Travelbugged

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I hate travel...always hated it. There are two reasons for it.

One, I am too lazy...like Mycroft Holmes...whose life was like a tram car running to and fro on rails between his home and workplace. In my case most of my life was spent traveling between my Qrs and Institute at IIT KGP.

Second, I am blessed with a terrific imagination. Very pixy. Once KK (Junior) gifted me a sumptuous coffee table book titled something like: Earth from Space. It had about 30 color photos of various lands and seas and mountains taken by astronauts hurling in a satellite around the Earth...the fertile greens, long rivers like the Nile, oceans, Alps and such. Whoever visited my home and looked at the pics went hoo-haa about them. But, it was all too familiar to me. I had already seen them in my mind's eye in more detail.

The few tourist sites I had been to willy-nilly were all a disappointment. When I read about them, the pics I had in mind were far more beautiful and serene. For instance, I had to perforce visit Benares to immerse my Father's ashes in the Ganga since he was so fond of the city and its bent river. If you had been there you would have noticed, unless you are a frenzied devotee, the difference between the coffee table photos (say of Raghu Rai) and the truth...if you look closely enough.

I was fortunate that I didn't read about IIT KGP before I landed there seeking a job. It looked beautiful and I stayed there like a Lotus Eater.

I also read about an equally lazy boy who, at the age of 17, traveled to his dreamland (a hill-temple town in Tamilnadu) and stayed put there for his next 53 years without stirring even for a minute. I at once took him as my spiritual Guru. The Guru must always appeal to the devotee's ideals.

But I had to travel once a year from KGP to my hometown at Gudur, where my parents stayed...I rarely went to my in-laws' place...they were visiting me regularly ;-) The entire experience of the Howrah-Madras Mail was miserable. The 3-tier compartment where I was forced to reside for a day and a half was verily a prison for me. When I got the lower berth, I was always unfortunate to have a chap in the middle berth who slept for 24 hours (he ate on the berth sleeping) and so I could never sit down and enjoy the Passing Show. On the other hand when I got the middle berth, the one in the lower berth was shouting at me whenever I slept. And when I got the upper berth and went up, I could never come down because half a dozen strangers always used to sit and play cards on my seat below.

Luckily my wife shares my abhorrence to travel...two couch potatoes...stereo system. That is what I call Dame Luck.

I have known a childless working couple who never had Quality Time together all their working lives. After their retirement, the hubby wanted to spend the rest of his life on his couch watching the sitcoms. He hated travel like me. She, on the other hand, wanted to tour every place in India with her hubby in the tow, since they had too much pension for two, not to talk of a huge bank balance. Whenever I happened to meet the hubby alone, he used to cry buckets on my shoulders. The chap could never put his foot down...sad! Last I heard they crossed over to Nepal (of all places). And she has booked air tickets to Manas Sarovar, he cried.

I did travel in the air half a dozen times...at stretches of two hours. I was happy that there were no middle and upper berths, but that was about all. It was misery. The regular drill of the so-called air-hostesses showing how to jump into the sea when 'we all fall down' was scary. I was always imagining it and feeling dead...I don't know swimming...not that it helps. Train travel has this blessing that my suit case (for whatever it was worth) was with me. But not so when I was in the air...they used to snatch it from me and dump it in the hold and I could never retrieve it in its first pass from the belt...since I am, as you know, a born woolgatherer. I just can't imagine how chaps (like my son) are happy enough to be continuously airborne for 15 hours and more across Alps or Atlantic. Beats me hollow...it takes all sorts...

Religious tourism is the worst. After my first visit to South Indian Hindu Temples, the crowd, the slippery floor full of coconut water, the dingy sanctum sanctorum, the sweating priests, the ushers acting as pushers...I stopped entering the inner works of temples...I sit down outside the main gate and pray in my mind's eye, till my wife and her cousins return.

I hope the Hades to which I rightly deserve to be committed has no crowded temples at least...the ones who hounded them here below are already ensconced in Heaven choke-a-bloc with their favorite shrines.

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Stalkathons

DC, Tuesday, 10 January, Front Page:

Center wants a new law, 7 years in jail for stalkers

Stalking, the legal definition:

# Repeatedly following the woman from place to place

# Repeatedly contacting through mails, fax etc

# Loitering or watching the house or workplace of the woman.

...There is no penal provision defining the offence of stalking in the Indian Penal Code (IPC), which has led to serious sexual assaults on women...

gps: Yes, it is high time. I have been reading, of late, maniacal stalkers hurting and blinding or even acidifying women they stalk.

They deserve exemplary punishment.

But, as a matter of sociological history, I can propose an explanation for the lack of penal provision in the IPC for this offense so far. In the Nehruvian Socialistic Pattern of Society in the 1950s of our youth, women had by and large no workplace other than their kitchens. Unlike now when they are happily emancipated.

