=====================================================
There is no part of this blessed body that is not prone to aches and cancers.
But some of them are infradig, while others are posh.
Everyone applying for sick leave during my schooldays (as RKN wrote somewhere) would cite headache, but not diarrhea although it was more prevalent. There are two reasons for this: first the trouble is nasty, and then so is its spelling (I had to take the help of blog-spot's spell-check. It is funny that 'blogspot' is not one word for itself, nor is its 'spellcheck'; it asks me to split up each into two words or hyphenate: Thurber wrote somewhere that the 'old boy' Webster was a great hyphenator).
Around 1982, DB and his family went on a holiday to Puri where unfortunately young and shapely Mrs DB fell suddenly ill and sank into coma (that lasted full four months). DB's elder brother who was a well-connected Physician promptly shifted her to the PG Hospital in Cal where admirable care was taken of her without the primitive and risky brain surgery.
Our HoD got a telegram from DB seeking almost a full semester's extended leave, mentioning that his wife was in coma. That HoD who was a stickler for form called me to his Office and asked what was wrong with her. I replied that she had an attack of cerebral hemorrhage. He then wondered why DB didn't mention that in his telegram. I replied that it is a horrible word and challenged him to spell hemorrhage right. He promptly asked me to get lost instead (I had to again use blog-spot's spell-check for it just now; the British-Canadian spelling is: haemorrhage).
Toothache is horrible because it interferes with your sleep (like ear-pain: Otitis for your HoD). You apply clove oil and all sorts of ointments (unguents), swallow pills (including the blue ones) and even household analgesics and antibiotics (sundry sins from meta to genta); still, just as you drop to sleep it shoooots! and you are painfully awake, waking up your sleeping wife, kid and even your neighbor with your high-decibel groans and grunts. The right tablet (Ketanov) alone lets you sink into your cherished dreamless sleep after you have destroyed everyone else's.
Toothache is not as lowly as bellyache but ok for leave; yet it is no way as aristocratic as headache. A wide variety of tablets relieve headache, but yours is special, you claim. And there is no way to disprove: not even your whole-body scan (it is all in your head).
One might think that this is due the lofty position of the head held high over your shoulders. Not so, not so. Anything connected with your high-class genius brain such as Clinical Depression (I had it), Bipolar Disorder (Mood Swings for you and me), Epilepsy, Parkinson's, Alzheimer's, and Raving Madness (I am borderline) in that order are all YOUR fault (since nowadays you tend to identify yourself with your brain and its broods rather than your bag and its baggage).
Strict taboos in leave letters for a day or two.
Sugar Complaint (no one calls it Diabetes anymore, not even that HoD who had it in ample measure and used to boast about it) is pardonable because it is known to be genetic (your parents' or even grandparents' fault, not yours). Also because poor you can no more eat Khejurgud Rosogollas along with your guests or hosts (you may raid the fridge when everyone else is away or asleep).
Anything connected with Heart is Right Royal. It could be Sudden Supermassive Heart Attack (Cardiac Failure or Thrombosis or even more deadly and impressive Infarction), or just mild Angina, or Heart Surgery requiring either stent (or is it stunt?) or Quadruple Bypass; although the baby boy has been eating like an Alipore Zoo's Otter, smoking like Harry's chulha, exercising like Mricchakatika (The Little Clay Cart), or is as slim as the Empress of Blandings.
But the Real Heart Aches are a strict "No...No".
I mean the ones that result in: "He died of a broken heart".
This last sentence is stolen from Maugham's Painted Veil.
One evening Dora and Srikripa were visiting us in our Qrs B-140 and I got bhatting about Saratchandra to flaunt my (pretended) deep knowledge of Bengali Literature. And I mentioned the uncanny (or is it canny?) resemblance between the plots of Painted Veil and Grihadaha, both of which I read at the same time in my late teens; pontificating that both were based on the frivolous Eternal Triangle but with this trend-setting twist that ends up in the Dog It Was That Died stuff. I remembered the two male Angles: Mahim & Suresh (?), but couldn't recall the Female Angle of Saratchandra's novel.
Dora got upset and crestfallen because she too couldn't recall the name which she said was tingling the tip of her tongue (and she was nowhere near my senile age excuse).
Next evening when I was on my walk on the Salua Road, I heard a shout: "Sir, Sir!" and turning back I saw Dora running towards me with a triumphant "Achala, Achala", and quickly running back to whatever fun they have in the evenings in IG Hall. Kids will ever be kids. And I too recalled wondering what a deliciously inapt name Sarat chose for his 'chanchal-hearted' character!
Coming to Cancers, the most common male cancer, the Prostate Cancer, to which RSS and Arorasaab (of Aniket's Diwali story) succumbed, is looked down upon (because it is down below). On the other hand Blood Cancer (Leukemia) is wholly acceptable; maybe because blood is not confined to any one part of the body and is age-sex-indifferent.
Actually I wanted to talk about Bookache and titled this post so; but, as every compulsive blogger knows, the keyboard has its own wayward style!
Some other day for Bookache which is in the holy Heartache category.
======================================================
Monday, September 20, 2010
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Rickshaws & Limericks
=======================================================
Give it to the Japs...whatever they do they do it in style......
.........whether it is geishagiri, harakiri, origami, ikebana, or kamikaze....
***************************************************************************
It seems that Japs found horses costlier than men and so invented the first rickshaw (don't quarrel with me..).......
......and Calcutta whole-heartedly adopted it.
There are two photos of rickshaws in Japan and two of Calcutta in Wikipedia while the rest of the world finds just an honorable mention. And under 'India' heading Calcutta is the sole entry:
*****************************************************************
Courtesy: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rickshaw
***********************************************************
Kolkata rickshaw, 2004
************************************************************************
"A gentleman named G P Sastry
Joined IIT-Kgp to create history,
Claims he slogs
For his blogs,
Each of which makes him a mystery.
A gentleman named G P Sastry,
Who was known for his mastery,
Claims he did `Bhaatbaji',
With full of `Faankibaji',
And in IIT-KGP the rest is history.
A Physicist named GP Sastry,
Created history with his mastery,
I look forward
To write the Foreword
Of the fifth book of his Golden Treasury. "
========================================================
Give it to the Japs...whatever they do they do it in style......
.........whether it is geishagiri, harakiri, origami, ikebana, or kamikaze....
***************************************************************************
It seems that Japs found horses costlier than men and so invented the first rickshaw (don't quarrel with me..).......
......and Calcutta whole-heartedly adopted it.
There are two photos of rickshaws in Japan and two of Calcutta in Wikipedia while the rest of the world finds just an honorable mention. And under 'India' heading Calcutta is the sole entry:
*****************************************************************
Courtesy: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rickshaw
***********************************************************
India
"As of 2005, the last sizable fleet of rickshaws can be found in Kolkata (Calcutta), where the rickshaw puller union resisted prohibition. Several major streets have been closed to rickshaw traffic since 1972, and in 1982 the city seized over 12,000 rickshaws and destroyed them. In 1992, it was estimated that over 30,000 rickshaws were operating in the city, all but 6,000 of them illegally, lacking a license (no new licenses have been issued since 1945). The large majority of rickshaw pullers rent their rickshaws for a few dollars per shift. They live cheaply in hostels, trying to save money to send home.."
***********************************************************************
Wiki does mention that when Calcutta streets are flooded thigh-high in monsoons, it is the rickshaw-puller that saves the day:
**************************************************************************
...........A Kolkata writer told Trillin: "When it rains, even the governor takes rickshaws.".......................
****************************************************************************
There is a flip side to everything in this world including blogspot whose Google worries and scares Aniket.
My father who was a perceptive observer told me once that cycle-rickshaw is more punishing on its driver than the hand-pulled variety (any long-distance cyclist knows this, and prefers to walk whenever possible). It is the cheap 'seat' that hurts the vitals.
*************************************************************************
As I said in an earlier post, our Village didn't have rickshaws in my childhood. I first saw a man-pulled rickshaw in Nellore township when I was about 3.
The rickshaw puller didn't have the fancy cycle-bell: he just walked (or stalked?) behind walkers. And when the child shouts: "koley..koley..koley", the father loses patience and beckons the triumphant rickshaw-puller. He would then kneel his vehicle down to the ground, assist the passengers to climb or mount his livelihood. Then he pulls up the cross-bar (this is the toughest part for all) so that the rickshaw assumes a roughly horizontal posture, and runs!
