===========================================================================
I never claimed I am a paragon of truthfulness and whatever I say in my blogs is 100% true.
But this one is:
Soon after I joined IIT KGP in1965, my friend NCN dragged me by hand to the Common Room of Gokahle Hall saying that the renowned speaker Mr Rao from Railways is giving a one-hour invited talk and we shouldn't miss it. I asked him why. He said Mr Rao is known for his silver-tongued eloquence in English and talks breathlessly...like that weird chap adored by my music-loving son.
I said ok, and as often happens with me, I lost interest in Mr Rao's eloquence in 5 minutes and started gathering my own wool. At the end of the stipulated hour, the Common Room fell silent for a second, only to explode to a thunderous applause. When we were returning to our Mess I asked NCN what Mr Rao was talking so breathlessly about. And he replied:
"The need for Silence in the modern world"
Long long ago, four brothers, Sanaka, Sanandana, Sanatkumara, and Sanatsujata (S4) were fed up with the inequities of this world and wanted to know the Truth behind this drama of Creation, Sustenance and Dissolution and set about seeking a capable Guru. And they went to the Creator Brahma's home and entered without knocking, to surprise him. And found he was engrossed in enjoying his consort Saraswati's veena recital; and they drew back thinking that a chap who is so enamored of his wife's music is no good for them. Then they went to the Sustainer Vishnu's place and entered their drawing room. And found he was lying in an ocean of milk on the manifolds of a serpent and his consort Laxmi was kneading his lotus feet. And drew back saying he is worse. And they then went to the Destroyer Shiva's place and found he was the worst of all...he shed half his body and was inseparably living in with Gouri.
They drew back crying: "Aiyyo! Aiyyo!! Aiyyayyo!!!"
As they were wandering dejected in Nandan Kanan (Bhubaneshwer), Lord Shiva took pity on them and appeared before them seated beneath a banyan tree as a youthful sage called Dakshinamurty who was gazing at infinity in silence. And the whole chirping forest fell quiet at their meeting. And the four chaps S4 sat by the Sage and eventually closed their eyes and opened them after a good hour, only to find that the Sage had vanished meanwhile whisking along with him all their doubts and dilemmas.
Adi Sankara wrote ten stanzas called Dakshinamurty Stotra and all who know these things admit that those ten stanzas contain within them worlds within worlds of advaitik philosophical thought, like SDM told me about Gel'fand Patterns.
During the first half of last century there was a lad (RM) who reached a temple-town in South India when he was 17 and never left the place till his death at 70 in 1950. And he rarely spoke. And was sitting all the time gazing at infinity. Folks found him unattractive since he never wore ocher robes but only a white kaupeen (codpiece), didn't belong to any known Order, never blessed anyone, nor lectured in the Common Room of Gokhale Hall on the need for silence. But goras fleeing the soul-shattering guns of WW I and II thronged to him to imbibe his silence. And when goras come, can kalas and brownies stay behind? So he became popular and an Ashram grew up around him...but he kept his silence nonetheless.
And whenever someone becomes popular, there will arise detractors, like the khekhras (crabs) trapped in a Brittannia biscuit tin pulling down with their combined might whichever of their colleagues tries to climb out. And a famous mind-reader (MR) reached RM's Ashram along with his disciples, saying he will expose the so-called Saint. And MR sat down in front of RM each trying to outgaze the other. Within 2 minutes, the story goes, MR's eyes closed and his head drooped and he fell sound asleep to wake up after a good hour. He then rose picking up his towel and started to go. And his disciples asked him what happened. And he said:
"That chap started reading my mind"
In his pre-obit to me in 2003, Anand Jha, my ex-student, wrote: "GPS talks a LOT". But I am truly never aware of it. That is how it is. Listen to Thurber in his piece: "A Guide to the Literary Pilgrimage":
**************************************************************************************************************
"The only famous writer I have ever heard of who did not expect his companion to say anything at all was the late Hendrik Willem van Loon. A friend of mine, who used to ride with van Loon from Stamford to New York several times a week, determined one day on a test. He decided to greet van Loon on the Stamford platform on this particular morning simply with a smile and a handshake and to leave him in Grand Central station the same way, having said no word. He wondered if the great man would catch on to the fact that his companion had not once opened his mouth. The next morning, he again came up to van Loon on the Stamford platform and said, 'That was a fine discussion we had on the train yesterday.' 'It was, indeed,' said van Loon, 'I enjoyed it a great deal.'
===========================================================================
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Monday, February 6, 2012
78, 45 & 33.5
========================================================================
In response to the post: Aasthey Ladies, Pratik sent me the following link:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7DK_qqDC1VE
Listening to the song sent me back to my 1960s decade of our youth and exuberance in the Faculty Hostel at IIT KGP. We are the Beatles, Hippies and Mahesh Yogi generation...indeed a very senior professor of Architecture who was eating for a day's lunch as a guest when his wife was safely away stunned us by his declamation: "Hippies plus Mahesh Yogi are the only solution for all the troubles of mankind"
But of course, Harry Belafonte was different...he was the King of Calypso.
Those were the years when All India Radio Calcutta (no one then dubbed it Akashvani) used to broadcast the latest hits of Western Pop and such in its Lunchtime Varieties during week days and Musical Bandbox on Sundays. I was never a musical man, but Bidhu Mohanty, who was a soulful crooner used to croon Matilda and Come Back Liza so well and so often that even I recall those after half a century.
And Pratik's mail sent me back to my school days when we had a lesson in our science book taught well by my Father on the recoding and reproduction of sound. I never saw a gramophone till then and wondered how could it be possible that a purely mechanical device stores and reproduces hit songs of our Telugu films. That of course was explained sadly by our First Paper in our B Sc (Hons) at our AU which was: Mechanics, Heat & Sound. Lots of heat answering the weird questions of that Paper, such as the use of horse hair for a violin bow...later known as 'stick-slip'.
It was a mind-blowing experience to watch a regular HMV Gramophone in my Uncles' place at Nellore when I was just out of school. He was enormously proud of the latest gadget he bought and liked to be surrounded by kids by the dozen asking him to play one more song please! He would dust the box that contained the whole instrument sans the pins that came in another matchbox clone. And open it and hitch up the lovely speaker that grew to become twice the size of the box that hid it...like the tail of the Himalayan Langur that is twice as long as its body. And insert a groovy disk that was the size of a masala dosa and gingerly place it on the rotating table. And take the head piece by hand and twist it and insert a pin delicately into its mouth and place it at the periphery of the disk. And attach a crank-like Z-shaped handle to the machine, and wind it counting thirty turns and say: Go! And out of the horn came the lovely song: 'Eruvaka Sagaro' that was danced by Waheeda when she was just a school kid like us. And when the head piece slowly came to rest traveling radially inwards, he would gingerly pick it up and change the needle...the thing worked on the 'pantograph principle'...pin must be made of a softer material than the disk so that it is the one that wears out rather than the record.
