Names not Changed

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It promised to be a bad hair day for Bhawani. She had woken up with a splitting headache. A hectic day, fourth in a row, lay ahead. She had spent a good part of the previous day in Russel Town where the National Adventure Foundation had exposed the boys and the girls under her charge, as the sun smote hard, to mountaineering and crossing the river on ropes. During the two days before that, the kids were introduced to the nuances of multiple intelligence by a team of experts led by an HR consultant under the stewardship of the imaginative staffer from the popular newspaper. And the project involved three more days with these bundles of boundless energy.
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She had always enjoyed the company of youngsters immensely. Wherever her husband had been posted, she had taken up a teaching job – it did not matter if it was a college or a primary school. It was not the material benefit she was looking for, but the pleasure of the company of the younger generation. That was why she had accepted the offer to coordinate the activities of the under the Newspapers in Education Programme. She had enjoyed organising the workshops where the children were exposed to diverse aspects from Kathakali to Shakespeare, from mathematics to photography, from music to film-making.
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Though one again grows young in the company of youngsters, the inexorable progress of age cannot be arrested, she realised. You just cannot catch up with them any more, she thought to herself. Not just that, a surfeit – two week-long programmes in quick succession in the space of three weeks - does cause ‘indigestion’, Bhawani told herself as she sipped her morning cuppa. True, she was not new to rearing children, but bringing up one’s own two boys within the confines of a home was one thing, but giving a bunch of fifty-one teenagers the liberty to do their own thing out in the open, all the while keeping them out of harm’s way was an altogether different proposition.
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The day’s newspaper did nothing to cheer her up: the headlines cried out ‘90 killed in Riyadh Blasts’ and such off-putting tidings from abroad and within. In a desultory manner, she picked up a clutch of old newspapers. A glance at them did not improve matters: they talked of corruption in high places, indiscipline among the youth and the nexus between criminals on the one hand and bureaucrats and politicians on the other. It had become an all-pervasive malaise, she concluded. What is the world coming to?
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Force of habit took her to the personal computer – there might be a message from Gautam who was away in Mumbai doing his degree course. He was supposed to have had joined her for the summer holidays but a parallel course he had joined and the long queue at the railway counter had kept him away. In the circumstances, a message from him was the most she could expect. One to be satisfied with minor thrills like a message, Bhawani looked at the lumniscent screen.
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One on the messages in the inbox was from Ankur Garg. It read:

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Respected Ma'am,
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I express my heartfelt thanks and gratitude to you for your very encouraging and affectionate message congratulating me on my making it to the Indian Administrative Service. It is only due to the keen personal interest taken by dedicated and committed teachers like you that I was able to achieve this success.
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In fact, just two days before I got your greetings, I enquired about your address from Sister Annette (the new Principal at Our Lady Fatima School), and she said she would positively help me in securing the same. I was sure, ma'am. that you would be one person who would be very happy on receiving this news, and had an intuitive feeling that I would receive some communication from you side.
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I still recall the days in 1994 when you always used to ask us to keep ourselves up-to-date on all the current affairs, and even during the history classes, you used to ask questions on GK. They have since continued to be a source of inspiration for me.
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Ma'am, I realise that more than an honour, this is a huge responsibility which has been vested in me and my fellow students by an expectant nation. I hope we are able to come up to their expectations. I hope that we don’t let the people of India down, and in that endeavour I shall need your continuous guidance, support and above all, blessings.
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My sister Neha was extremely happy when I told her that I received a congratulatory message from you. The first question she asked me was, 'Did ma'am remember me?' and I said, 'Yes Neha, your name was right on the top of the card' and she was genuinely overjoyed. For you, we shall always remain children. :)
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Please convey my best wishes to all the members of your family.
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Best Regards,
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Ankur
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P.S. - i was sooooooooooooooo happy to receive your message ma'am. thanks a lottt...
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Ankur Garg
37, Khalsa College Colony,
Patiala – 147 001.