The first cycle-rickshaws appeared in Nellore around 1955. They were considered posh till the hand-carted ones disappeared one by one. I would be happy to think that the older hand-pullers rehabilitated themselves in the newer versions. I don't know....I tried driving one at KGP when I was feeling my oats (Vinit?) and found it very tricky...it veers into the wayside ditch grounding the spirits.
Each town has its own model of cycle-rickshaws: the Gudur ones are completely covered with a 'non-convertible' dome above them made of a bamboo frame covered with nailed tarpaulin. They are more like palanquins on wheels. Getting into these is a bore and a punishment, but in rains they are so cozy!.
The Visakhapatnam rickshaws are roomy and have a 'Hand-Powered Parking Brake' in addition to the front and rear brakes: the city is built over hills and dales; and while going down-hill you are gone if the Parking Brake fails: every passenger is on his own because the driver leaps down leaving the vehicle with her contents to their own predestined 'career' (prarabhdo)...an altogether exhilarating adventure.
The Hyderabad variety is special....none like them exist elsewhere: they have no leg-space at all. As you climb into it you will find that you have to squat on its seat in the Lotus Posture (Padmasan) with both your legs folded and tucked under your bum. It is said that if you have an ample wife ("jiske bibi moti hai..."), she has got to 'lap' you up romantically (godhme bithao in the reverse).
Kharagpur rickshaws don't pretend to have 'suspensions'.
As the Upanishads are fond of saying: "We have this on this subject":
***********************************************************************.
It is said that the third day (or night) is the most important, whether it is a new Drama or Cinema or a Lecture Class;
or even love:
"The first was his
Second mine
But the third was
Truly ours".......apologies to Dorothy Parker
******************************************************************
My Valedictory Jumbo First Year Lecture Class of 350 students in the New Complex (Varun says he missed it; luckily for both of us).
Freshers new to IIT.......
In the first two Lectures I am dead serious and make them draw Free-Body Diagrams, solve Differential Equations for Underdamped, Overdamped and Critically damped oscillations.
All students feel IIT is a dour affair.
Towards the end of the third Lecture I announce: "Let me now give you an Engineering application of what we have learned so far"
Everyone pricks their ears: Engg in Physics Class?
"It is called 'shock absorber'. The best example of a vehicle without a shock absorber is the KGP Rickshaw."
A few smell something is going to happen.
"When you travel in it to Gole Bazaar sitting stylishly not holding its frame, at the first bump at Puri Gate you will be shot up like a Projectile and land on the kerb (showing the trajectory with hand)".
A muted hey..hey..hey from the backbenchers.
"If you hold the frame too tightly the same bump will see your spine or clavicle break at a place or two".
More hey..hey..heys his time.
"The trick is to just hold the frame lightly and keep anticipating bumps and ease up and down every time...no picnic this!"
Hurray from the AP guy.
"So your Hero Honda has a shock absorber. This has a spring and a hydraulic damper cylinder with a viscous fluid in it. If it is Under-Damped, you will be set into vertical oscillations at the very first bump and will be bobbing up and down and up and down for the rest of the trip".
Catcalls from Bihari guys.
"If it is Over-Damped, you will go up at the first bump and stay there for the rest of the journey trying slowly to come down and regain your normal seat"
Even the Bengalis join in.
"So the trick is to design Critical-Damping so you recover quickly without oscillating".
An understanding and appreciative silence.
"If you buy a Merecedes Benz, half its Rs 22 lakhs go into the design of the shock absorber, fondly termed 'Suspension'. You can now work on your laptop in the rear seat, your wife can apply her lipstick, and your kid can eat her ice cream cone".
Jeers from cognoscenti for stealing a popular TV ad.
Switch off the mike and start moving up the aisle towards the exit and whisper:
"If you have no kid, no problem!".
Ho, ho, ho from the aisles and a rippling "what was that again?" from afar.
mild gul!
************************************************************************
************************************************************************
"A gentleman named G P Sastry
Joined IIT-Kgp to create history,
Claims he slogs
For his blogs,
Each of which makes him a mystery.
A gentleman named G P Sastry,
Who was known for his mastery,
Claims he did `Bhaatbaji',
With full of `Faankibaji',
And in IIT-KGP the rest is history.
A Physicist named GP Sastry,
Created history with his mastery,
I look forward
To write the Foreword
Of the fifth book of his Golden Treasury. "
========================================================
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Mills & Boons
======================================================
Rice Mill:
There were no rickshaws (man-pulled carts) in our Village during my childhood.
The well-to-do had convertible well-fed-majestic-double-Ongole Ox-drawn carts (the hood was up when they carried genteel landladies) with wheels of wood covered by screeching metal fittings.
The posh rich had carts run on the same lines, but with silk hoods and rubber-covered wheels.
The poor traveled in single-bullock carts. The bullocks were as famished and skeletal as their owner-drivers. (This recalls an ad put up on the Post-Office Wall by an IIT student: "24-inch Cycle for sale...1940 model Rayleigh...owner-driven").
While the famous Ongole oxen ran at top speed at full-throttle (the driver tickled their genitals with his joy-stick or toes as the case maybe), the bullocks were immune to all such crafty devices; they couldn't care less.
My HM father used to get a few bags of wholesome paddy every year in the harvesting season as his share of the crop of a 1/4 th acre of absentee landlord holdings (that was before land reforms, such as they were). The paddy in the gunny bags was downloaded into deep pits dug in front of our rented house and re-filled. Before dumping, the floor of the pit was inlaid with plenty of dried neem leaves. They really took care that no infestation took place for years; such was the power of neem.
Once in three months the pit was 'opened' and a couple of gunny bags of paddy were lifted and uploaded onto a single-bullock cart. The driver was hired to take the bags to the Miller in the next village and get back the rice and husk (useful as fuel).
And I had to accompany the driver in the 'front seat' beside him to oversee the milling process so that the Miller doesn't play dirty tricks.
But a born-woolgatherer like me was (and is) totally unfit for such invigilation duties.
With the result that on returning home, I was accused of not preventing the Miller from adulterating our rice with stones and pebbles.
(The 'stones' in the above remind me of a Chandamama story of my childhood: this kid found a couple of stones in his plate of cooked rice and exclaimed: "Here are two Shivlings in my food!". Rebuked severely for his impertinence, he bleated: "And I was scolded and beaten up yesterday in the Shiv Temple for pointing to the Shivling and saying: "There I see a huge dripping stone!")
The adulterants come in a variety of 'grades' depending on the quality of paddy and the kind of customer: poor folks with stale and rotting paddy got jet-black bull, horse, and rat shit; the middle class got snow-white stones; while rich folks never went to the Miller: they had a platoon of servants and farmhands at their palatial two-storied duplex houses (a rare symbol of prosperity) to de-husk their paddy in stone-mortar-pestle-pounds of king-size proportions (they stole some of the rice alright, along with the hearts of chhoti-malkins once in a while...our own Shahib Bibi aur Gulam....or is it Lady Chatterjee's ...sorry Chatterley's... Lover?).
The Miller held forth his own viewpoint: the Controlled Economy of Chacha Nehru didn't give him a viable profit if he were honest. What if he adulterates a little? The end-users always 'clean' their rice anyway before cooking, no?
That way the poorer who got black mud and rat-shit as bonus were gladder: it is easy to pick these apart from their white or brown rice. It was the middle-class upstarts who got fine white stones that were most harassed: it is so difficult to pick them out or separate them. Only expert practitioners with hand-held bamboo chetas could do the subtle physical separation of mixtures . I am told there are 9 subtly different techniques of separation using hand-held bamboo chetas for various mixtures such as rice-stone; rice-dal, dal-jeera, jeera-mustard and so on and so forth!!!
****************************************************************************
Lord's Boon:
My first thrilling experience of riding in a horse-drawn tonga happened when I was an eight-year old underweight kid.
Our whole family went on a pilgrimage to Tirupati, where there were no taxis or town-buses then. Apparently a pilgrimage to Tirupati is never considered complete unless you visit his spouse's temple in down-hill Tiruchanur, 5 miles away by a rough road.
There were plenty of tongas waiting for custom in their stand. All of them demanded Rs 10, while my father would give no more than Rs 5. An intense session of haggling ensued at the end of which one tonga-owner standing apart agreed for Rs 5.
All of us were loaded into his tonga whose horse seemed healthy like a veritable stallion compared with the other famished ones. And there was this perennial problem of 'load-balancing' so that the horse is neither weighed down nor uplifted from its frame. After a couple of seat-adjustments, I found myself at the very back of the tonga which looked very nice to me since I could have a panoramic view of the Eastern Ghats hills and dales, flowers and fields and gentle breeze in the ever-stuffy downhill Tirupati.