Those were the eons of romantic films like Madhumathi, Chori Chori and Sri 420. They all ended up happily unlike the gory films of these days which are filled with violence.

Stalking was certainly there...but it ended in happy marriages.

And it was not one-sided like now.

I even know a close friend of mine who had to flee overnight from the balmy sun'n'sea'n'sand of Visakhapatnam beaches to the Junglemahal of Midnapore District (there were no East and West Midnapore Dists then).

He was stalked back...

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God of Big Things

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For several decades I used to teach a Course on Relativity & EM in the Autumn Semester of 4th year for Physics Majors at IIT KGP. The JEE kids were by then having three IIT years under their belts and were bullish, rather...they knew how the System works. The new lateral entry students from Calcutta and its suburbs were eager to take the bulls by their horns. All of them had some Relativity in their tummies.

After cleaning the board, washing hands, sitting down and signing the Registration Forms (largely a formality), taking Roll Call (to pass more time), I used to ask them to name a physical object they see everyday that travels several times the speed of light.

There would be a stunned silence as if they have at last met a genuine crackpot after a lot of struggle to enter IIT.

And I had to ask them to calculate the speed of the star Sirius, about five light-years away, they see going round the Earth everyday in 24 hours, as an example.

And they would feel cheated and protest that Sirius stays where it is; it is the Earth that goes round itself in 24 hours.

And I would ask how do they know it without looking at the Heavens.

They would heave a sigh of relief and shout: Foucault's Pendulum!

And I would ask if the said pendulum works like it does if there were no stars and no nothing in the Heavens except us.

Another silence.

Then I would ask if they heard of Newton's Ice Bucket Experiment. By now they are on their guard. I say I never understood it. And don't even know if it was a Thought Experiment or one of those IV Year Lab's thoughtless experiments.

And I give them Games for the day.

Newton was the Father of Mechanics and his Mechanics became so famous after predicting the entire solar system's gross movements and made the right predictions that God was said to be a Mechanical Engineer. But Newton knew better that there were deeper waters in his Gravity. For instance, if our Sun were to explode suddenly with all its innards flying away in bits and pieces scattered all over the Universe, how soon would the tides in our Hooghly river turn? His answer was: Instantly...Gravity is an action-at-a-distance thing and its influences are felt with infinite speed.

His revolutionary predecessor, Galileo, did his famous experiment with lanterns and decided that speed of light for all practical purposes is infinite. Well, they found it was finite soon enough. And soon they also found, as you know, that it it travels as a wave. Then everyone invented their own Aether, with monstrous but unseen properties. God, the Mechanical Engineer, came up with fantastic models of His Aether, with an intricate web of wheels and gears to explain that light has also all sorts of weird polarizations.

Meanwhile, the Industrial Revolution took place and God had to also know a bit of Thermodynamics. And Entropy. He became a Heat Engineer. But still, Mechanical, because there was what was called the Kinetic Theory of gases and later, solids, too.

Maxwell came up and showed that there is really no immediate need for Aether since light could as well travel in vacuum without all those gears...replaced by fields. And Einstein rubbished Aether altogether.

By now God became a Modern Physicist.

And then the QM thing came up and those fields became quantized and Particles became Fields and Fields became Particles in an incestuous mess.

Then there was a short sane period when God was abandoned and Physicists turned Buddhist. You know, Buddha was agnostic. When asked if God exists, he kept silent. When asked if God doesn't exist, he kept silent. But his Eight-Fold Way was in fashion and esoteric concepts like everything existing in everything else and all of them lifting themselves by their Boot Straps were in vogue during my fragile youth.

Last I heard was that the Universe is filled with Strings and Branes of all sorts, still unseen, because they hide themselves in as many as a couple of dozen dimensions or more the merrier.

God nowadays is that Mathematician able to tackle all those weird integrals in so many dimensions, with a Special Paper on Topology, maybe.

Looks like God also is subject to Darwin's Theory of Evolution, Struggle for His Existence, Natural Selection, and Survival of the Fittest.

We do need a God, no? Despite our Dirac? He looks so cute...


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Joie de Vivre

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There is a photo the other day in DC (9 Jan, Page 3) with the title: THEY LIKE TO MOVE IT.

It shows a mixed crowd of youth shaking several legs. The girl in the foreground is dressed (like many others) in black jeans and green tops with the message: TWISTS 'N' TURNS in white lettering. Her legs are apart in what we used to call the: 'Stand at Ease' pose in our Drill Class (hated). Her left arm is akimbo and the right bent at the elbow and hand touching her head 'turned left'. And there is a black wrist band. And this default smile on her map. And a hundred others following her lead.

The caption reads:

"A group of youngsters take part in a flash mob organised by 'Spirit of Hyderabad' at People's Plaza in Hyderabad on Sunday. A flash mob is a sudden gathering of people in a public place to perform a seemingly pointless act for a brief time in which others join."

