully wishing that someone like Steve would be at the helm of the White House.

Steve Jobs is a typical American phenomenon.

Will there be a Steve in India?

Most unlikely, I beg your pardon. We don't have a 'clash of civilizations' with anyone...we are the Thermodynamic Sink of all civilizations that ended up here. It is our climate and geography. Even the British never had stomach for conquering the whole country. After the first few winning skirmishes they preferred to use their wile and guile and left about 550 Rajas intact as their stooges and asked them only to pay the lagaan in time; and retired to Simla.

Edwin at MIT and me at IIT KGP had an unending exchange of mails over two decades spelling out the 'contrast of our cultures'.

West is extrovert...we are introvert. They gaze deep at the stars, while we gaze at our navels.

If Charles Darwin were born in Muthukur when he did, all the travel he did would have been to Nellore 12 miles away in a double-bullock cart. He sure would have noticed all the species of pigeons on his way, but would have written soulful poetry about them...did we not have a PM (my favorite) who wrote poetry on a boating holiday in the backwaters of our God's Own Country? When did a poet rule the US last? I have to check. And a philosopher as our President. Well, we did have a rocket scientist there, but he was most uncomfortable in his bandh-gala.

While Steve was making gadgets that would make people fall in love for them without 'needing' them urgently; Gandhijee was shedding himself of things which others thought they badly needed. From his suit and boot in the railway carriage at Pietermaritzburg to the loin cloth when he was shot half a century later, it had been for him a veritable strip-tease: to see what he could do without.

For the record, I never bought a wrist-watch. And, mind you, my profession was strictly guided by timing...if I were a minute late, there would be pandemonium in the rowdy Second Year B Tech Class near the Diro's Office.

When I got my job as a faculty member at IIT KGP in 1965, my Father thought it was a big deal and gifted me a tiny third-hand Favre-Leuba watch. My friend borrowed it to his Ph D Viva that went very well. And his friend did the same. It served me well till I got married in 1979, when my B-i-L gifted me a brand new digital watch bought in Melbourne. It was too heavy and croaked within a month and I was back to my tiny Favre-Leuba. In 1990 I got a Titan day-date watch as a gift from IIT KGP for 'serving' her faithfully for 25 years. That worked well for the next 20 years. The Favre-Leuba thing was still going strong and my wife and then my son were using it off and on. The other day the IIT thing was given up for good by the watch-repairer and my son gifted me a new watch...

My Father used the wrist-watch he got in his wedding as a gift till he gave up wearing watches...

This story underlines the 'chalega' spirit of our nation. Why waste money on a new device when you can get it repaired? In Chintalbasthi, there is a shop run by half a dozen kids who can repair any cell phone made anywhere in the world...including your i-phone, Saswatjee!

My Friend (the one who borrowed my watch for his Viva) gifted me a copy of Webster's New World Collegiate Dictionary in 1967. It is still there in my bookshelf and I do use it whenever I am not on the net. I never bought a dictionary in my life...

I am not trying to prove anything here.

Compared with DB, I am the gizmo-freak. Listen to what Aniket wrote the other day in response to the post:

http://gpsastry.blogspot.com/2011/06/revenge-of-lo-tech.html

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Dear Sir,

I have a few days off this week. Consequently, I get to read your posts early in the morning again, as I used to earlier.

"Revenge of Lo-Tech" ranks probably as one of your best posts, but judging by the title you chose for it, I cannot help wondering if you didn't have a story about DB as well.

As was well-known in the department, his login and password were identical. When he replaced his password to some string of numbers he had carefully chosen, one day he still could not log in after many efforts and summoned me for help. I noticed that instead of the number keys he was punching the function keys that adorn the top of the keyboard.

Sincerely,

Aniket

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