And as soon as the green signal was given the stud ran at lightning speed jolting and cuddling its inner passengers. Having never crossed the 5-mph of bullock cart travel, this was Heaven to me.
But suddenly at the 3rd milestone the stallion stopped to a grinding halt. His driver tried all tricks to put it in first gear, but it said: "nolle proseque"; "nothing doing". The driver then got down and tried beating his animal with his joy-stick.
The Gurram (my surname meaning horse) got mad and apparently gave a violent back-kick; for I found myself suddenly hoisted like a projectile and after a couple of somersults found myself sitting on the wayside rock in the (unsmiling) Buddha posture.
And the stud broke away from his harness and started running at full speed with his owner-driver chasing it, leaving his cart and its load of the surviving passengers inclined down on to the road.
After recovering their standing postures and testing for broken limbs, the entire family disentanlged themselves from one another and the cart and stood by the wayside, forgetting for the moment of my wherabouts till I got up and joined them to their astonishment that I was walking!
Dusk was setting in when (by the Lord of Tirupati's grace as my mom told us) a lone empty tonga that was willy-nilly following us all the way from Tirupati at a leisurely pace halted by our side, and offered to reach us to Tiruchanur for a mere Rs 20.
My father was silenced and all of us had a safe but slow journey then on.
gps: "Don't ever haggle in Tirupati....if at all you find yourself there (I don't see why you should, after reading this charming blog)"
========================================================
Rice Mill:
There were no rickshaws (man-pulled carts) in our Village during my childhood.
The well-to-do had convertible well-fed-majestic-double-Ongole Ox-drawn carts (the hood was up when they carried genteel landladies) with wheels of wood covered by screeching metal fittings.
The posh rich had carts run on the same lines, but with silk hoods and rubber-covered wheels.
The poor traveled in single-bullock carts. The bullocks were as famished and skeletal as their owner-drivers. (This recalls an ad put up on the Post-Office Wall by an IIT student: "24-inch Cycle for sale...1940 model Rayleigh...owner-driven").
While the famous Ongole oxen ran at top speed at full-throttle (the driver tickled their genitals with his joy-stick or toes as the case maybe), the bullocks were immune to all such crafty devices; they couldn't care less.
My HM father used to get a few bags of wholesome paddy every year in the harvesting season as his share of the crop of a 1/4 th acre of absentee landlord holdings (that was before land reforms, such as they were). The paddy in the gunny bags was downloaded into deep pits dug in front of our rented house and re-filled. Before dumping, the floor of the pit was inlaid with plenty of dried neem leaves. They really took care that no infestation took place for years; such was the power of neem.
Once in three months the pit was 'opened' and a couple of gunny bags of paddy were lifted and uploaded onto a single-bullock cart. The driver was hired to take the bags to the Miller in the next village and get back the rice and husk (useful as fuel).
And I had to accompany the driver in the 'front seat' beside him to oversee the milling process so that the Miller doesn't play dirty tricks.
But a born-woolgatherer like me was (and is) totally unfit for such invigilation duties.
With the result that on returning home, I was accused of not preventing the Miller from adulterating our rice with stones and pebbles.
(The 'stones' in the above remind me of a Chandamama story of my childhood: this kid found a couple of stones in his plate of cooked rice and exclaimed: "Here are two Shivlings in my food!". Rebuked severely for his impertinence, he bleated: "And I was scolded and beaten up yesterday in the Shiv Temple for pointing to the Shivling and saying: "There I see a huge dripping stone!")
The adulterants come in a variety of 'grades' depending on the quality of paddy and the kind of customer: poor folks with stale and rotting paddy got jet-black bull, horse, and rat shit; the middle class got snow-white stones; while rich folks never went to the Miller: they had a platoon of servants and farmhands at their palatial two-storied duplex houses (a rare symbol of prosperity) to de-husk their paddy in stone-mortar-pestle-pounds of king-size proportions (they stole some of the rice alright, along with the hearts of chhoti-malkins once in a while...our own Shahib Bibi aur Gulam....or is it Lady Chatterjee's ...sorry Chatterley's... Lover?).
The Miller held forth his own viewpoint: the Controlled Economy of Chacha Nehru didn't give him a viable profit if he were honest. What if he adulterates a little? The end-users always 'clean' their rice anyway before cooking, no?
That way the poorer who got black mud and rat-shit as bonus were gladder: it is easy to pick these apart from their white or brown rice. It was the middle-class upstarts who got fine white stones that were most harassed: it is so difficult to pick them out or separate them. Only expert practitioners with hand-held bamboo chetas could do the subtle physical separation of mixtures . I am told there are 9 subtly different techniques of separation using hand-held bamboo chetas for various mixtures such as rice-stone; rice-dal, dal-jeera, jeera-mustard and so on and so forth!!!
****************************************************************************
Lord's Boon:
My first thrilling experience of riding in a horse-drawn tonga happened when I was an eight-year old underweight kid.
Our whole family went on a pilgrimage to Tirupati, where there were no taxis or town-buses then. Apparently a pilgrimage to Tirupati is never considered complete unless you visit his spouse's temple in down-hill Tiruchanur, 5 miles away by a rough road.
There were plenty of tongas waiting for custom in their stand. All of them demanded Rs 10, while my father would give no more than Rs 5. An intense session of haggling ensued at the end of which one tonga-owner standing apart agreed for Rs 5.
All of us were loaded into his tonga whose horse seemed healthy like a veritable stallion compared with the other famished ones. And there was this perennial problem of 'load-balancing' so that the horse is neither weighed down nor uplifted from its frame. After a couple of seat-adjustments, I found myself at the very back of the tonga which looked very nice to me since I could have a panoramic view of the Eastern Ghats hills and dales, flowers and fields and gentle breeze in the ever-stuffy downhill Tirupati.
And as soon as the green signal was given the stud ran at lightning speed jolting and cuddling its inner passengers. Having never crossed the 5-mph of bullock cart travel, this was Heaven to me.
But suddenly at the 3rd milestone the stallion stopped to a grinding halt. His driver tried all tricks to put it in first gear, but it said: "nolle proseque"; "nothing doing". The driver then got down and tried beating his animal with his joy-stick.
The Gurram (my surname meaning horse) got mad and apparently gave a violent back-kick; for I found myself suddenly hoisted like a projectile and after a couple of somersults found myself sitting on the wayside rock in the (unsmiling) Buddha posture.
And the stud broke away from his harness and started running at full speed with his owner-driver chasing it, leaving his cart and its load of the surviving passengers inclined down on to the road.
After recovering their standing postures and testing for broken limbs, the entire family disentanlged themselves from one another and the cart and stood by the wayside, forgetting for the moment of my wherabouts till I got up and joined them to their astonishment that I was walking!
Dusk was setting in when (by the Lord of Tirupati's grace as my mom told us) a lone empty tonga that was willy-nilly following us all the way from Tirupati at a leisurely pace halted by our side, and offered to reach us to Tiruchanur for a mere Rs 20.
My father was silenced and all of us had a safe but slow journey then on.
gps: "Don't ever haggle in Tirupati....if at all you find yourself there (I don't see why you should, after reading this charming blog)"
========================================================
Friday, September 17, 2010
Media Mania
========================================================
Note: ...This post is for new visitors...
**********************************************************************************************
"I am still reading all your blogs. Each topic is sure to touch a part of an IIT KGP PHY dept students' heart. Thank you so much for putting those together in the lovely language. I am sure if you get them published as books, they will be a treasure to keep for any ex KGPian. Also thank you for making me 'famous' on the blog site. First time I am on media!"...................
...........................................................Dalia
************************************************************************
Well, Supratim limerically accused me of "craving for adoring fans".
He is a dear and shouldn't feel let down.
The operative sentence for today's blogpost has been italicized.
Media!
*************************************************************************
In 1963 when I was a University student I sent a Letter to the Editor of Indian Express complaining about an injustice meted out to one of my brilliant classmates by our University in the matter of awarding Metcalfe Medal. My joy knew no bounds on seeing my name in print in a National Newspaper for the first time. Kids will be kids. Our University rectified the anomaly and for the one and only time in its history awarded 2 Metcalfe Medals that year for reasons too complicated to go into here.