An old fog like me should not bitch about the newfangled antics of today's youth. But the word: "Spirit" looks askance.

Anyway, as soon as I saw the photo and read the caption, I recalled the French phrase: "joie de vivre" which was in a prose piece in our University. Our Teacher insisted that the phrase is native to the French and can't be translated truly. And he gave the meek literal translation: "joy of living". Nowadays girls and boys come to my door, press the bell and ask me to join their Art of Living: "Vivre D'art" (?). And I generally ask them: "What about the Arthritis of the Living?"

Jokes apart, there IS a thing called Joy of (just) Living. I mean, a joy not induced by drugs, dopes and Ecstasy, not to talk of the Spirits of Hyderabad about which there is a furor nowadays because they are selling at 30% more than their MRP (they have a captive market). This Joy is induced by the mere air one breathes...not the polluted air of Hyderabad, but of the Jungles of the Himalayan foothills upon which Jim Corbett repeatedly exults. That was more than a century ago. The animals, the birds, the butterflies and even the trees in their natural habitats are the best evidence of this inexplicable joy.

Well, I lived sixty years ago in our Village which heard of no pollution. And I was witness to this Joy whenever the resident troop of monkeys used to visit our para. There were about a dozen of all ages and sexes and they reveled in their antics: "The Spirit of Muthukur": gambol, jump, break a branch here, pluck a fruit there, snatch a banana from that kitchen, bare fangs at kids, scratch themselves and their kith and kin relentlessly, leaving a memory behind.

There was this wonderful piece with color pics in the Chandamama of our childhood:

After Raavan was killed with all his ten heads intact (his joie de vivre was in his navel) and Vibhishan was crowned in Sri Lanka, Lord Raam's thoughts turned to his native Ayodhya on the banks of the now-polluted Sarayu. And he took only one piece of Raavan's equipment; the Pushpak Viman, the jet plane with the provision that there is always one seat left however many board it. And invited everyone of his helpers to board and travel to Ayodhya to revel in his Crowning Ceremony that was held up for 14 long years. And the joy of his troop of monkeys knew no bounds.

During the ceremonial feast, the monkey warriors were all seated on the floor (as we all used to, in our childhood) waiting for the service to begin. And as they began their dinner, one monkey, while handling his nut, happened to slip it up and launch it in the air like a projectile reaching the maximum height of about 3 feet. That was it! Spirit of Ayodhya! The monkey got enraged by the antics of the nut and himself jumped up 4 feet to rival it. His neighbor got into the act and jumped 5 feet and so on. And everyone of them in the line joined the "seemingly pointless act".

There was pandemonium and Angad tried to restore order, but as it always happens with joie de vivre, he too joined the act. And so did Hanuman. And their King Sugriv.

Laxman, the joyless younger brother of Raam (he didn't sleep for 14 years...his wife Urmila did it for him too) got angry and was about to 'shoot at sight'. Raam got the news and ran in to prevent any mayhem and gave a brief and pointed speech as to the Code of Conduct and the DC (not the newspaper but the dreaded Disciplinary Committee). Nothing happened. They all were asking for Sita to appear before them and feed them...for, it was she who ought to be most grateful to the warriors who released her from her prison under that Ashok Tree.

So, Sita arrived bedecked in all her jewelery and started serving them laddus one by one. And they all sat down meekly and one by one picked their laddus from her hands demurely and delicately without touching her...there is a Code of Conduct in the monkey kingdom too...

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Last night about 8 PM Ishani was playing pranks with me and my wife on our bed and delighting us with her joie de vivre. All of a sudden she stopped, jumped down from our bed, and started running to the Drawing Room, mumbling:

"kolavari di is coming!"

"Where?"

"TV"

Another piece of joie de vivre, that video!


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Parkinson's Law

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My first decade at IIT KGP was my best, in many ways. IIT and most of its students were in their mid-teens and most of us teachers were in our twenties. It was all a comfy small affair. There were only about 25 Full Professors in all, most of them HoDs and aspirants. There was no statutory position of a Deputy Director. When the Director was out of station, IIT was on auto-pilot: the senior-most Prof took care. There were no Deans. The post of HoD was irrotational and powerful. Our own HoD, HNB, was our father figure.

For me it was the decade of most learning and enjoyment. I was learning from students on one side (by their questions) and SDM on the other; like a dholak. I was a bachelor living in a crazy Faculty Hostel and the CL was a friendly place. I was too junior to be entrusted with any Administrative Post and happy enough to be administered. And my best moments were in the tiny Tutorial Rooms adjacent to the Director's Office. The strength of the Tut Class never exceeded 12.