And of course the HMV puppy listening so intently to His Master's Voice faithfully.
By the time I joined our AU, the other Uncle (MD) who was hosting us bought what was famously called: Radiogram. It was electro-mechanical and had provision for a stack of a dozen records inserted at one go and switched on. It had an automatic arm that dumps the disk that has been played out and inserts the next one so that you just relax for half an hour and listen to the choice songs you wanted.
The masala dosa-records were later called SP (Standard Play) and rotated at 78 RPM and could take only one song of 3 minutes each. By the time I became rather solvent in our Faculty Hostel, I bought the latest HMV Star Player that came with 3 speeds: 78 (SP), 45 (EP for Extended Play) and 33.5 (LP for Long Play). The EP was like a thin Uthappam, half the diameter of the SP, but the LP was twice as big as SP, like a Rocket Dosa. EP ran for 9 minutes, I guess, while LP ran for a good half hour.
Since I didn't have cash for more than 3 SPs having some Hindi film hits, after running them for a fortnight again and again, I used to run them at 45 and 33.5 speeds and enjoy the fun!
***********************************************************************************************
P.S. 1: The latest news is that our blogs are acting as tranquilizers for expectant fathers. Bravo!
P.S. 2: Aniket Aga just now sent me the following link to: An Elegy to the JEE:
http://www.outlookindia.com/article.aspx?279807
=========================================================================
In response to the post: Aasthey Ladies, Pratik sent me the following link:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7DK_qqDC1VE
Listening to the song sent me back to my 1960s decade of our youth and exuberance in the Faculty Hostel at IIT KGP. We are the Beatles, Hippies and Mahesh Yogi generation...indeed a very senior professor of Architecture who was eating for a day's lunch as a guest when his wife was safely away stunned us by his declamation: "Hippies plus Mahesh Yogi are the only solution for all the troubles of mankind"
But of course, Harry Belafonte was different...he was the King of Calypso.
Those were the years when All India Radio Calcutta (no one then dubbed it Akashvani) used to broadcast the latest hits of Western Pop and such in its Lunchtime Varieties during week days and Musical Bandbox on Sundays. I was never a musical man, but Bidhu Mohanty, who was a soulful crooner used to croon Matilda and Come Back Liza so well and so often that even I recall those after half a century.
And Pratik's mail sent me back to my school days when we had a lesson in our science book taught well by my Father on the recoding and reproduction of sound. I never saw a gramophone till then and wondered how could it be possible that a purely mechanical device stores and reproduces hit songs of our Telugu films. That of course was explained sadly by our First Paper in our B Sc (Hons) at our AU which was: Mechanics, Heat & Sound. Lots of heat answering the weird questions of that Paper, such as the use of horse hair for a violin bow...later known as 'stick-slip'.
It was a mind-blowing experience to watch a regular HMV Gramophone in my Uncles' place at Nellore when I was just out of school. He was enormously proud of the latest gadget he bought and liked to be surrounded by kids by the dozen asking him to play one more song please! He would dust the box that contained the whole instrument sans the pins that came in another matchbox clone. And open it and hitch up the lovely speaker that grew to become twice the size of the box that hid it...like the tail of the Himalayan Langur that is twice as long as its body. And insert a groovy disk that was the size of a masala dosa and gingerly place it on the rotating table. And take the head piece by hand and twist it and insert a pin delicately into its mouth and place it at the periphery of the disk. And attach a crank-like Z-shaped handle to the machine, and wind it counting thirty turns and say: Go! And out of the horn came the lovely song: 'Eruvaka Sagaro' that was danced by Waheeda when she was just a school kid like us. And when the head piece slowly came to rest traveling radially inwards, he would gingerly pick it up and change the needle...the thing worked on the 'pantograph principle'...pin must be made of a softer material than the disk so that it is the one that wears out rather than the record.
And of course the HMV puppy listening so intently to His Master's Voice faithfully.
By the time I joined our AU, the other Uncle (MD) who was hosting us bought what was famously called: Radiogram. It was electro-mechanical and had provision for a stack of a dozen records inserted at one go and switched on. It had an automatic arm that dumps the disk that has been played out and inserts the next one so that you just relax for half an hour and listen to the choice songs you wanted.
The masala dosa-records were later called SP (Standard Play) and rotated at 78 RPM and could take only one song of 3 minutes each. By the time I became rather solvent in our Faculty Hostel, I bought the latest HMV Star Player that came with 3 speeds: 78 (SP), 45 (EP for Extended Play) and 33.5 (LP for Long Play). The EP was like a thin Uthappam, half the diameter of the SP, but the LP was twice as big as SP, like a Rocket Dosa. EP ran for 9 minutes, I guess, while LP ran for a good half hour.
Since I didn't have cash for more than 3 SPs having some Hindi film hits, after running them for a fortnight again and again, I used to run them at 45 and 33.5 speeds and enjoy the fun!
***********************************************************************************************
P.S. 1: The latest news is that our blogs are acting as tranquilizers for expectant fathers. Bravo!
P.S. 2: Aniket Aga just now sent me the following link to: An Elegy to the JEE:
http://www.outlookindia.com/article.aspx?279807
=========================================================================
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Chickpea
=========================================================================
During our 3-year stay in Banjara Hills, an old man of about 75, then 10 years older to me, introduced himself as PR and, as he told my son several times, liked me so much that he called me 'lovable', an adjective which everyone in my family (except Ishani) and all colleagues at KGP will dispute heartily saying, 'on the other hand'...
PR was a civil engineer in the AP Government and thirty five years back took up the challenge of working in the Armed Forces for the Border Roads Organization near Bhutan as a sponsored civilian for three years...an offer many of his colleagues and seniors refused because of the trouble and risk involved.
Within a week of joining, PR walked into the Chamber of his top Army Boss defying all protocol, and warned him straightaway that instead of getting his coveted promotion in the Army HQ at Delhi, he is likely to be demoted if not dismissed outright. The Boss, who, according to PR was taking things easy and teaching golf to the Prince of Bhutan and partying, grew red in the face but decided to listen to PR since such a thing as a contemptible civilian walking into the chamber of a Lt General or whatever was unheard of...such things happen you know.