A year later I borrowed a box camera, went to Lawson's Bay in Waltair Uplands on a picnic and clicked two Nature Beauty photos and sent them to the popular weekly Andhra Prabha. Lo and behold! They not only published them in two successive issues of which I got free copies, but also sent Rs 20/- as remuneration! That money was half the cost of the monthly 'Meal Carrier Card' of Ajanta Hotel which met the food needs of myself and two of my sisters (plus 3 guests).
While at KGP, one day, I mailed my response as Guest Contestant to a quiz on Probability posed by William Radice in his fortnightly center-spread column: "Letter from England". He printed it in the next issue with my solution as well as my name:
*************************************************************************
http://gpsastry.blogspot.com/2008/10/sholar-and-gentleman.html
**************************************************************************
That was indeed heartening!
**************************************************************************
After my retirement I took two whole years to settle down to writing. Gingerly one day I sent a Letter to the Editor of Deccan Chronicle (DC) on a controversial article they published earlier on Gandhi by Ferzana Versey. DC not only published my LTTE but also 'awarded' it the Best Letter of The Week Prize of a whopping Rs 300/-, which of course they never gave me.
That was however practically a resurrection for me.
Later they published a few Letters of mine on Nehru, Animal Rights etc.
Punch had an amusing: "What's that again?" column, lampooning hilarious bloomers in venerated British Newspapers, eg:
**********************************************************************
"In suitable cases Germans are to be allowed short visits to relatives or friends in this country"
......elicited this Punch Comment: "This Side Up"
................................G H Vallins: "Good English"
*************************************************************************
So, I thought (mistakenly) that DC would be sportive enough to publish this lampooning limerick I mailed it:
**************************************************************************
"A comma after 'liquor'
Would suit our Speaker:
Binge Drinking
And Carousing
Can hardly keep our MP s sober!
Even sober, they crowd the Well,
And raise Cain and Hell;
Rather than booze
Let them snooze
Ramdoss should give a sleeping pill!"
*******************************************************************
DC not only didn't publish it but blacklisted me.
Then on I wisely confined myself to blogging supressing the weakness to appear in Print Media.
But Shyamal one day forwarded one of my blogposts to The Statesman which promptly published it in its famous Now & Again column. Suddenly I found myself in the public limelight. And a couple of my later posts were also published in successive months. Just when I thought I had 'arrived' and was becoming a celebrity, the Old Maid of Chowringhee (?) found my next pieces too bawdy for her virgin taste and blacklisted me once again.
Sigh!
*********************************************************************
Now we come to what were simplistically called 'New media' a decade ago (TV and Internet). Anything that is christened New invites hilarity. In Nellore there still is a 70-year old drab but thriving Cinema Hall called New Talkies.
My friend who was the MD of a semi-government 'do' was one day visited by the TV Crew of a Private Channel. His joy knew no bounds and he not only gave them an hour-long Interview but arranged sight-seeing and hospitality. Next week however he found to his dismay that it appeared not only highly condensed but also ghastly distorted and condemnatory.
After he narrated this incident I became s**t-scared of all New Media.
Late one evening Aniket brought a couple of his friends from BBC to my Office at KGP. They sought an Interview on some aspects of IIT. I at once forwarded them to Prof STA who was not only photogenic and media-savvy but also held a coveted Position in the Administration. STA later told me that it went well and also appeared in one of their shows. I didn't probe.
On my last blessed invigilation at IIT KGP (which I wanted to celebrate as GRBR) one sleepy summer afternoon in the Raman Auditorium where I was the all-powerful Hall-in-Charge, there barged in the crew of a Private TV News Channel with all their cameras and sound systems and hungama in place, saying they have the relevant Dean's permission to film an ongoing Exam at IIT KGP as part of their: "Life at IIT Campus".
I put my foot down and told them that they would disturb my Hall over my dead body. They argued a bit, and perhaps crossed over to the Bhatnagar Auditorium, I didn't care to know.
Nowadays I get crazy anonymous mails like the one below enticing me to make money on my blogs; (which I save but ignore):
**********************************************************************
Anonymous has left a new comment on your post "Nagging vs Grumbling":
"Wow... this site is so popular. I just wanted to know how do you monetize it? Can you give me a few advices? For example, I use http://www.bigextracash.com/aft/2e7bfeb6.html
I'm earning about $1500 per month at the moment. What will you recommend?"
Posted by Anonymous to gpsastry at September 2, 2010 3:53 PM
************************************************************************
Money & me never mixed!!!
**************************************************************************
This is for new bloggers:
My blogspot 'dashboard' says this is the 400th post. And the 'Profile Views' are a 1000 (the last hundred are mine...there should be a law against counting them).
Party Time!
Anyone in the blogging line knows it is easy to post a thousand blogs...blogspot doesn't seem to object. And it is easier to amplify the number of Profile Views; just keep clicking.
But it is not easy to find readers (there is no count for these).
Nowadays it is tough to find even ONE reader.
The epigraph (I didn't cook it up, for once) of this post shows that some of my posts ARE read.
Like that proverbial unasked kiss that is the sweeter, here is my unasked trick:
"Art is short, but Craft is daft".
==========================================================
Note: ...This post is for new visitors...
**********************************************************************************************
"I am still reading all your blogs. Each topic is sure to touch a part of an IIT KGP PHY dept students' heart. Thank you so much for putting those together in the lovely language. I am sure if you get them published as books, they will be a treasure to keep for any ex KGPian. Also thank you for making me 'famous' on the blog site. First time I am on media!"...................
...........................................................Dalia
************************************************************************
Well, Supratim limerically accused me of "craving for adoring fans".
He is a dear and shouldn't feel let down.
The operative sentence for today's blogpost has been italicized.
Media!
*************************************************************************
In 1963 when I was a University student I sent a Letter to the Editor of Indian Express complaining about an injustice meted out to one of my brilliant classmates by our University in the matter of awarding Metcalfe Medal. My joy knew no bounds on seeing my name in print in a National Newspaper for the first time. Kids will be kids. Our University rectified the anomaly and for the one and only time in its history awarded 2 Metcalfe Medals that year for reasons too complicated to go into here.
A year later I borrowed a box camera, went to Lawson's Bay in Waltair Uplands on a picnic and clicked two Nature Beauty photos and sent them to the popular weekly Andhra Prabha. Lo and behold! They not only published them in two successive issues of which I got free copies, but also sent Rs 20/- as remuneration! That money was half the cost of the monthly 'Meal Carrier Card' of Ajanta Hotel which met the food needs of myself and two of my sisters (plus 3 guests).
While at KGP, one day, I mailed my response as Guest Contestant to a quiz on Probability posed by William Radice in his fortnightly center-spread column: "Letter from England". He printed it in the next issue with my solution as well as my name:
*************************************************************************
http://gpsastry.blogspot.com/2008/10/sholar-and-gentleman.html
**************************************************************************
That was indeed heartening!
**************************************************************************
After my retirement I took two whole years to settle down to writing. Gingerly one day I sent a Letter to the Editor of Deccan Chronicle (DC) on a controversial article they published earlier on Gandhi by Ferzana Versey. DC not only published my LTTE but also 'awarded' it the Best Letter of The Week Prize of a whopping Rs 300/-, which of course they never gave me.
That was however practically a resurrection for me.
Later they published a few Letters of mine on Nehru, Animal Rights etc.
Punch had an amusing: "What's that again?" column, lampooning hilarious bloomers in venerated British Newspapers, eg:
**********************************************************************
"In suitable cases Germans are to be allowed short visits to relatives or friends in this country"
......elicited this Punch Comment: "This Side Up"
................................G H Vallins: "Good English"
*************************************************************************
So, I thought (mistakenly) that DC would be sportive enough to publish this lampooning limerick I mailed it:
**************************************************************************
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Missing Comma, Hey Ramadoss!
Deccan Chronicle news banner, Page 7, Hyderabad, Thursday, 25 February 2009: "..health minister (Dr) Anbumani Ramadoss on Wednesday pressed for a National Alcoholic Policy to curb consumption of liquor in the Lok Sabha.""A comma after 'liquor'
Would suit our Speaker:
Binge Drinking
And Carousing
Can hardly keep our MP s sober!
Even sober, they crowd the Well,
And raise Cain and Hell;
Rather than booze
Let them snooze
Ramdoss should give a sleeping pill!"
*******************************************************************
DC not only didn't publish it but blacklisted me.
Then on I wisely confined myself to blogging supressing the weakness to appear in Print Media.