It all changed rather suddenly over a couple of years around 1977. The Class strength almost doubled. HoD became rotational. New buildings cropped up everywhere, one for each Engg Dept. There was a Deputy Director with his Office adjacent to the Diro's Office. One by one several Deans were created. And they all needed Office Space near the Power Center. So, the homely Tut Rooms were taken over by the Deans. And the Tut Classes were suddenly shifted to the Ground Floor of the S Block in the Main Building which was earlier occupied by the Dept of Architecture (which acquired its own new building and perhaps another feather in its cap...Town Planning). While vacating, I guess they shifted their furniture too, like I am soon going to do.

That was the time when HNB called me one day and thrust an unwilling Time Table-in-Charge position on me, which was earlier adorned by Prof STA, who passed on all the Files to me. And one of them was truly boisterous...I kept it with me for a long while.

STA wrote to the Dean (UG) asking for blackboards and student chairs with khata-rests instead of arm rests and fully armed Teachers' Chairs for the new Tutorial Rooms. The application was duly 'forwarded and strongly recommended' by the HoD with a noting that since the new batch of students would be arriving soon after the summer vacation, the matter was URGENT.

Dean (UG) forwarded it to the Professor-in-Charge of Furniture, who asked the Foreman for his comments.

The Foreman quoted several obstacles like shortage of funds, shortage of manpower, shortage of student chairs, shortage of wood in the market and shortage of time.

The Prof-in-Charge suggested that extra Teachers Chairs with arm-rests on both sides were available in so and such Dept and they could be used instead. The Dean sent the file back to the HoD and he to STA, who strongly protested that Tutorial Classes were supposed to be the place where Teachers take rest and students work, as opposed to the Lecture Classes, and so Teachers' Chairs for students would be as inappropriate as the other way round.

The File went back to the Dean who passed it on to the DD asking for immediate grant of funds, manpower, wood and such.

DD wrote back saying that everything could be arranged except perhaps Time. And he was pushing the matter as hard as he can to the Diro.

And by the way he asked if it is a nice idea at all to have chairs for teachers in the Tutorial Classes...Tut Teachers are supposed to go round and see how their students are solving the problems, give them tips, and watch that they are not copying from each other or last year's khatas.

This curious noting had a history of sorts. During Invigilation, one day, DD walked stealthily into the Raman Auditorium to see if Teachers were really invigilating or taking it easy gossiping in their chairs. Word spread, however, much like in Halls during OP, when lookouts were posted on the roofs.

All teachers got up from their chairs and got busy 'invigilating'; except my volatile friend who appears in an earlier blog: something about someone residing permanently inside the mosquito net in his hostel room. Let us call him Dr G. He was absorbed in a Sherlock Holmes novel that he brought with him to while away a tedious afternoon. And he didn't notice the DD approach him till the DD tore away the novel from his hands and tossed it aside. And Dr G was not one to be trifled with. He got up from his chair and took the DD by his arm and shouted: "How dare you insult me in front of my students?" And Opinion was divided...and Dr G won the battle, at least morally, and DD had to withdraw in a huff.

And from the next day, Teachers' Chairs were removed from the Exam Halls...but where there is a will, they say, there is a way...

I myself had to take the Tut Class that year in the new premises; and students were happily sitting in Teachers' Chairs and doing their problems with their khatas on their laps.

And I was dozing in the lone students' chair I stole from a room upstairs...


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Waxworks

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A couple of days back I cheated on my blog and didn't compose a single word; instead I copy-pasted a tall tale from Mark Twain. Because I got busy. This is how:

Over the past couple of years my folks started complaining that I am becoming more and more 'hearing-impaired'. I told them it is not MY problem...I am fine and have no complaints.

My son then told me off and said they had to shout louder and louder to get my attention. I said they are welcome. And he insisted he takes me to the latest Hearing Clinic where everything is computerized and it makes X-Y plots of my hearing vs frequency and corrects it frequency-wise by a chip which is implanted in a practically invisible mini-battery-operated hearing device @ Rs 35,000 (only) if you are happy with base metal and up to Rs 1 lakh if you want gold and platinum (like the good old false teeth).

Good that I pretended not to hear him...

I was then reminded of the ear-trumpet Mr. Wardle's mother was happily using when Mr. Wardle tried to introduce Mr. Pickwick to her eminence:

"Mr. Pickwick, mother," said Mr. Wardle at the very top of his voice.

"Ah!" said the old lady shaking her head; "I can't hear you."

"Mr. Pickwick, grandma!" screamed both the young ladies together.

"Ah!" exclaimed the old lady. "Well, it don't much matter. He don't care for an old 'ooman like me, I daresay."

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But over the last week or so, there was this new sensation whenever I turned my head...the right ear felt like I was shaking a bottle of coke...gurgling and bubbling and frothing sounds emanating inwardly...nothing high-sounding you know. And there was this premonition that ear-pain may shoot any time now. That was the time for action. I asked my son for the nearest ENT chap and he browsed the web on his mobile and gave me the address; and felt sorry he couldn't escort me there since he has a Customer Meeting with his American clients (who don't, as of now, believe in working night-shifts). I said, no problem, I will take care of myself exemplarily.