PR told his Boss that his engineering staff had been misleading him all the while and those three bridges across those three gorgeous gorges can never be built within the stipulated six months the way things have been going on and the deadline is fast approaching. And showed him figures and tables displaying work vs men vs funds vs vehicles...in short he gave what you young chaps nowadays call a 'presentation'.
His Boss's face fell and he at once asked PR what to do. PR told him bluntly that goods can be delivered and targets achieved only by flouting all norms, recruiting 120 laborers, working them 3 shifts 24/7 with 50 gas lamps for the contraband night-shifts (risking injuries and death for the workers), showing the first completed bridge to the Army Brass, asking for more funds, and in general working like the very Devil.
The Boss dragged PR by hand to his Engineers Office manned by a couple of dozen idlers senior to PR and ordered that for the coming six months PR will be their Boss and everyone should obey him or risk outright dismissal.
God, as PR told me, was with him, and those three magnificent bridges, which stand tall even today, were completed just in time and his Boss got his promotion to Delhi, and PR was then on a victim of envy, jealousy and rancor, and his immediate boss spoiled his CR (Confidential Report) and PR was on the point of being demoted.
He then did something equally 'not done'...he telephoned the Army HQ and squealed to his erstwhile Army Boss who telephoned the powers that be and PR was shifted back to the AP Govt Services on double promotion as Chief Engineer over the heads of half a dozen of his seniors. And built many more brdiges and roads whose foundation stones still carry his name.
**************************************************************************************************************
This story took half an hour for me to keyboard and will take ten minutes for you to read, but PR took two hours to narrate it in every loving detail. I was shifting all the while from my right leg to the left and back, on the pavement of the Main Road of Venkataramana Colony where he caught me by the eye like our good old Ancient Mariner, with this difference that PR held me two hours each by his eye ten or more times during the three years I stayed there...verbatim...
Now you know why he called me 'lovable'... others on whom he tried his autobio used to perhaps escape saying they have a Rotary Club Meeting to preside or a wedding feast to gorge or visit their dentist...
I, on the other hand, was fascinated by his 2-hour narrative 'repeat telecast' (as Dalia says) every once in a while so truthfully that I could predict which sentence was coming next and the next and the next...it was a game I played with myself. It was like a non-musical man like me forced to listen to kolavari di again and again and wishing heartily that that papappa paam will somehow become pipippi peee at least once...and failing.
Senility is a many-headed hydra. But its neck is unique...Unending Repetition...of habits, thoughts, speeches and the works of Old Age.
Cicero (literally chickpea because of the excrescence on the tip of his nose) wrote an article on the subject of Senility...de Senectute...in the 4th century BC, which became compulsory reading for beginners of Latin.
Saying the same thing again and again year after year is the bane of Lecturers like me at IIT KGP...I taught a course on EM & STR for two good decades.
But that didn't make me senile then.
Listen to our Autocrat:
http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/751
***********************************************************************************************************
A thought is often original, though you have uttered it a hundred times.
It has come to you over a new route, by a new and express train of associations.
===========================================================================
During our 3-year stay in Banjara Hills, an old man of about 75, then 10 years older to me, introduced himself as PR and, as he told my son several times, liked me so much that he called me 'lovable', an adjective which everyone in my family (except Ishani) and all colleagues at KGP will dispute heartily saying, 'on the other hand'...
PR was a civil engineer in the AP Government and thirty five years back took up the challenge of working in the Armed Forces for the Border Roads Organization near Bhutan as a sponsored civilian for three years...an offer many of his colleagues and seniors refused because of the trouble and risk involved.
Within a week of joining, PR walked into the Chamber of his top Army Boss defying all protocol, and warned him straightaway that instead of getting his coveted promotion in the Army HQ at Delhi, he is likely to be demoted if not dismissed outright. The Boss, who, according to PR was taking things easy and teaching golf to the Prince of Bhutan and partying, grew red in the face but decided to listen to PR since such a thing as a contemptible civilian walking into the chamber of a Lt General or whatever was unheard of...such things happen you know.
PR told his Boss that his engineering staff had been misleading him all the while and those three bridges across those three gorgeous gorges can never be built within the stipulated six months the way things have been going on and the deadline is fast approaching. And showed him figures and tables displaying work vs men vs funds vs vehicles...in short he gave what you young chaps nowadays call a 'presentation'.
His Boss's face fell and he at once asked PR what to do. PR told him bluntly that goods can be delivered and targets achieved only by flouting all norms, recruiting 120 laborers, working them 3 shifts 24/7 with 50 gas lamps for the contraband night-shifts (risking injuries and death for the workers), showing the first completed bridge to the Army Brass, asking for more funds, and in general working like the very Devil.
The Boss dragged PR by hand to his Engineers Office manned by a couple of dozen idlers senior to PR and ordered that for the coming six months PR will be their Boss and everyone should obey him or risk outright dismissal.
God, as PR told me, was with him, and those three magnificent bridges, which stand tall even today, were completed just in time and his Boss got his promotion to Delhi, and PR was then on a victim of envy, jealousy and rancor, and his immediate boss spoiled his CR (Confidential Report) and PR was on the point of being demoted.
He then did something equally 'not done'...he telephoned the Army HQ and squealed to his erstwhile Army Boss who telephoned the powers that be and PR was shifted back to the AP Govt Services on double promotion as Chief Engineer over the heads of half a dozen of his seniors. And built many more brdiges and roads whose foundation stones still carry his name.
**************************************************************************************************************
This story took half an hour for me to keyboard and will take ten minutes for you to read, but PR took two hours to narrate it in every loving detail. I was shifting all the while from my right leg to the left and back, on the pavement of the Main Road of Venkataramana Colony where he caught me by the eye like our good old Ancient Mariner, with this difference that PR held me two hours each by his eye ten or more times during the three years I stayed there...verbatim...
Now you know why he called me 'lovable'... others on whom he tried his autobio used to perhaps escape saying they have a Rotary Club Meeting to preside or a wedding feast to gorge or visit their dentist...
I, on the other hand, was fascinated by his 2-hour narrative 'repeat telecast' (as Dalia says) every once in a while so truthfully that I could predict which sentence was coming next and the next and the next...it was a game I played with myself. It was like a non-musical man like me forced to listen to kolavari di again and again and wishing heartily that that papappa paam will somehow become pipippi peee at least once...and failing.
Senility is a many-headed hydra. But its neck is unique...Unending Repetition...of habits, thoughts, speeches and the works of Old Age.
Cicero (literally chickpea because of the excrescence on the tip of his nose) wrote an article on the subject of Senility...de Senectute...in the 4th century BC, which became compulsory reading for beginners of Latin.