But Shyamal one day forwarded one of my blogposts to The Statesman which promptly published it in its famous Now & Again column. Suddenly I found myself in the public limelight. And a couple of my later posts were also published in successive months. Just when I thought I had 'arrived' and was becoming a celebrity, the Old Maid of Chowringhee (?) found my next pieces too bawdy for her virgin taste and blacklisted me once again.
Sigh!
*********************************************************************
Now we come to what were simplistically called 'New media' a decade ago (TV and Internet). Anything that is christened New invites hilarity. In Nellore there still is a 70-year old drab but thriving Cinema Hall called New Talkies.
My friend who was the MD of a semi-government 'do' was one day visited by the TV Crew of a Private Channel. His joy knew no bounds and he not only gave them an hour-long Interview but arranged sight-seeing and hospitality. Next week however he found to his dismay that it appeared not only highly condensed but also ghastly distorted and condemnatory.
After he narrated this incident I became s**t-scared of all New Media.
Late one evening Aniket brought a couple of his friends from BBC to my Office at KGP. They sought an Interview on some aspects of IIT. I at once forwarded them to Prof STA who was not only photogenic and media-savvy but also held a coveted Position in the Administration. STA later told me that it went well and also appeared in one of their shows. I didn't probe.
On my last blessed invigilation at IIT KGP (which I wanted to celebrate as GRBR) one sleepy summer afternoon in the Raman Auditorium where I was the all-powerful Hall-in-Charge, there barged in the crew of a Private TV News Channel with all their cameras and sound systems and hungama in place, saying they have the relevant Dean's permission to film an ongoing Exam at IIT KGP as part of their: "Life at IIT Campus".
I put my foot down and told them that they would disturb my Hall over my dead body. They argued a bit, and perhaps crossed over to the Bhatnagar Auditorium, I didn't care to know.
Nowadays I get crazy anonymous mails like the one below enticing me to make money on my blogs; (which I save but ignore):
**********************************************************************
"Wow... this site is so popular. I just wanted to know how do you monetize it? Can you give me a few advices? For example, I use http://www.bigextracash.com/aft/2e7bfeb6.html
I'm earning about $1500 per month at the moment. What will you recommend?"
Posted by Anonymous to gpsastry at September 2, 2010 3:53 PM
************************************************************************
Money & me never mixed!!!
**************************************************************************
This is for new bloggers:
My blogspot 'dashboard' says this is the 400th post. And the 'Profile Views' are a 1000 (the last hundred are mine...there should be a law against counting them).
Party Time!
Anyone in the blogging line knows it is easy to post a thousand blogs...blogspot doesn't seem to object. And it is easier to amplify the number of Profile Views; just keep clicking.
But it is not easy to find readers (there is no count for these).
Nowadays it is tough to find even ONE reader.
The epigraph (I didn't cook it up, for once) of this post shows that some of my posts ARE read.
Like that proverbial unasked kiss that is the sweeter, here is my unasked trick:
"Art is short, but Craft is daft".
==========================================================
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Death of an Institution
========================================================
You know I am no sociologist nor a hopeless romantic.
I am just a bemused spectator of the "Passing Show" (that was the name of a popular brand of cigarettes in my childhood when we used to collect the empties and give them Rupee Values).
And I am going to talk about an Institution that is fast vanishing in my Society: "Large Families and Larger Hearts".
A middle-class family of about 15 members (fixed plus floating) living under one roof was not uncommon in my childhood.
Now it is as extinct as the hard COD.
Yesterday I said: "We were unique: we saw and lived through the fastest-paced of Revolutions in Society, History and Technology".
Today I am just going to state some 'historical' facts as I know them (without comments).
********************************************************************
My father was the last of four brothers. He lost his father early. His eldest brother (GVS) took over the family responsibilities. He brought up, educated, married off, settled his younger brothers in life and professions, and looked after the welfare of their families as long as he lived. He himself had half a dozen children, lost his wife at 40, took the help of and cared for his mother who lived to a hundred. Whenever my father was in trouble with health or job, all 9 of us used to land up at my GVS-uncle's place and stay for months. So with the other siblings of my father. In spite of financial hardships (GVS was just a Lecturer), there was no day when less than 15 members lived boisterously under his roof. And, when he (and his 80-year-old mother) left, post-retirement, for a new town as Principal of a new College, he took me, then my cousin, then my sister and so on and so forth serially to stay with him and pursue our college studies, saying: "Life without kids at home is no life!". And he was a published poet with "Songs & Sonnets" and other Collections under his belt.
Same story with my wife's maternal grandpa: he lost his wife at 36 leaving half a dozen kids; but he took in another half a dozen grandkids, nephews and nieces under his roof, got them educated, married them off (one to me), took care of their kids' education, all with the help of his widowed sister. And he was no propertied landlord: just a middle-class Civil Engineer who never owned a home or a vehicle (but he renewed his Heavy Vehicle Driver's license till his death at 90). And when he visited us at KGP, he read a dozen English books in my bookshelf and borrowed a dozen more (and returned them after a year with new covers!)
My eldest b-i-l, GRR (IAS), lost his Padmashree father (Dr G V Chalam credited with ushering in Rice Revolution) suddenly in his prime, leaving half a dozen younger brothers and sisters of my b-i-l and a widowed aunt. GRR (who married my medico sister) rose to the occasion, and brought up all of his siblings, educated them, settled them in their lives, and helped my own family in various ways; and still does (he is the engine behind my abol tabol blogposts)
My HM father, soon after his marriage, welcomed my mother's brothers and sisters to stay with him in his home, educated and looked after them as if they were his own siblings. In return, my maternal uncle, the only MD Doctor in our family, took in myself, my sister and a couple more of distant relatives under his roof and care for years together. And he was the health-care-insurance of hundreds of his extended family members, relatives and friends. And it was in his bookshelf that I met Maugham, Wodehouse, Sherlock Holmes and COD.
The list is endless.
***********************************************************************
All these megalith households were possible because none of the dozens of kids had cots or even a mattresses (only rolled up king-size wicker mats). The Hall converted itself into a dormitory at night. All had to be up and about early in the morning lest the servant maid sweep them away with her broom.
I am reminded of Sam Weller's description of a 'night-resort' in his London: the beds were rope-beds: couple of ropes joined together a foot or two apart with their ends tied to nails on the opposite walls; the matron would just untie the knot at one end at 6 AM, and the dreamer would land with a thud on the floor, wide awake.
And there was no concept of dining table and chairs. Everyone squatted on the floor in a winding snaking row skirting pillars that held the roof, with excuses for plates in front of them as they were serially served.
None of us was worse off. The bonhomie, camaraderie, boisterous tales, jokes, magic shows, impromptu music and quiz sessions, word-building games, gossip and such wonderful stuff as is unheard of nowadays used to bring the house down. There was safety, security, help, healing touch and horseplay in numbers. No one thought of privacy being invaded, because no one had ever thought of privacy. Whether it was home work, exams, or tense moments, there were always a couple of seniors or even neighbors at hand to help.
AND NOW!!!
I just write a "conscience cheque" (and tear it up on second thoughts)
==========================================================
You know I am no sociologist nor a hopeless romantic.
I am just a bemused spectator of the "Passing Show" (that was the name of a popular brand of cigarettes in my childhood when we used to collect the empties and give them Rupee Values).
And I am going to talk about an Institution that is fast vanishing in my Society: "Large Families and Larger Hearts".
A middle-class family of about 15 members (fixed plus floating) living under one roof was not uncommon in my childhood.
Now it is as extinct as the hard COD.
Yesterday I said: "We were unique: we saw and lived through the fastest-paced of Revolutions in Society, History and Technology".
Today I am just going to state some 'historical' facts as I know them (without comments).
********************************************************************
My father was the last of four brothers. He lost his father early. His eldest brother (GVS) took over the family responsibilities. He brought up, educated, married off, settled his younger brothers in life and professions, and looked after the welfare of their families as long as he lived. He himself had half a dozen children, lost his wife at 40, took the help of and cared for his mother who lived to a hundred. Whenever my father was in trouble with health or job, all 9 of us used to land up at my GVS-uncle's place and stay for months. So with the other siblings of my father. In spite of financial hardships (GVS was just a Lecturer), there was no day when less than 15 members lived boisterously under his roof. And, when he (and his 80-year-old mother) left, post-retirement, for a new town as Principal of a new College, he took me, then my cousin, then my sister and so on and so forth serially to stay with him and pursue our college studies, saying: "Life without kids at home is no life!". And he was a published poet with "Songs & Sonnets" and other Collections under his belt.