The Receptionist was busy on her cell phone and was waving away everyone approaching her to come after an hour since the Surgeon is in the OT. Everyone left but me...I sat down and browsed web on MY ancient cell phone, maybe 1G or even 0G. Go to GPRS and type Google and it will go into coma and after five good minutes suddenly wake up....great time-pass.

As expected, the Surgeon, a young chap my son's age, came out in 15 minutes. And I entered and explained my complaint as graphically as I could. He dismissed all my tall talk and ordered me to turn my right ear to him. And shone a torch light. And recoiled in horror. And he turned my head the other side...the left ear didn't disappoint him either.

He then recovered his voice and cried that both my ears were filled to the brim with good old wax. And asked me how I managed to collect it. I said I take shower at least half a dozen times a day (I didn't tell him that my head gets hot every other hour due to intense inner activity...like the engine of my old Maruti).

He asked me how is my hearing...I said I have no problem, since I got to be an expert at lip-reading...four-letter words like Reco and five-letter ones like Grade...over the last four decades at KGP. And anything context-sensitive is peanuts for me to make out.

He then looked outside the window and saw my Maruti and asked me how I could drive in Hyderabad city with such mounds of wax in my both ears. I said I am blind too in the right eye and maybe they compensate...

He then prescribed a Wax-Melter bottle and asked me to pour three drops of the thing thrice a day in each ear. He said in three days the wax would melt and then he will clean the ears on Tuesday evening (tomorrow). I asked him why not clean them right away and he said he could, but it would pain like hell...I jumped up and ran home like a surprised jackrabbit.

Ishani was waiting for me and I gave her the immense pleasure of watching the Wax-Melting Operation for the first time (for both of us). SDM used to spread the word that gps's Algebra is kachcha...but my Arithmetic is sound. I quickly calculated, like the Inverter we are going to buy that gives 'support' for three fans and three tubes for three hours...and poured nine drops in each ear and we both slept.

Ishani and I woke up after three good hours. And I felt a strange sensation in both the ears that things are about to fall down like hail. I asked her to quickly fetch a crucible from her mom's kitchen which she did running with excitement.

One by one mini-stones were dropping out whichever side I turned. I collected them with tweezers and dropped them gently in the crucible, after examining their shape and explaining to her that this one is like Shiv Ling, the other like Ganeshjee, and the third like Hanuman sans tail...her joy knew no bounds and she was screaming with delight...

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I was then reminded of a story told by my friend at KGP...unlike me, he is too honest to fib.

He was flying from Cal to Delhi the other day and was in the aisle seat with a serious-looking neighbor in the window seat. And found that every few minutes, his neighbor was picking his nose and collecting the output in a glass petri dish. My friend got annoyed at first but after an hour got curious and asked him what the idea was.

He was told that his neighbor was a Scientist D in an R&D Lab, was an experimental physicist with lots of patents in bio-instrumentation and recently won a Project for Rs 50 lakhs for devising mini-capacitors using organic dielectrics and he has already collected about 40 grams of the specimen and as soon as it becomes a round 50 grams, he would make a series of investigations on its dielectric properties like Cole-Cole Plot.

My friend asked him why can't the regular ones like paper and ceramic be used. The Scientist explained to him that these devices he is making are for implanting in the brain and heart, like say, pacemakers (Mrs KVR used to call them charmingly: 'Spacemakers'). And any fool can understand that Rejection is the main problem with these inorganic external implants but one's own body parts are never rejected...

And he said: "Excuse me!" and picked his nose...

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My son rushed home at midnight and asked me:

"Dad! How did it go?"

"Fine; but stop bawling!"


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Literary Matters

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Pratik's Take on Parashuram:

"...In fact I don't like social messages in novels and stories. In this regard my ideal is Conan Doyle. The reading should be for sheer entertainment, at least for me... I like the messages separately in essay form. Among Bengalis my favourite essayist is Parashuram. In Hindi I liked a person called Rambriksh Benipuri. And in English we are becoming acquainted with the `Autocrat' through your blogs.

Parashuram was always appealing for his rationality. His childhood was spent in Darbhanga / Bihar and he did not know any Bengali till the age of fifteen or so when he passed the Entrance examination; Hindi was like his mother tongue.

I don't think Bengal has produced any bigger `Pundit' than him be it language / literature or science he was a true master. There was this friendly war between Tagore and Acharya P. C. Ray whether Parashuram should pursue Literature or Science. He always hid himself from limelight. Shy and introvert, very very reluctant to attend any felicitation ceremonies and public meetings but very particular in replying his letters in self made envelopes using a self made ink..."

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I first heard of Parashuram from DB who was his devotee, sort of; and he was a 'Basu' too ;-) DB used to tell me tall tales about his own wacky ancestor Ramram Basu, the leading light of early Bengali Literature, whose crafty business acumen would have been the envy of today's luminaries who are landing up in the cooler like so many moths on the hot shade of our good old hurricane lantern. But of course he used it against our British rulers.