Saying the same thing again and again year after year is the bane of Lecturers like me at IIT KGP...I taught a course on EM & STR for two good decades.
But that didn't make me senile then.
Listen to our Autocrat:
http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/751
***********************************************************************************************************
A thought is often original, though you have uttered it a hundred times.
It has come to you over a new route, by a new and express train of associations.
Sometimes, but rarely, one may be caught making the same speech
twice over, and yet be held blameless. Thus, a certain lecturer,
after performing in an inland city, where dwells a Litteratrice of
note, was invited to meet her and others over the social teacup.
She pleasantly referred to his many wanderings in his new
occupation. "Yes," he replied, "I am like the Huma, the bird that
never lights, being always in the cars, as he is always on the
wing." --Years elapsed. The lecturer visited the same place once
more for the same purpose. Another social cup after the lecture,
and a second meeting with the distinguished lady. "You are
constantly going from place to place," she said.--"Yes," he
answered, "I am like the Huma," --and finished the sentence as
before.
What horrors, when it flashed over him that he had made this fine
speech, word for word, twice over! Yet it was not true, as the
lady might perhaps have fairly inferred, that he had embellished
his conversation with the Huma daily during that whole interval of
years. On the contrary, he had never once thought of the odious
fowl until the recurrence of precisely the same circumstances
brought up precisely the same idea. He ought to have been proud of
the accuracy of his mental adjustments. Given certain factors, and
a sound brain should always evolve the same fixed product with the
certainty of Babbage's calculating machine.===========================================================================
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Inversions, Reversions & Perversions
==========================================================================
In our childhood there was this rumor that horses harnessed to 'jhatkas' of Tirupati ran backwards when they were annoyed with their Drivers. But I never saw one nor met anyone who saw one.
In KGP in the 1960s there were a few dandies who bought the famous Rajdoot bikes and flaunted them on the road...whoosh! It used to be said that, once in a while, when the Driver sits proudly astride his Rajdoot and kicks its Starter Pedal, it starts to go backwards. I thought it was a bull till MSS, who never told a lie, said he had that experience once and explained it as due to its timer's misbehavior.
When I was a kid, we were traveling by the Madras-Howrah Mail from Nellore to Srikakulam and had to cross Waltair (Vizagh). I had slept off when the train passed Waltair and when I woke up, I started shouting to my dad that the Driver had goofed and the Mail is running back to Nellore. It took repeated journies to find out what happens at Waltair...there is a T-Junction and while reaching Waltair, the train takes the vertical leg of the T and goes in seawards. Since it can't very well drive on and drown in the Bay of Bengal, it reverses and goes back and on to Howrah...but not quite a U-Turn. Its sea-bound engine delinks and goes into its yard while a new engine is shunted to the rearmost bogie and lugs the Mail merrily on. So, if you were sitting in a North-facing seat till Waltair, you will be facing South then on...the port side turns into the starboard side...the first and last bogies are reversed and it is quite an experience to figure out the 'symmetry operation' involved in the perverted behavior of the Howrah-Mail.
As for the Electron Tube Circuits in our youth, we have the famous example of Feynman, who as a boy, 'repaired' a misbehaving radio by simply switching the tubes at the front and back ends...the hum and hiss just disappeared. And at KGP, as long as I was there, no 'Audio System' in any one of the several auditoria behaved like a Lady. First, the front-end-techno would stand in front of the mike and say: "Check..one, two, three..." and nothing happens. Then the back-end chap fiddles and twiddles his Amplifier knobs and suddenly the negative feedback goes positive at some pole or zero of the Nyquist Plot or whatever and it squeals: 'Queee!' and then fine tuning is done and "Check, one, two, three" and "thumbs up". It always happened that the Host who does the intro is super-tall like Obama while the Chief Guest is like Hitler. Since the various 'joints' in the mike are not altogether 'universal', several adjustments have to be made and the mouthpiece gets pushed into the face of the CG and after several 'sorry's the CG starts his Speech and goes: 'Queee!'. After enjoying the whole drama several times, I was at last at the wrong end of the thing when I had to 'lecture' to a Class of 350 students in the Vikramshila (or was it Takhashila?) and the techno pushed an 'Apple-Nano' thing into my shirt pocket and clipped a 'butterfly' on my button-hole thing and said 'go'...it never 'went'...I largely depended on my immense lung power.
During the 1970s I was collaborating, sort of, with my Industrial Engineer friends (it got keyboarded as fiends) at KGP. And 'discovered' a Theorem on Reversal Symmetry of Assembly Lines. Don't, please, think of pigs entering the Line at one end and pork chop cans exiting the other; and its absurd vice versa. It is much simpler than that. Suppose we have a Hair-Cutting Saloon as it is called in Hyderabad, having three chairs manned by three operators. An unending stream of customers enter the Line. The first barber 'cuts' the head. And the customer moves into the second chair and the chap there shaves his beard; and he moves into the third where his nails are clipped. And he goes out home merrily. Suppose each of the three barbers manning the Line has his own 'mean' time and distribution function...say Gaussian, Poisson or Erlang. And suppose it turns out that the mean throughput is such that in any random hour ten customers get serviced.
Now, ask the customers to enter through the nether-end...first nail-cutting, then shaving and last, head-cutting. Our theorem stated that the 'throughput' will be the same ten customers per hour. It was quite a remarkable theorem unlike what you would say: "Obvious"...for, we couldn't supply a correct general proof...we goofed. And it took another decade for our Reversal Symmetry Theorem to be proved, by an expert US Production Engineer.
Finally, those who think the 'left-right' reversal of our image in a plane mirror is passe', please stand up on the bench and keep standing the whole hour. It required Feynman again to explain it pithily as an operation of 'squashing' us back to front...read Page 331 of Genius by James Gleick.
How nice it is to be a Teacher! I opened the book after nearly two decades and found this 'dedication' on its first leaf:
*****************************************************************************************************************
To
......Sir,
............with best wishes
..................................moitreyee
===========================================================================
In our childhood there was this rumor that horses harnessed to 'jhatkas' of Tirupati ran backwards when they were annoyed with their Drivers. But I never saw one nor met anyone who saw one.
In KGP in the 1960s there were a few dandies who bought the famous Rajdoot bikes and flaunted them on the road...whoosh! It used to be said that, once in a while, when the Driver sits proudly astride his Rajdoot and kicks its Starter Pedal, it starts to go backwards. I thought it was a bull till MSS, who never told a lie, said he had that experience once and explained it as due to its timer's misbehavior.