Same story with my wife's maternal grandpa: he lost his wife at 36 leaving half a dozen kids; but he took in another half a dozen grandkids, nephews and nieces under his roof, got them educated, married them off (one to me), took care of their kids' education, all with the help of his widowed sister. And he was no propertied landlord: just a middle-class Civil Engineer who never owned a home or a vehicle (but he renewed his Heavy Vehicle Driver's license till his death at 90). And when he visited us at KGP, he read a dozen English books in my bookshelf and borrowed a dozen more (and returned them after a year with new covers!)
My eldest b-i-l, GRR (IAS), lost his Padmashree father (Dr G V Chalam credited with ushering in Rice Revolution) suddenly in his prime, leaving half a dozen younger brothers and sisters of my b-i-l and a widowed aunt. GRR (who married my medico sister) rose to the occasion, and brought up all of his siblings, educated them, settled them in their lives, and helped my own family in various ways; and still does (he is the engine behind my abol tabol blogposts)
My HM father, soon after his marriage, welcomed my mother's brothers and sisters to stay with him in his home, educated and looked after them as if they were his own siblings. In return, my maternal uncle, the only MD Doctor in our family, took in myself, my sister and a couple more of distant relatives under his roof and care for years together. And he was the health-care-insurance of hundreds of his extended family members, relatives and friends. And it was in his bookshelf that I met Maugham, Wodehouse, Sherlock Holmes and COD.
The list is endless.
***********************************************************************
All these megalith households were possible because none of the dozens of kids had cots or even a mattresses (only rolled up king-size wicker mats). The Hall converted itself into a dormitory at night. All had to be up and about early in the morning lest the servant maid sweep them away with her broom.
I am reminded of Sam Weller's description of a 'night-resort' in his London: the beds were rope-beds: couple of ropes joined together a foot or two apart with their ends tied to nails on the opposite walls; the matron would just untie the knot at one end at 6 AM, and the dreamer would land with a thud on the floor, wide awake.
And there was no concept of dining table and chairs. Everyone squatted on the floor in a winding snaking row skirting pillars that held the roof, with excuses for plates in front of them as they were serially served.
None of us was worse off. The bonhomie, camaraderie, boisterous tales, jokes, magic shows, impromptu music and quiz sessions, word-building games, gossip and such wonderful stuff as is unheard of nowadays used to bring the house down. There was safety, security, help, healing touch and horseplay in numbers. No one thought of privacy being invaded, because no one had ever thought of privacy. Whether it was home work, exams, or tense moments, there were always a couple of seniors or even neighbors at hand to help.
AND NOW!!!
I just write a "conscience cheque" (and tear it up on second thoughts)
==========================================================
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Death of a Culture
========================================================
"Have you noticed the news that Concise Oxford Dictionary will cease to exist in the print mode? No future print of COD! You use Webster. Yet, I would love to see your obituary (or epitaph) of COD on this momentous event"....
..................................................G. Ranga Rao IAS
=========================================================
GRR belongs to my generation that roughly covers those who were born during the Second World War and had their schooling in Chacha Nehru's Free India of the early 1950s.
As I am fond of quoting repeatedly, Historian (Padma Bhushan) Ramachandra Guha, himself of a younger generation, said: "The 1950s were a special time, almost an innocent time, in the history of the nation".
We were unique: we saw and lived through the fastest-paced of Revolutions in Society, History and Technology.
'Innocence' came from an overflow of dubious values like selfless patriotism of the Freedom Struggle drilled at home and school (in Assembly and Lessons) and even cinemas (we never called them 'movies or films'), cricket, and Sankar's Cartoons; and a slow, easy-paced, tension-free childhood (without school uniforms, shoes, neckties, home work and bulky back-breaking bags against which RKN made his maiden speech in Parliament) with lots and lots of free time but no scope for entertainment other than playing outdoors and reading indoors.
School was from 10 AM to 4 PM (last period was Games). From any corner of our Village, school was within 10 minutes run; which meant 2 hours of play before school and 4 hours after. If I am still alive, kicking and full of joie de vivre at this ripe age, I owe it to my happy school life.
Jim Corbett says in Jungle Lore: "....the time I spent in the jungles (in my childhood) held unalloyed happiness for me....My happiness, I believe, resulted from the fact that all wild life is happy in its natural surroundings...." (he should know!)
We kids were the wild life of our Village and our school was our jungle (natural habitat).
Playing meant inexpensive improvised outdoor games like kabadi, gullidanda, golies and football made of rags rolled and tied into a warped sphere. Our generation never saw a fat school kid raised on junk food.
Reading meant (for the likes of GRR and me) reading English story books, and that meant a Dictionary in every home and in some pockets too.
I first saw COD in my father's tiny book rack. He was an English Buff apart from being an English Teacher. But I never opened it; whenever I wanted the meaning of a new word I would ask my father.
When I left school and joined University, I was living with my uncle in whose spacious book rack there was this COD once again. And I used to read it for pleasure.
When I shifted to IIT KGP, the first thing in its Central Library that fascinated me was the magnificent desktop 2-Volume Unabridged Webster (with silver-on-black thumb-notch-bookmarkers for serial alphabet). The jump from COD to Webster was literally my coming of age: more entries, more meanings, quotes from famous authors, synonyms and antonyms apart from etymology.
I myself own the shorter but adequate Collegiate Webster.
The CL also had the Mega-Volume OED (Oxford English Dictionary) which was encyclopedic and forbidding (it is perhaps meant for researchers in Eng Lit & Lang).
But COD was the Janapriya heart-throb. There were many competitors like Chambers, Cambridge, Random House; but COD had the stamp of pomp and authority.
Pratik's father, Professor Prasad Khastgir of BHU IT, a much loved Physics Teacher (like his son) and a 'super- strong' Bibliophile, had a huge collection of books and dictionaries which Pratik inherited (along with his love of books). Pratik tells me that the one regret of his father was that he couldn't buy the Multi-Volume OED!
*************************************************************************
Fast forward half a century to the present:
I have a 3-year-ancient (six months qualifies as 'old' in mobile parlance) junk Nokia cell-phone. But it is GPRS & GPS-enabled. So I can check not only my e-mail and whereabouts, Google on it, and look up the meaning of any word in any of the many Free Online Dictionaries practically free of cost.
I do it when I am relaxing in bed.
When I am at my desk-top PC and composing, I use the online Webster which went commercial and very user-friendly a couple of days back.
Very very convenient.
But that is all about online dictionaries: 'convenient'.
But you can look up only one word at a time; not flip through lovingly as you can with a hard copy COD or Webster in your lap or on your belly (one memorable Saturday afternoon when I went to pick up the corrected manuscript of one of our joint papers to my guide SDM's Qrs at KGP, I found him lying supine on his bed with a fat dictionary on his fat belly; and he greeted me with: "the integral is converted 'into', and not 'to' which happens only with religions").
To put it mildly, the contrast is like between old-fashioned romantic love and new-fangled hep sex: the former is sustained, faithful, long-drawn and full of possibilities, while the other is vigorous 'have-fun-get-it-over' with a different online thing every other time for variety.
Human anatomy being what it is, no online version can kill a 'pocket book', which is so ergonomic. The whole of 'Autocrat' is available online; but it is a pain in the neck literally to read it on the monitor in a crouching posture. No way it can replace the beautifully bound hard copy which you can read anywhere and in any posture.
But few 'read' dictionaries.
They just 'look up'.
So, online Dictionaries will 'do'.
Thus the COD and Collegiate Webster fall between two stools: They are neither like pocket dictionaries nor like the much bigger 'resource' Library Editions of OED and Unabridged Webster.
So they won't sell.
And are doomed to go out of print (saving that many fig trees).
And reincarnate in their free online avatars with ads by half-covered tits to earn offsetting revenues (just click on: www.m-w.com, type-in 'titbit', go!, wait, wait!, look to the left, pray to God; and ENJOY!)
I just looked up 'tit' in my online Webster: "usually vulgar : breast —usually used in plural".
Serves my purpose to a titbit.
Sad, but inevitable.
Dictionaries, wiktionaries, online, offline, mobile, immobile or whatever, remain indispensable as long as languages are used.
They just keep changing their colors like so many chameleons.
Adieu to Hard COD & Collegiate Webster!
Welcome to their Soft and Supersoft Versions (like Forhans Tooth Brushes)!
============================================================
"Have you noticed the news that Concise Oxford Dictionary will cease to exist in the print mode? No future print of COD! You use Webster. Yet, I would love to see your obituary (or epitaph) of COD on this momentous event"....