And it was Shyamal who gifted me the English translation. I didn't know Parashuram started learning Bengali in his teens. I think it is an advantage...most of us learned English at that age.

Parashuram was awarded Padmabhushan in 1956, Google tells me. Saswat was in India last month and he called me up and we had long chats for a couple of hours. He said his father wonders why RKN was not awarded the Nobel. Such is the admiration our generation have for RKN. Of all his works, I like Next Sunday best. It is the first collection of his 'personal essays' that appeared weekly in the Hindu in the 1950s...our teens, and so we relate to those period pieces best.

Of course I agree heartily with Pratik that reading should be for pleasure, and any message therein should be woven so subtly that it is not loud; and should be between the author and his reader (sorry for the masculine gender).

The litmus test of a book you love is that you should reread it. I read the Autocrat five times in as many decades at regular intervals. Very few 'connoisseurs' to whom I passed on my copy (including Edwin who gifted me a gilt-edged copy of 1885 vintage bought from the Harvard Square) could proceed beyond the third page. So, it is a matter of a very very personal taste.

By the way, it is the second round that matters most in many things. Great writers like Harper Lee (To Kill a Mocking Bird) and J D Salinger (The Catcher in the Rye)...I read both the books...couldn't come up with a second bestseller...I don't now why.

I was always very careful about my Second Lecture to a new batch...the first is pourparlers...

The Madame in one of Maugham's (?) stories instructs her new recruit: "It is the second innings that hooks a customer...not the first...always keep something in store" or something like that...

Sorry for mixing up instruction in Physics and the Physical...

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My friend NP quotes in re The Rime of the Ancient Mariner:

"...However, when Lyrical Ballads was reprinted, Wordsworth included it despite Coleridge's objections, writing:

The Poem of my Friend has indeed great defects; first, that the principal person has no distinct character, either in his profession of Mariner, or as a human being who having been long under the control of supernatural impressions might be supposed himself to partake of something supernatural; secondly, that he does not act, but is continually acted upon; thirdly, that the events having no necessary connection do not produce each other; and lastly, that the imagery is somewhat too laboriously accumulated. Yet the Poem contains many delicate touches of passion, and indeed the passion is every where true to nature, a great number of the stanzas present beautiful images, and are expressed with unusual felicity of language; and the versification, though the metre is itself unfit for long poems, is harmonious and artfully varied, exhibiting the utmost powers of that metre, and every variety of which it is capable. It therefore appeared to me that these several merits (the first of which, namely that of the passion, is of the highest kind) gave to the Poem a value which is not often possessed by better Poems.

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As you all know, it is my favorite poem...when Pratik was sharing the fourth year lab classes with me for three long hours, I used to hold him first 'by the hand' and then 'by the eye' and talk talk talk as if:

"..I have strange power of speech;
That moment that his face I see,
I know the man that must hear me:
To him my tale I teach..."

It is now seven years that I left KGP but still I hold him, now, 'by the blog' ;-)

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True Tale of a Fake Reco

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http://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/2895/pg2895.txt

Following the Equator
by
Mark Twain

A few years before the outbreak of the Civil War it began to appear that
Memphis, Tennessee, was going to be a great tobacco entrepot--the wise
could see the signs of it.  At that time Memphis had a wharf boat, of
course.  There was a paved sloping wharf, for the accommodation of
freight, but the steamers landed on the outside of the wharfboat, and all
loading and unloading was done across it, between steamer and shore.  A
number of wharfboat clerks were needed, and part of the time, every day,
they were very busy, and part of the time tediously idle.  They were
boiling over with youth and spirits, and they had to make the intervals
of idleness endurable in some way; and as a rule, they did it by
contriving practical jokes and playing them upon each other.

The favorite butt for the jokes was Ed Jackson, because he played none
himself, and was easy game for other people's--for he always believed
whatever was told him.

One day he told the others his scheme for his holiday.  He was not going
fishing or hunting this time--no, he had thought out a better plan.  Out
of his $40 a month he had saved enough for his purpose, in an economical
way, and he was going to have a look at New York.

It was a great and surprising idea.  It meant travel--immense travel--in
those days it meant seeing the world; it was the equivalent of a voyage
around it in ours.  At first the other youths thought his mind was
affected, but when they found that he was in earnest, the next thing to
be thought of was, what sort of opportunity this venture might afford for
a practical joke.

The young men studied over the matter, then held a secret consultation
and made a plan.  The idea was, that one of the conspirators should offer
Ed a letter of introduction to Commodore Vanderbilt, and trick him into
delivering it.  It would be easy to do this.  But what would Ed do when
he got back to Memphis?  That was a serious matter.  He was good-hearted,
and had always taken the jokes patiently; but they had been jokes which
did not humiliate him, did not bring him to shame; whereas, this would be
a cruel one in that way, and to play it was to meddle with fire; for with
all his good nature, Ed was a Southerner--and the English of that was,
that when he came back he would kill as many of the conspirators as he
could before falling himself.  However, the chances must be taken--it
wouldn't do to waste such a joke as that.