When I was a kid, we were traveling by the Madras-Howrah Mail from Nellore to Srikakulam and had to cross Waltair (Vizagh). I had slept off when the train passed Waltair and when I woke up, I started shouting to my dad that the Driver had goofed and the Mail is running back to Nellore. It took repeated journies to find out what happens at Waltair...there is a T-Junction and while reaching Waltair, the train takes the vertical leg of the T and goes in seawards. Since it can't very well drive on and drown in the Bay of Bengal, it reverses and goes back and on to Howrah...but not quite a U-Turn. Its sea-bound engine delinks and goes into its yard while a new engine is shunted to the rearmost bogie and lugs the Mail merrily on. So, if you were sitting in a North-facing seat till Waltair, you will be facing South then on...the port side turns into the starboard side...the first and last bogies are reversed and it is quite an experience to figure out the 'symmetry operation' involved in the perverted behavior of the Howrah-Mail.
As for the Electron Tube Circuits in our youth, we have the famous example of Feynman, who as a boy, 'repaired' a misbehaving radio by simply switching the tubes at the front and back ends...the hum and hiss just disappeared. And at KGP, as long as I was there, no 'Audio System' in any one of the several auditoria behaved like a Lady. First, the front-end-techno would stand in front of the mike and say: "Check..one, two, three..." and nothing happens. Then the back-end chap fiddles and twiddles his Amplifier knobs and suddenly the negative feedback goes positive at some pole or zero of the Nyquist Plot or whatever and it squeals: 'Queee!' and then fine tuning is done and "Check, one, two, three" and "thumbs up". It always happened that the Host who does the intro is super-tall like Obama while the Chief Guest is like Hitler. Since the various 'joints' in the mike are not altogether 'universal', several adjustments have to be made and the mouthpiece gets pushed into the face of the CG and after several 'sorry's the CG starts his Speech and goes: 'Queee!'. After enjoying the whole drama several times, I was at last at the wrong end of the thing when I had to 'lecture' to a Class of 350 students in the Vikramshila (or was it Takhashila?) and the techno pushed an 'Apple-Nano' thing into my shirt pocket and clipped a 'butterfly' on my button-hole thing and said 'go'...it never 'went'...I largely depended on my immense lung power.
During the 1970s I was collaborating, sort of, with my Industrial Engineer friends (it got keyboarded as fiends) at KGP. And 'discovered' a Theorem on Reversal Symmetry of Assembly Lines. Don't, please, think of pigs entering the Line at one end and pork chop cans exiting the other; and its absurd vice versa. It is much simpler than that. Suppose we have a Hair-Cutting Saloon as it is called in Hyderabad, having three chairs manned by three operators. An unending stream of customers enter the Line. The first barber 'cuts' the head. And the customer moves into the second chair and the chap there shaves his beard; and he moves into the third where his nails are clipped. And he goes out home merrily. Suppose each of the three barbers manning the Line has his own 'mean' time and distribution function...say Gaussian, Poisson or Erlang. And suppose it turns out that the mean throughput is such that in any random hour ten customers get serviced.
Now, ask the customers to enter through the nether-end...first nail-cutting, then shaving and last, head-cutting. Our theorem stated that the 'throughput' will be the same ten customers per hour. It was quite a remarkable theorem unlike what you would say: "Obvious"...for, we couldn't supply a correct general proof...we goofed. And it took another decade for our Reversal Symmetry Theorem to be proved, by an expert US Production Engineer.
Finally, those who think the 'left-right' reversal of our image in a plane mirror is passe', please stand up on the bench and keep standing the whole hour. It required Feynman again to explain it pithily as an operation of 'squashing' us back to front...read Page 331 of Genius by James Gleick.
How nice it is to be a Teacher! I opened the book after nearly two decades and found this 'dedication' on its first leaf:
*****************************************************************************************************************
To
......Sir,
............with best wishes
..................................moitreyee
===========================================================================
Friday, February 3, 2012
Grapes, Bananas & Coconuts
=========================================================================
In our mother tongue,Telugu, there is this rough division of writing styles into three according to the toughness of the language used. These are:
(1) Draaksha Paakam (Grapes-Style)
(2) Kadalee Paakam (Bananas-Style)
(3) Naarikela Paakam (Coconuts-Style)
Grapes are of course the easiest to eat...just gulp them. Bananas have to be peeled before you can eat them. And coconuts are hard...you have to break them with a tool before enjoying their rich flesh.
An example of the Grapes-Style is Vemana Shatakam, written by a heterodox Yogi of the 14th century. Its 100 verses use the simplest diction and prosody but carry rich ideas by way of very original metaphors. C P Brown, a British Civil Servant of the 18th century, was so taken by Vemana's verses that he translated them into English.
The Bananas-Style is epitomized by the famous Bhagavatam of Potana while the Coconuts-Style is purposely exhibited by his B-i-L Shreenatha, both of the 15th century. Apart from other famous simpler works, Shreenatha wrote his Coconuts-Style work: Kashi Khandam just for the heck of it maybe. It is said: "Kashi Khandam ayah pindam", meaning "Kashi Khandam is like a ball of iron"
In English literature, the Grapes-Style is best illustrated by Hemingway's Old Man and the Sea. It flows like wine. He got his Nobel for it. I picked up the slim book of 100 odd pages in the Wheeler's Bookstall on Platform #1 of KGP on my way to Gudur. And finished it in one hour. And turned back to the first page and re-read it in a couple of hours. (The only other book I re-read like that back to back is Mark Twain's Huckleberry Finn...5 years after retirement). Faulkner is said to have written disparagingly of Hemingway's Style saying: "You don't need a dictionary to read him" or some such thing. To which Hemingway retorted: "Poor Faulkner. Does he really think big emotions come from big words? He thinks I don't know the ten-dollar words. I know them all right. But there are older and simpler and better words, and those are the ones I use."
The Bananas-Style is exemplified by the Autocrat of the Breakfast Table by my favorite author, Oliver Wendell Holmes. It requires a certain effort, but after a few readings you find every sentence is a quotable quote. There is something funny about 'excerpts'. I used to read the Autocrat in my room in the Physics Department at KGP which I shared with DB for twenty years. And when I found a particularly nice passage I used to read it aloud for DB. And he used to get so excited by these excerpts that he would ask for the book, but wouldn't go beyond the first two pages.
The Coconuts-Style is certainly Milton's prose booklet called Areopagitica. We had it as an optional text during our B Sc (Hons). It is said to be a 'polemical' speech by Milton against censorship (as old as Milton!). None of my classmates chose it but I did (being a pervert) and got first rank in our Part I English. I am still fond of coconut flesh (called malai in Hyderabad), provided it is crushed in a mixie and made into liquid chutney...after losing my cracking teeth.