..................................................G. Ranga Rao IAS
=========================================================
GRR belongs to my generation that roughly covers those who were born during the Second World War and had their schooling in Chacha Nehru's Free India of the early 1950s.
As I am fond of quoting repeatedly, Historian (Padma Bhushan) Ramachandra Guha, himself of a younger generation, said: "The 1950s were a special time, almost an innocent time, in the history of the nation".
We were unique: we saw and lived through the fastest-paced of Revolutions in Society, History and Technology.
'Innocence' came from an overflow of dubious values like selfless patriotism of the Freedom Struggle drilled at home and school (in Assembly and Lessons) and even cinemas (we never called them 'movies or films'), cricket, and Sankar's Cartoons; and a slow, easy-paced, tension-free childhood (without school uniforms, shoes, neckties, home work and bulky back-breaking bags against which RKN made his maiden speech in Parliament) with lots and lots of free time but no scope for entertainment other than playing outdoors and reading indoors.
School was from 10 AM to 4 PM (last period was Games). From any corner of our Village, school was within 10 minutes run; which meant 2 hours of play before school and 4 hours after. If I am still alive, kicking and full of joie de vivre at this ripe age, I owe it to my happy school life.
Jim Corbett says in Jungle Lore: "....the time I spent in the jungles (in my childhood) held unalloyed happiness for me....My happiness, I believe, resulted from the fact that all wild life is happy in its natural surroundings...." (he should know!)
We kids were the wild life of our Village and our school was our jungle (natural habitat).
Playing meant inexpensive improvised outdoor games like kabadi, gullidanda, golies and football made of rags rolled and tied into a warped sphere. Our generation never saw a fat school kid raised on junk food.
Reading meant (for the likes of GRR and me) reading English story books, and that meant a Dictionary in every home and in some pockets too.
I first saw COD in my father's tiny book rack. He was an English Buff apart from being an English Teacher. But I never opened it; whenever I wanted the meaning of a new word I would ask my father.
When I left school and joined University, I was living with my uncle in whose spacious book rack there was this COD once again. And I used to read it for pleasure.
When I shifted to IIT KGP, the first thing in its Central Library that fascinated me was the magnificent desktop 2-Volume Unabridged Webster (with silver-on-black thumb-notch-bookmarkers for serial alphabet). The jump from COD to Webster was literally my coming of age: more entries, more meanings, quotes from famous authors, synonyms and antonyms apart from etymology.
I myself own the shorter but adequate Collegiate Webster.
The CL also had the Mega-Volume OED (Oxford English Dictionary) which was encyclopedic and forbidding (it is perhaps meant for researchers in Eng Lit & Lang).
But COD was the Janapriya heart-throb. There were many competitors like Chambers, Cambridge, Random House; but COD had the stamp of pomp and authority.
Pratik's father, Professor Prasad Khastgir of BHU IT, a much loved Physics Teacher (like his son) and a 'super- strong' Bibliophile, had a huge collection of books and dictionaries which Pratik inherited (along with his love of books). Pratik tells me that the one regret of his father was that he couldn't buy the Multi-Volume OED!
*************************************************************************
Fast forward half a century to the present:
I have a 3-year-ancient (six months qualifies as 'old' in mobile parlance) junk Nokia cell-phone. But it is GPRS & GPS-enabled. So I can check not only my e-mail and whereabouts, Google on it, and look up the meaning of any word in any of the many Free Online Dictionaries practically free of cost.
I do it when I am relaxing in bed.
When I am at my desk-top PC and composing, I use the online Webster which went commercial and very user-friendly a couple of days back.
Very very convenient.
But that is all about online dictionaries: 'convenient'.
But you can look up only one word at a time; not flip through lovingly as you can with a hard copy COD or Webster in your lap or on your belly (one memorable Saturday afternoon when I went to pick up the corrected manuscript of one of our joint papers to my guide SDM's Qrs at KGP, I found him lying supine on his bed with a fat dictionary on his fat belly; and he greeted me with: "the integral is converted 'into', and not 'to' which happens only with religions").
To put it mildly, the contrast is like between old-fashioned romantic love and new-fangled hep sex: the former is sustained, faithful, long-drawn and full of possibilities, while the other is vigorous 'have-fun-get-it-over' with a different online thing every other time for variety.
Human anatomy being what it is, no online version can kill a 'pocket book', which is so ergonomic. The whole of 'Autocrat' is available online; but it is a pain in the neck literally to read it on the monitor in a crouching posture. No way it can replace the beautifully bound hard copy which you can read anywhere and in any posture.
But few 'read' dictionaries.
They just 'look up'.
So, online Dictionaries will 'do'.
Thus the COD and Collegiate Webster fall between two stools: They are neither like pocket dictionaries nor like the much bigger 'resource' Library Editions of OED and Unabridged Webster.
So they won't sell.
And are doomed to go out of print (saving that many fig trees).
And reincarnate in their free online avatars with ads by half-covered tits to earn offsetting revenues (just click on: www.m-w.com, type-in 'titbit', go!, wait, wait!, look to the left, pray to God; and ENJOY!)
I just looked up 'tit' in my online Webster: "usually vulgar : breast —usually used in plural".
Serves my purpose to a titbit.
Sad, but inevitable.
Dictionaries, wiktionaries, online, offline, mobile, immobile or whatever, remain indispensable as long as languages are used.
They just keep changing their colors like so many chameleons.
Adieu to Hard COD & Collegiate Webster!
Welcome to their Soft and Supersoft Versions (like Forhans Tooth Brushes)!
============================================================
Perverse Arguments
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"Women cannot receive even the most palpably judicious suggestion without arguing it; that is, married women"
-------------------------------Mark Twain
******************************************************************
I vividly recall this typical argument between my HM-father and my worldly-wise mother:
*******************************************************************
GVR, (an otherwise well-to-do) part-time cub reporter for The Hindu in our small town, used to take the help of HM in rendering a hopefully publishable town-item into printable English. When a couple-of-inches-long cruelly abridged version happened to appear in print once a month or so, the cub would be so pleased and excited that his joy knew no bounds on his laudable 'recognition'. He would go round the town and show off his (ghost-written) column to one and all who mattered (I doubt if he got any remuneration at all from The Hindu).
GVR also happened to be our town's Stockist-Supplier of The Hindu, which perhaps fetched him a tiny commission. As a mark of gratitude he used to supply The Hindu free to my father, who was overwhelmed that he got The Hindu scot-free!!!. It meant that he didn't have to spend Rs 30 a month, could read it whenever he wished, and also sell the piled up back-number Hindus at the end of the month as raddi and get another 15 Rupees.
*******************************************************************************
Father: See, GVR is gifting me Rs 45 every month for just writing up a few sentences into printable English!
Mother: How come? The Hindu costs only Rs 30; that's just the worth of GVR's gift.
Father: But I get Rs 15 by selling it, no?
Mother: But anyone who gets the Hindu earns Rs 15 automatically by selling it. So GVR is not gifting the extra Rs 15. The cost of his gift for him is just Rs 30.
Father: He could always have taken back today's Hindu tomorrow, sell it himself and pocket that Rs 15. Since he is leaving the Hindu back-numbers to myself, he IS gifting me that Rs 15 too. And moreover, I get to read it too. If he didn't gift it I would have to spend Rs 20 from my pocket to buy the cheaper Indian Express. Which means that the actual worth of GVR's gift adds up to a whopping Rs 65.
Mother: But, if you bought Indian Express for Rs 20, you would get back Rs 10 by selling it; so its actual cost to you is only Rs 10. And, moreover, you could always walk into the mohalla's Free Reading Room at your leisure and read The Hindu, Express, Andhra Prabha, Andhra Patrika absolutely free. So, GVR's gift is worth only the Rs 15 you get by selling it and keeping the money to yourself instead of returning it to him.
Father: But I can't go to the Reading Room in the morning since I have to go to school. And by late evening the copy of the Hindu would be missing, carried home by some enthusiast, to be returned next morning.
Mother: What's wrong in reading it next morning?
Father: By next morning the news is stale and worthless.
Mother: Not so, not so!....You always listen to the morning's 9 AM News Bulletin on the AIR English News. So, the newspaper gives only masala-details which can always wait till tomorrow
Father: It would be as tasty a treat as yesterday's stale Sambar.
Mother: You don't dare compare the idle Hindu to the delicious food I cook and feed you, which is essential for your sustenance.