So the letter was prepared with great care and elaboration.  It was
signed Alfred Fairchild, and was written in an easy and friendly spirit.
It stated that the bearer was the bosom friend of the writer's son, and
was of good parts and sterling character, and it begged the Commodore to
be kind to the young stranger for the writer's sake.  It went on to say,
"You may have forgotten me, in this long stretch of time, but you will
easily call me back out of your boyhood memories when I remind you of how
we robbed old Stevenson's orchard that night; and how, while he was
chasing down the road after us, we cut across the field and doubled back
and sold his own apples to his own cook for a hat-full of doughnuts; and
the time that we----" and so forth and so on, bringing in names of
imaginary comrades, and detailing all sorts of wild and absurd and, of
course, wholly imaginary schoolboy pranks and adventures, but putting
them into lively and telling shape.

With all gravity Ed was asked if he would like to have a letter to
Commodore Vanderbilt, the great millionaire.  It was expected that the
question would astonish Ed, and it did.

"What?  Do you know that extraordinary man?"

"No; but my father does.  They were schoolboys together.  And if you
like, I'll write and ask father.  I know he'll be glad to give it to you
for my sake."

Ed could not find words capable of expressing his gratitude and delight.
The three days passed, and the letter was put into his bands.  He started
on his trip, still pouring out his thanks while he shook good-bye all
around.  And when he was out of sight his comrades let fly their laughter
in a storm of happy satisfaction--and then quieted down, and were less
happy, less satisfied.  For the old doubts as to the wisdom of this
deception began to intrude again.

Arrived in New York, Ed found his way to Commodore Vanderbilt's business
quarters, and was ushered into a large anteroom, where a score of people
were patiently awaiting their turn for a two-minute interview with the
millionaire in his private office.  A servant asked for Ed's card, and
got the letter instead.  Ed was sent for a moment later, and found Mr.
Vanderbilt alone, with the letter--open--in his hand.

"Pray sit down, Mr. --er--"

"Jackson."

"Ah--sit down, Mr. Jackson.  By the opening sentences it seems to be a
letter from an old friend.  Allow me--I will run my eye through it.  He
says he says--why, who is it?" He turned the sheet and found the
signature.  "Alfred Fairchild--hm--Fairchild--I don't recall the name.
But that is nothing--a thousand names have gone from me.  He says--he
says-hm-hmoh, dear, but it's good!  Oh, it's rare!  I don't quite
remember it, but I seem to it'll all come back to me presently.  He says
--he says--hm--hm-oh, but that was a game!  Oh, spl-endid!  How it
carries me back!  It's all dim, of course it's a long time ago--and the
names--some of the names are wavery and indistinct--but sho', I know it
happened--I can feel it! and lord, how it warms my heart, and brings
back my lost youth!  Well, well, well, I've got to come back into this
work-a-day world now--business presses and people are waiting--I'll keep
the rest for bed to-night, and live my youth over again.  And you'll
thank Fairchild for me when you see him--I used to call him Alf, I think
--and you'll give him my gratitude for--what this letter has done for the
tired spirit of a hard-worked man; and tell him there isn't anything that
I can do for him or any friend of his that I won't do.  And as for you,
my lad, you are my guest; you can't stop at any hotel in New York.  Sit.
where you are a little while, till I get through with these people, then
we'll go home.  I'll take care of you, my boy--make yourself easy as to
that."

Ed stayed a week, and had an immense time--and never suspected that the
Commodore's shrewd eye was on him, and that he was daily being weighed
and measured and analyzed and tried and tested.

Yes, he had an immense time; and never wrote home, but saved it all up to
tell when he should get back.  Twice, with proper modesty and decency, he
proposed to end his visit, but the Commodore said, "No--wait; leave it to
me; I'll tell you when to go."

In those days the Commodore was making some of those vast combinations of
his--consolidations of warring odds and ends of railroads into harmonious
systems, and concentrations of floating and rudderless commerce in
effective centers--and among other things his farseeing eye had detected
the convergence of that huge tobacco-commerce, already spoken of, toward
Memphis, and he had resolved to set his grasp upon it and make it his
own.

The week came to an end.  Then the Commodore said:

"Now you can start home.  But first we will have some more talk about
that tobacco matter.  I know you now.  I know your abilities as well as
you know them yourself--perhaps better.  You understand that tobacco
matter; you understand that I am going to take possession of it, and you
also understand the plans which I have matured for doing it.  What I want
is a man who knows my mind, and is qualified to represent me in Memphis,
and be in supreme command of that important business--and I appoint you."

"Me!"