DB told me once that a famous Bengali writer (Parashuram?} compared the aging of their women-folk with the aging of coconuts...green with lots of fresh and healthy water till age 25 say, then the harder temple-breaking stuff with less water and richer malai between 25 and 45, and then the over-ripe ones with nil water but detached copra full of rich oil, 45 onwards.
I would say that both men and women start off in the Grapes-Style as kids between birth and puberty. And in the Banana-Style between puberty and marriage. Then on they branch off...women going into the hard Coconuts-Style whle men grow into Oranges-Style. I mean in worldly wisdom. Women, like Queen(s) Elizabeth and Queen Victoria become hard as copras, while men grow into the oranges of Hyderabad...you have to peel them, rip them, remove the seeds, and suck them...only to find they are sour and dry...like good old gps...
===========================================================================
In our mother tongue,Telugu, there is this rough division of writing styles into three according to the toughness of the language used. These are:
(1) Draaksha Paakam (Grapes-Style)
(2) Kadalee Paakam (Bananas-Style)
(3) Naarikela Paakam (Coconuts-Style)
Grapes are of course the easiest to eat...just gulp them. Bananas have to be peeled before you can eat them. And coconuts are hard...you have to break them with a tool before enjoying their rich flesh.
An example of the Grapes-Style is Vemana Shatakam, written by a heterodox Yogi of the 14th century. Its 100 verses use the simplest diction and prosody but carry rich ideas by way of very original metaphors. C P Brown, a British Civil Servant of the 18th century, was so taken by Vemana's verses that he translated them into English.
The Bananas-Style is epitomized by the famous Bhagavatam of Potana while the Coconuts-Style is purposely exhibited by his B-i-L Shreenatha, both of the 15th century. Apart from other famous simpler works, Shreenatha wrote his Coconuts-Style work: Kashi Khandam just for the heck of it maybe. It is said: "Kashi Khandam ayah pindam", meaning "Kashi Khandam is like a ball of iron"
In English literature, the Grapes-Style is best illustrated by Hemingway's Old Man and the Sea. It flows like wine. He got his Nobel for it. I picked up the slim book of 100 odd pages in the Wheeler's Bookstall on Platform #1 of KGP on my way to Gudur. And finished it in one hour. And turned back to the first page and re-read it in a couple of hours. (The only other book I re-read like that back to back is Mark Twain's Huckleberry Finn...5 years after retirement). Faulkner is said to have written disparagingly of Hemingway's Style saying: "You don't need a dictionary to read him" or some such thing. To which Hemingway retorted: "Poor Faulkner. Does he really think big emotions come from big words? He thinks I don't know the ten-dollar words. I know them all right. But there are older and simpler and better words, and those are the ones I use."
The Bananas-Style is exemplified by the Autocrat of the Breakfast Table by my favorite author, Oliver Wendell Holmes. It requires a certain effort, but after a few readings you find every sentence is a quotable quote. There is something funny about 'excerpts'. I used to read the Autocrat in my room in the Physics Department at KGP which I shared with DB for twenty years. And when I found a particularly nice passage I used to read it aloud for DB. And he used to get so excited by these excerpts that he would ask for the book, but wouldn't go beyond the first two pages.
The Coconuts-Style is certainly Milton's prose booklet called Areopagitica. We had it as an optional text during our B Sc (Hons). It is said to be a 'polemical' speech by Milton against censorship (as old as Milton!). None of my classmates chose it but I did (being a pervert) and got first rank in our Part I English. I am still fond of coconut flesh (called malai in Hyderabad), provided it is crushed in a mixie and made into liquid chutney...after losing my cracking teeth.
DB told me once that a famous Bengali writer (Parashuram?} compared the aging of their women-folk with the aging of coconuts...green with lots of fresh and healthy water till age 25 say, then the harder temple-breaking stuff with less water and richer malai between 25 and 45, and then the over-ripe ones with nil water but detached copra full of rich oil, 45 onwards.
I would say that both men and women start off in the Grapes-Style as kids between birth and puberty. And in the Banana-Style between puberty and marriage. Then on they branch off...women going into the hard Coconuts-Style whle men grow into Oranges-Style. I mean in worldly wisdom. Women, like Queen(s) Elizabeth and Queen Victoria become hard as copras, while men grow into the oranges of Hyderabad...you have to peel them, rip them, remove the seeds, and suck them...only to find they are sour and dry...like good old gps...
===========================================================================
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Aasthey Ladies!
==========================================================================
During all those decades at KGP, I never traveled by bus. That was because my first impression was scary...on my first trip to IIT KGP for my interview, I was on a rickshaw and watched a fully loaded bus with passengers squatting on its open top. The Conductor was inviting more and more customers to the half-empty ladder shouting: Phaka Aachey! Phaka Aachey!
It was terrifying. For seven of my earlier university years at Vizagh, I was busing, mostly standing and leaning on the foot-board. But never on the top. When the KGP bus used to approach the Railway Tunnel at the Dhobi Ghat, the toppers used to bend and prostrate, much like Sean Connery in the movie Great Train Robbery.
But during our first trip to Calcutta, my friend NP and I boarded a Bus (not a minibus whose roof was not tall enough for NP to stand inside, and which was brash, pretending it was a maxitaxi). When the bus was approaching its first stop, the Conductor shouted: "Aasthey Ladies!", asking the Driver to be cautious because ladies were getting down. Such blatant courtesy to ladies was unheard of in our AP and we just loved it so much that even now, a half century later, whenever we meet up and have to say: "Slow down!" we invariably say: "Aasthey Ladies!" even when there is no lady in sight...not even our wives ;-)...the phrase has become a byword for us.
I suspect that by being overnice to their ladies, Bengalis tried to stand them on a pedestal and enchain them with golden shackles. That is why it took all of 30 years for their stormy petrel to break male dominance in their politics; while their South Indian and North Indian counterparts punctured the sari ceiling decades earlier.
Anyway, the other night I was watching this news clip:
http://ibnlive.in.com/videos/225628/bangalore-ias-officers-wife-woman-cop-exchange-blows.html
and inadvertently shouted: Aasthey Ladies! (ask my wife)
I guess I have at best three or four decades left to go, so I have this last wish, to watch our Lady CM and our Lady CPM (so different in their outfits, footwear and bindi-makeup) doing the above scuffle...Bangalore is passe'...