Father: It just happens that food for thought is as essential as food for the body
Mother: I listen to the afternoon 3 P M Telugu News and that is good enough for me to know all the news that is worth listening to.
Father: There are also educative and entertaining articles written in chaste English which are no 'news' but 'views'.
Mother: Indira Gandhi said that she reads just the news in the day's paper; and she makes up her own views herself; which she wouldn't like to borrow from others second or third hand.
Father: And that is why she couldn't get the public opinion and got killed sadly by her own security men. Moreover, Hindu is full of advertisements. They are very useful.
Mother: The only ads worth listening to come from the Commerce News of AIR at 4 P M. And that reminds me: the price of gold is shooting up and it is time you buy a few ornaments for your daughters as their wedding trousseau.
Father: It is getting late; but let me read this article in today's Hindu Weekly Magazine: It is all about the fatal weakness Indian women have for gold. It is written by the eminent writer, F L Brayne: "Jewelery and the Proper Position of Women in India"
Mother: All you men are smooth escapists....
****************************************************************************
Shyamal writes:
gps:
I guess I owe Shyamal an apology: His wonderful gift of the book of his poems lies unread.
The fact is that my eyesight is not what it was even a few months ago. I don't enjoy reading anymore...all my 'pocket books' are in fine print...it is a punishment. Even the mails I get happen to be in small print, and I have to click them in the 'Reply' mode, en bloc 'bold' them, and increase the size of the text. You may have noticed that all my blogposts are em-'boldened'.
And so I have taken to blogging a piece everyday. It is a challenge. There is no challenge for me in reading or watching TV anymore (except for the vision).
A couple of millennia ago Cicero said that old age can be delayed only by bullying oneself to undertake tasks to the very limit of one's capacity. His own method was to learn new languages. Everyone...his own madness.
Blogging a readable piece everyday (readability being the only criterion);..,.....I never 'worked' this hard any time in my life. It is a 24/7 activity. Nowadays what little I read is only with the selfish motive of fishing a suitable topic for the day's post.
So sorry Shyamal!
**************************************************************************
gps:
The limerick bug seems to have bitten Supratim too. He shortly relaxed the tight embrace of his 'biological' students and sent this charming couple:
**************************************************************************
"At iitkgp there lived to profess
A physicist called GPS;
Now that he is retired,
He claims of Physics he is tired
But blogs nightly in dubious dress
From limericks to history
GPS in spite of his artistry
Craves adoring fans
For reasons
That remain a mystery"
*********************************************************************
gps:
Actually, 'limerick' is a highly structured animal with all sorts of anapestic ["a metrical foot consisting of two short syllables followed by one long syllable or of two unstressed syllables followed by one stressed syllable (as unaware)", wow!!!] stuff; but for the likes of us, anything goes!
======================================
"Women cannot receive even the most palpably judicious suggestion without arguing it; that is, married women"
-------------------------------Mark Twain
******************************************************************
I vividly recall this typical argument between my HM-father and my worldly-wise mother:
*******************************************************************
GVR, (an otherwise well-to-do) part-time cub reporter for The Hindu in our small town, used to take the help of HM in rendering a hopefully publishable town-item into printable English. When a couple-of-inches-long cruelly abridged version happened to appear in print once a month or so, the cub would be so pleased and excited that his joy knew no bounds on his laudable 'recognition'. He would go round the town and show off his (ghost-written) column to one and all who mattered (I doubt if he got any remuneration at all from The Hindu).
GVR also happened to be our town's Stockist-Supplier of The Hindu, which perhaps fetched him a tiny commission. As a mark of gratitude he used to supply The Hindu free to my father, who was overwhelmed that he got The Hindu scot-free!!!. It meant that he didn't have to spend Rs 30 a month, could read it whenever he wished, and also sell the piled up back-number Hindus at the end of the month as raddi and get another 15 Rupees.
*******************************************************************************
Father: See, GVR is gifting me Rs 45 every month for just writing up a few sentences into printable English!
Mother: How come? The Hindu costs only Rs 30; that's just the worth of GVR's gift.
Father: But I get Rs 15 by selling it, no?
Mother: But anyone who gets the Hindu earns Rs 15 automatically by selling it. So GVR is not gifting the extra Rs 15. The cost of his gift for him is just Rs 30.
Father: He could always have taken back today's Hindu tomorrow, sell it himself and pocket that Rs 15. Since he is leaving the Hindu back-numbers to myself, he IS gifting me that Rs 15 too. And moreover, I get to read it too. If he didn't gift it I would have to spend Rs 20 from my pocket to buy the cheaper Indian Express. Which means that the actual worth of GVR's gift adds up to a whopping Rs 65.
Mother: But, if you bought Indian Express for Rs 20, you would get back Rs 10 by selling it; so its actual cost to you is only Rs 10. And, moreover, you could always walk into the mohalla's Free Reading Room at your leisure and read The Hindu, Express, Andhra Prabha, Andhra Patrika absolutely free. So, GVR's gift is worth only the Rs 15 you get by selling it and keeping the money to yourself instead of returning it to him.
Father: But I can't go to the Reading Room in the morning since I have to go to school. And by late evening the copy of the Hindu would be missing, carried home by some enthusiast, to be returned next morning.
Mother: What's wrong in reading it next morning?
Father: By next morning the news is stale and worthless.
Mother: Not so, not so!....You always listen to the morning's 9 AM News Bulletin on the AIR English News. So, the newspaper gives only masala-details which can always wait till tomorrow
Father: It would be as tasty a treat as yesterday's stale Sambar.
Mother: You don't dare compare the idle Hindu to the delicious food I cook and feed you, which is essential for your sustenance.
Father: It just happens that food for thought is as essential as food for the body
Mother: I listen to the afternoon 3 P M Telugu News and that is good enough for me to know all the news that is worth listening to.
Father: There are also educative and entertaining articles written in chaste English which are no 'news' but 'views'.
Mother: Indira Gandhi said that she reads just the news in the day's paper; and she makes up her own views herself; which she wouldn't like to borrow from others second or third hand.
Father: And that is why she couldn't get the public opinion and got killed sadly by her own security men. Moreover, Hindu is full of advertisements. They are very useful.
Mother: The only ads worth listening to come from the Commerce News of AIR at 4 P M. And that reminds me: the price of gold is shooting up and it is time you buy a few ornaments for your daughters as their wedding trousseau.
Father: It is getting late; but let me read this article in today's Hindu Weekly Magazine: It is all about the fatal weakness Indian women have for gold. It is written by the eminent writer, F L Brayne: "Jewelery and the Proper Position of Women in India"
Mother: All you men are smooth escapists....
****************************************************************************
Shyamal writes:
-
"Now I know why
Gps doesn’t write to me
He is too busy blogging
Has no time for reading
My poems and Witty Ditty"
gps:
I guess I owe Shyamal an apology: His wonderful gift of the book of his poems lies unread.
The fact is that my eyesight is not what it was even a few months ago. I don't enjoy reading anymore...all my 'pocket books' are in fine print...it is a punishment. Even the mails I get happen to be in small print, and I have to click them in the 'Reply' mode, en bloc 'bold' them, and increase the size of the text. You may have noticed that all my blogposts are em-'boldened'.
And so I have taken to blogging a piece everyday. It is a challenge. There is no challenge for me in reading or watching TV anymore (except for the vision).
A couple of millennia ago Cicero said that old age can be delayed only by bullying oneself to undertake tasks to the very limit of one's capacity. His own method was to learn new languages. Everyone...his own madness.
Blogging a readable piece everyday (readability being the only criterion);..,.....I never 'worked' this hard any time in my life. It is a 24/7 activity. Nowadays what little I read is only with the selfish motive of fishing a suitable topic for the day's post.
So sorry Shyamal!
**************************************************************************
gps:
The limerick bug seems to have bitten Supratim too. He shortly relaxed the tight embrace of his 'biological' students and sent this charming couple:
**************************************************************************
"At iitkgp there lived to profess
A physicist called GPS;
Now that he is retired,
He claims of Physics he is tired
But blogs nightly in dubious dress
From limericks to history
GPS in spite of his artistry
Craves adoring fans
For reasons
That remain a mystery"
*********************************************************************
gps:
Actually, 'limerick' is a highly structured animal with all sorts of anapestic ["a metrical foot consisting of two short syllables followed by one long syllable or of two unstressed syllables followed by one stressed syllable (as unaware)", wow!!!] stuff; but for the likes of us, anything goes!
======================================
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