"Yes.  Your salary will be high--of course-for you are representing me.
Later you will earn increases of it, and will get them.  You will need a
small army of assistants; choose them yourself--and carefully.  Take no
man for friendship's sake; but, all things being equal, take the man you
know, take your friend, in preference to the stranger."  After some
further talk under this head, the Commodore said:

"Good-bye, my boy, and thank Alf for me, for sending you to me."

When Ed reached Memphis he rushed down to the wharf in a fever to tell
his great news and thank the boys over and over again for thinking to
give him the letter to Mr. Vanderbilt.  It happened to be one of those
idle times.  Blazing hot noonday, and no sign of life on the wharf.  But
as Ed threaded his way among the freight piles, he saw a white linen
figure stretched in slumber upon a pile of grain-sacks under an awning,
and said to himself, "That's one of them," and hastened his step; next,
he said, "It's Charley--it's Fairchild good"; and the next moment laid an
affectionate hand on the sleeper's shoulder.  The eyes opened lazily,
took one glance, the face blanched, the form whirled itself from the
sack-pile, and in an instant Ed was alone and Fairchild was flying for
the wharf-boat like the wind!

Ed was dazed, stupefied.  Was Fairchild crazy?  What could be the meaning
of this?  He started slow and dreamily down toward the wharf-boat; turned
the corner of a freight-pile and came suddenly upon two of the boys.
They were lightly laughing over some pleasant matter; they heard his
step, and glanced up just as he discovered them; the laugh died abruptly;
and before Ed could speak they were off, and sailing over barrels and
bales like hunted deer.  Again Ed was paralyzed.  Had the boys all gone
mad?  What could be the explanation of this extraordinary conduct?  And
so, dreaming along, he reached the wharf-boat, and stepped aboard--
nothing
but silence there, and vacancy.  He crossed the deck, turned the corner
to go down the outer guard, heard a fervent--

"O lord!" and saw a white linen form plunge overboard.

The youth came up coughing and strangling, and cried out--

"Go 'way from here!  You let me alone.  I didn't do it, I swear I
didn't!"

"Didn't do what?"

"Give you the----"

"Never mind what you didn't do--come out of that!  What makes you all act
so?  What have I done?"

"You?  Why you haven't done anything.  But----"

"Well, then, what have you got against me?  What do you all treat me so
for?"

"I--er--but haven't you got anything against us?"

"Of course not.  What put such a thing into your head?"

"Honor bright--you haven't?

"Honor bright."

"Swear it!"

"I don't know what in the world you mean, but I swear it, anyway."

"And you'll shake hands with me?"

"Goodness knows I'll be glad to!  Why, I'm just starving to shake hands
with somebody!"

The swimmer muttered, "Hang him, he smelt a rat and never delivered the
letter!--but it's all right, I'm not going to fetch up the subject."  And
he crawled out and came dripping and draining to shake hands.  First one
and then another of the conspirators showed up cautiously--armed to the
teeth--took in the amicable situation, then ventured warily forward and
joined the love-feast.

And to Ed's eager inquiry as to what made them act as they had been
acting, they answered evasively, and pretended that they had put it up as
a joke, to see what he would do.  It was the best explanation they could
invent at such short notice.  And each said to himself, "He never
delivered that letter, and the joke is on us, if he only knew it or we
were dull enough to come out and tell."

Then, of course, they wanted to know all about the trip; and he said--

"Come right up on the boiler deck and order the drinks--it's my treat.
I'm going to tell you all about it.  And to-night it's my treat again
--and we'll have oysters and a time!"

When the drinks were brought and cigars lighted, Ed said:

"Well, when I delivered the letter to Mr. Vanderbilt----"

"Great Scott!"

"Gracious, how you scared me.  What's the matter?"

"Oh--er--nothing.  Nothing--it was a tack in the chair-seat," said one.

"But you all said it.  However, no matter.  When I delivered the
letter----"

"Did you deliver it?"  And they looked at each other as people might who
thought that maybe they were dreaming.

Then they settled to listening; and as the story deepened and its marvels
grew, the amazement of it made them dumb, and the interest of it took
their breath.  They hardly uttered a whisper during two hours, but sat
like petrifactions and drank in the immortal romance.  At last the tale
was ended, and Ed said--

"And it's all owing to you, boys, and you'll never find me ungrateful
--bless your hearts, the best friends a fellow ever had!  You'll all have
places; I want every one of you.  I know you--I know you 'by the back,'
as the gamblers say.  You're jokers, and all that, but you're sterling,
with the hallmark on.  And Charley Fairchild, you shall be my first
assistant and right hand, because of your first-class ability, and
because you got me the letter, and for your father's sake who wrote it
for me, and to please Mr. Vanderbilt, who said it would!  And here's to
that great man--drink hearty!"

Yes, when the Moment comes, the Man appears--even if he is a thousand
miles away, and has to be discovered by a practical joke.

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