I am back on this man-woman thing and I can only hope I won't rant...stop me if I do. It is trite to say that women are different. The difference is not in degree but in kind itself...like the climates of Kashmir and Kanyakumari.
Anthropologists say that Man got up on his two feet and learned to run much earlier than Woman did. Thurber says pithily: "He needed that head start"
Anyway, today I visited the only corner shop in our new and upcoming locality. It was being manned by a Lady, fortyish, obviously the owner's wife. And asked for a 2-liter bottle of Sprite. Summer will shortly be here and Cola Wars are hotting up. There is a bold legend on the bottle: "Free with this pack: Pocket Maaza". The Lady shoved the bottle onto me and coolly gave me change for my hundred rupee note. I then asked for the Maaza tetrapack. She dismissed me saying: "I don't know...they have not given it with the bottle." I said I get it everywhere and was on the point of shoving her bottle back onto her. She then shouted into her inner chamber: "Arrey Oh! Free Maaza Packet diya kya Sprite ke saath?" And as I was watching keenly for the response, which never came, she opened the drawer below her counter and passed on the tetrapack to me.
I was then reminded of my li'l Ishani in the post:''Cheating":
http://gpsastry.blogspot.in/2012/01/cheating.html
No man could ever do this act so artfully (read shamelessly).
While on the topic of ladies fighting, during our first decade at KGP when there was only the SN Hall (no IG et al), its residents always preferred a male Prof as their Warden, although they tolerated the only youthful Lady Prof available as their Asst Warden.
Graying Males were gullible enough...
===========================================================================
During all those decades at KGP, I never traveled by bus. That was because my first impression was scary...on my first trip to IIT KGP for my interview, I was on a rickshaw and watched a fully loaded bus with passengers squatting on its open top. The Conductor was inviting more and more customers to the half-empty ladder shouting: Phaka Aachey! Phaka Aachey!
It was terrifying. For seven of my earlier university years at Vizagh, I was busing, mostly standing and leaning on the foot-board. But never on the top. When the KGP bus used to approach the Railway Tunnel at the Dhobi Ghat, the toppers used to bend and prostrate, much like Sean Connery in the movie Great Train Robbery.
But during our first trip to Calcutta, my friend NP and I boarded a Bus (not a minibus whose roof was not tall enough for NP to stand inside, and which was brash, pretending it was a maxitaxi). When the bus was approaching its first stop, the Conductor shouted: "Aasthey Ladies!", asking the Driver to be cautious because ladies were getting down. Such blatant courtesy to ladies was unheard of in our AP and we just loved it so much that even now, a half century later, whenever we meet up and have to say: "Slow down!" we invariably say: "Aasthey Ladies!" even when there is no lady in sight...not even our wives ;-)...the phrase has become a byword for us.
I suspect that by being overnice to their ladies, Bengalis tried to stand them on a pedestal and enchain them with golden shackles. That is why it took all of 30 years for their stormy petrel to break male dominance in their politics; while their South Indian and North Indian counterparts punctured the sari ceiling decades earlier.
Anyway, the other night I was watching this news clip:
http://ibnlive.in.com/videos/225628/bangalore-ias-officers-wife-woman-cop-exchange-blows.html
and inadvertently shouted: Aasthey Ladies! (ask my wife)
I guess I have at best three or four decades left to go, so I have this last wish, to watch our Lady CM and our Lady CPM (so different in their outfits, footwear and bindi-makeup) doing the above scuffle...Bangalore is passe'...
I am back on this man-woman thing and I can only hope I won't rant...stop me if I do. It is trite to say that women are different. The difference is not in degree but in kind itself...like the climates of Kashmir and Kanyakumari.
Anthropologists say that Man got up on his two feet and learned to run much earlier than Woman did. Thurber says pithily: "He needed that head start"
Anyway, today I visited the only corner shop in our new and upcoming locality. It was being manned by a Lady, fortyish, obviously the owner's wife. And asked for a 2-liter bottle of Sprite. Summer will shortly be here and Cola Wars are hotting up. There is a bold legend on the bottle: "Free with this pack: Pocket Maaza". The Lady shoved the bottle onto me and coolly gave me change for my hundred rupee note. I then asked for the Maaza tetrapack. She dismissed me saying: "I don't know...they have not given it with the bottle." I said I get it everywhere and was on the point of shoving her bottle back onto her. She then shouted into her inner chamber: "Arrey Oh! Free Maaza Packet diya kya Sprite ke saath?" And as I was watching keenly for the response, which never came, she opened the drawer below her counter and passed on the tetrapack to me.
I was then reminded of my li'l Ishani in the post:''Cheating":
http://gpsastry.blogspot.in/2012/01/cheating.html
No man could ever do this act so artfully (read shamelessly).
While on the topic of ladies fighting, during our first decade at KGP when there was only the SN Hall (no IG et al), its residents always preferred a male Prof as their Warden, although they tolerated the only youthful Lady Prof available as their Asst Warden.
Graying Males were gullible enough...
===========================================================================
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Humor on Rails
==========================================================================
For forty years I was commuting between Gudur (my parents' place) and KGP (my workplace ;-) twice every year during summer and winter vacations by the Madras-Howrah Mail. It so happens that Gudur is the first halt after Madras, a couple of hours later, while KGP is the last halt before Howrah, a couple of hours earlier. To ease trouble for city-slickers, Madras-Howrah Mail started at Madras leisurely at around 11 PM so that everyone could have their dinner and board and sleep off. Again, it used to reach Howrah first thing with the milk the next day but one, around 5 AM. So my upload time at Gudur was an unearthly 1 AM and download time at KGP was an equally unearthly 3 AM. So with the Down Mail.
It was all a heck of a punishment.
NCN was a close friend of mine in the Faculty Hostel during 1965-67. He then shifted as a Lecturer in ChE to KREC, Suratkal (Mangalore), while I stuck doggedly to KGP. After about a decade of silence, I got a 'wire' from NCN that he got married recently and was traveling from Madras to his home town Vijayawada by the hoary Madras-Howrah Mail with his brand new wife, and could I please meet them up at Gudur (where I was staying on a summer vacation). The train was supposed to arrive at Gudur at 1 AM and halt for just 2 minutes. I was still a bachelor then and was hesitant to confront a newly-wed lady (even for 2 minutes). But, luckily my younger sister (who did a 1-year PG Diploma in Physics at KGP) was at Gudur and readily agreed to accompany me to the Gudur Station.
We thought it would be nice to carry a bouquet of jasmines and roses and deliver it to the bride. We reached Gudur Station just in time and ran helter-skelter till we found the couple in front of their S3 Bogie eagerly waiting for us. My sister delivered the bouquet to the bride who was most pleased with it and us, and we started reminiscing about our time at KGP, in a hurry...