0175-2301190
09814228929
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She recalled that a fortnight back when the results of the Civil Services Examination were announced, Bhawani was not surprised to see Ankur’s name topping it. She had taught him history in the school in Patiala which she had served for a couple of years, but did not know how to reach him. Yet, she decided to take a gamble: she picked out a UNICEF card and scribbled a message on it, wrote ‘Mr Ankur Garg, IAS Topper, C/o Our Lady Fatima School, PATIALA 147 001 Punjab’ on it and mailed it with a prayer.

Ankur’s response, his realisation of the responsibility on his young shoulders, his debt to the nation, his hope of rising to the expectations of the nation, his prayer that he does not let the people of India down, all drove away the negative thoughts and feeling of being unwell from her mind. She picked herself up and went about her daily chores. This e-mail message had made her day.

Say it ain't so, Joe!

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The following is a story scribbled decades ago in my now dog-eared scrapbook:

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In the 1919 World Series, the Chicago White Sox were overwhelmingly favoured to beat the Cincinnati Redlegs. But it was not to be. Eight Chicago players decided to throw the series deliberately and uncharacteristically under-performing. The honest bettors lost heavily. The gamblers who knew about the ‘fix’ in advance, made the proverbial ‘mint’. Most of the corrupt players got about S 5,000 apiece.

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A year-long investigation revealed who the players were in this sordid, corrupt transaction. The Chicago White Sox emerged with a stigma that remained with them for a long time. There were, unofficially of course, called the Chicago Black Sox.

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When the players emerged from the grand jury room, a group of admiring young fans was waiting for them. One tearful small boy approached the Chicago centrefielder, Shoeless Joe Jackson. ‘It ain’t true, is it, Joe?’

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‘Yes, boys, I’m afraid it is,’ Jackson mournfully replied.

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Crushed, the small boy plaintively looked up at the fallen idol: ‘Say it ain’t so, Joe.’

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Never actually proved or disproved, this touching encounter has become an inseparable part of baseball folklore. It remains a moving account of youthful idealism tarnished or destroyed by its awareness of the harsh realities of the real world.

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Why do I repeat this story now? How is this story relevant?

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Over three decades and a half ago, a teenager, accompanied by his short-statured father with a dignified grey mop, walked into the Calcutta branch of State Bank of Travancore. The Bank Manager recognised the boy instantly: he was the one who would entrance the audience in the auditorium of St Xavier’s College during debates with the likes of Sasthi Brata and Dhritiman Chatterjee and Tilottama Mukherjee. The bright-eyed youngster had secured admission in a premier college. Would the Bank give a loan?

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In those early post-nationalisation days, banks did not have Education Loan Schemes. The already low discretionary powers vested in managers had been curtailed because those were the days of intense ‘credit-squeeze’. The Manager, however, decided to bend the rules to help the boy. After all, it was for a good cause.

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The loan was repaid in good time, perhaps from the scholarship the bright lad had won. The next thing the Bank Manager heard was that he had gone abroad for higher studies. It was not surprising that he did extremely well and set up what was perhaps a world record by acquiring a Ph D from Fletcher University of Law at the young age of twenty-two. (By now you might have guessed who I am talking about.) He landed a job in the United Nations, wrote columns and made a name for himself. He also authored several books.

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As the young lad transformed into a world citizen, the Bank Manager watched from the sidelines, just as he had, sitting in the audience, while the young Shashi Tharoor cast a spell with his words. It was clear from Shashi’s writings that he was proud to be a son of India. He admired Shashi’s cosmopolitanism and inclusivity.

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The different trajectories Life takes us through sometimes do intersect again – and again. In this case, their paths met in 2009 in Thiruvananthapuram where Shashi was a candidate and the Bank Manager was a voter.

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How would Shashi survive in this dog-eat-dog world, the well-wisher was concerned. Having spent three decades abroad, he was new to the shark-infested Indian political milieu and the old bandicoots would swallow him. There were bickerings in his own party when he was given a ticket. However, Shashi was a youth icon, representing the aspirations of an apolitical segment of the society which was fed up with the corrupt and self-seeking bunch of politicians of all hues. Rising above all sectarian, linguistic, religious or other divisions, they rallied around him and the next thing they knew was that he was given ministerial responsibility.