How is Suratkal?
Fine
How is KGP?
Fine
How is Rathin-da?
Fine
You have a wonderful wife
Isn't she?
When are you getting married?
Well, well, well...
By then the 2 minutes were happily over but the Mail didn't toot. So we repeated:
How is Suratkal?
Fine
How is KGP?
Fine
.......
By then 5 minutes were over; and then 15 and then 30 and then one whole hour before it did at last toot. Meanwhile, they were asking us to please go home since it is too late for our sleep; while we were saying not at all and they could as well get into the train which may start anytime; no, not at all, pleasure...
How is Suratkal?
Fine
How is KGP?
Fine.....
**************************************************************************************************************
Prof RSS (sadly no more) narrated his hilarious experience with the Howarh-Madras Mail at Gudur. He and a couple of his Research Scholars were traveling to Tirupati to attend a Conference there. To reach Tirupati they had to download at Gudur and take a bus.
RSS was traveling in the AC 2-Tier while his poor students were traveling by the 3-tier Sleeper. They consulted the Time Tables and found that the Howrah-Madras Mail reaches Gudur at 2.30 AM and halts for just 2 minutes before taking off. The students asked their guide RSS not to worry but sleep off and they would run up to his Bogie and wake him up at Gudur.
And they did run up and down and missed the AC 2-Tier and ran helter-skelter and finally barged in and woke up RSS and asked him to get down pronto before the train toots off. And helped him with his luggage and found that he was in his summer underwear but no matter.
As RSS recovered his senses and his specs and his pants to the merriment of the porters, and looked at his wrist watch, he found it was just 1.30 AM, a good one hour before its scheduled arrival time. And the Mail took a good one-hour rest on the Gudur platform while the KGP Party were cooling their heels and trying to get a cup of Tea.
And made asses of themselves.
I was sorry I didn't brief RSS before they boarded the Mail at KGP. It so happens that Gudur Station is the Last Post of the South-Central Railway before the prestigious Mail is handed over to the Southern Railway there. And the SC Rly Authorities don't want to hand it over late and get a bad name. So, they keep a one-hour travel time (time-dilation) in their pocket. And the Mail, if everything goes right, would arrive at Gudur one good hour before its 'printed' time of 2.30 AM and stay there happily. In case it got delayed by anything up to one hour, no problem...
Mysterious truly are the internecine wars of Indian Railways!
===========================================================================
For forty years I was commuting between Gudur (my parents' place) and KGP (my workplace ;-) twice every year during summer and winter vacations by the Madras-Howrah Mail. It so happens that Gudur is the first halt after Madras, a couple of hours later, while KGP is the last halt before Howrah, a couple of hours earlier. To ease trouble for city-slickers, Madras-Howrah Mail started at Madras leisurely at around 11 PM so that everyone could have their dinner and board and sleep off. Again, it used to reach Howrah first thing with the milk the next day but one, around 5 AM. So my upload time at Gudur was an unearthly 1 AM and download time at KGP was an equally unearthly 3 AM. So with the Down Mail.
It was all a heck of a punishment.
NCN was a close friend of mine in the Faculty Hostel during 1965-67. He then shifted as a Lecturer in ChE to KREC, Suratkal (Mangalore), while I stuck doggedly to KGP. After about a decade of silence, I got a 'wire' from NCN that he got married recently and was traveling from Madras to his home town Vijayawada by the hoary Madras-Howrah Mail with his brand new wife, and could I please meet them up at Gudur (where I was staying on a summer vacation). The train was supposed to arrive at Gudur at 1 AM and halt for just 2 minutes. I was still a bachelor then and was hesitant to confront a newly-wed lady (even for 2 minutes). But, luckily my younger sister (who did a 1-year PG Diploma in Physics at KGP) was at Gudur and readily agreed to accompany me to the Gudur Station.
We thought it would be nice to carry a bouquet of jasmines and roses and deliver it to the bride. We reached Gudur Station just in time and ran helter-skelter till we found the couple in front of their S3 Bogie eagerly waiting for us. My sister delivered the bouquet to the bride who was most pleased with it and us, and we started reminiscing about our time at KGP, in a hurry...
How is Suratkal?
Fine
How is KGP?
Fine
How is Rathin-da?
Fine
You have a wonderful wife
Isn't she?
When are you getting married?
Well, well, well...
By then the 2 minutes were happily over but the Mail didn't toot. So we repeated:
How is Suratkal?
Fine
How is KGP?
Fine
.......
By then 5 minutes were over; and then 15 and then 30 and then one whole hour before it did at last toot. Meanwhile, they were asking us to please go home since it is too late for our sleep; while we were saying not at all and they could as well get into the train which may start anytime; no, not at all, pleasure...
How is Suratkal?
Fine
How is KGP?
Fine.....
**************************************************************************************************************
Prof RSS (sadly no more) narrated his hilarious experience with the Howarh-Madras Mail at Gudur. He and a couple of his Research Scholars were traveling to Tirupati to attend a Conference there. To reach Tirupati they had to download at Gudur and take a bus.
RSS was traveling in the AC 2-Tier while his poor students were traveling by the 3-tier Sleeper. They consulted the Time Tables and found that the Howrah-Madras Mail reaches Gudur at 2.30 AM and halts for just 2 minutes before taking off. The students asked their guide RSS not to worry but sleep off and they would run up to his Bogie and wake him up at Gudur.
And they did run up and down and missed the AC 2-Tier and ran helter-skelter and finally barged in and woke up RSS and asked him to get down pronto before the train toots off. And helped him with his luggage and found that he was in his summer underwear but no matter.
As RSS recovered his senses and his specs and his pants to the merriment of the porters, and looked at his wrist watch, he found it was just 1.30 AM, a good one hour before its scheduled arrival time. And the Mail took a good one-hour rest on the Gudur platform while the KGP Party were cooling their heels and trying to get a cup of Tea.
And made asses of themselves.
I was sorry I didn't brief RSS before they boarded the Mail at KGP. It so happens that Gudur Station is the Last Post of the South-Central Railway before the prestigious Mail is handed over to the Southern Railway there. And the SC Rly Authorities don't want to hand it over late and get a bad name. So, they keep a one-hour travel time (time-dilation) in their pocket. And the Mail, if everything goes right, would arrive at Gudur one good hour before its 'printed' time of 2.30 AM and stay there happily. In case it got delayed by anything up to one hour, no problem...
Mysterious truly are the internecine wars of Indian Railways!
===========================================================================
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