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Success generates jealousy. The urbane charm Shashi exuded, his felicity with languages, the way he captivated the attention of the audience with the smooth flow of his words, his popularity among the youth, all fanned the envy of those with him and those in the opposite camp. (Coming to think of it, was there a difference between the two?) They trained their guns on him.

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The turns of phrase he used, informally in most cases, whether ‘holy cow’ or ‘cattle class’ were twisted out of shape if not because of ignorance, in a deliberate attempt to cause discomfiture to him. He was accused of irreverence by people who do not know how innocuous these common English expressions are.

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All this was fine with the voters who had voted him to the Lok Sabha with a convincing majority, but the latest – the alleged involvement in the IPL-gate?

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The newspapers say that that tomorrow, when Shashi lands in Thiruvananthapuram, a ‘rousing reception’ is planned; the idea is to give him a hero’s welcome.

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Shashi, from amidst the thronging mob, if you hear a plaintive frail voice asking you, ‘Say it ain’t so, Shashi’, don’t dismiss it as a one-time Bank Manager’s; it is the voice of hundreds of thousands – men and women, young and old, cutting across all strata.

POSTSCRIPT (12 hours later)

I had sent the above piece by email to Shashi Tharoor. In 25 minutes flat, I had the following reply in my inbox:

It ain't so, sir!

I won't let you down and am confident that the inquiry will fully exculpate me.

Meanwhile, thanks for these generous-spirited words at a time of trial. It means a great deal to me that you reached out to me at this time.

This week marks a new beginning for me and I am heartened by the love, friendship and loyalty I have received. I am determined to continue to do my best for India and for the ideals that brought me back here.

ST

Dr Shashi Tharoor
Member of Parliament (Lok Sabha)
Thiruvananthapuram
Sent from BlackBerry® on Airtel

Ten is an odd number ...

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Recently I read the translation of a tiny Bengali novel written by Sirshendu Mukhopadhyay for children. One of the characters is Karali Babu, a primary school teacher.

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‘It was rumoured that after eating his food, he did sums on the rice plate. He dreamt of complicated calculations. … would laugh and cry while going through a Mathematics book. At times, when he came across a wrong sum, he trembled in fear … Karali Babu not only taught them regular sums that were included in their course, but would import all kinds of scary mathematical problems from outside…The students did not call it Mathematics any more. It was so frightening that they had coined the term – Frightenmatics …’

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All the people I have talked to treat their Mathematics teachers differently than their other mentors, not necessarily for the same reason. Some are held in great awe and respect for handling an inscrutable subject; some are remembered gratefully for making a tough subject easy; and some for their impatience with laggards.

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I remember Prof Satagopan who taught us Projective Geometry in College for his meticulousness and commitment. He was passionate (No other word would describe his feeling) about Mathematics. The exact science ruled his life. Like the fictional Karali Babu, he dreamt math, ate math, drank math and lived math.

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The good Prof was as meticulous about everything in life as he was about math. He was so very predictable: the weekday could be determined by his attire. On Mondays, it was navy blue jacket and white trousers; Tuesdays, light grey jacket and black trousers, and so on. The shirt was always a spotless white and the necktie had small polka dots on blue or black background.

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He would come into the class exactly at the appointed hour, and go on till the bell rang to announce the end of a session. He did not believe in roll-call, and no peon dared enter his classroom with notices from the Principal, College Office, NCC, Canteen and the like. He seemed to believe that all those join the college attend the classes (and that those who do not are the losers).

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The moment the bell went, he would stop mid-sentence. Story, apocryphal of course, went that in the next class (which may be only the coming week or after the Christmas vacation) he’d start exactly where he had left off!

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Talking of Christmas, in the last lecture before the Christmas examination, he added, helpfully, ‘The problems for the exam will be similar to the discussed in the class. Of course, the numbers will be different…’ He paused awhile and added, with a straight face, ‘… But not all of them. Pi will still be 3.14159... ’

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The Prof had a very fine but subtle sense of humour. As with numbers, Prof Satagopan had a way with words. He’d say, ‘Two is the oddest prime of all, because it’s the only one that’s even!’

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A postulate of his was: ‘All positive integers are interesting.’ His proof, using reduction ad absurdum: Assume the contrary. Then there is a lowest non-interesting positive integer. But, hey, that’s pretty interesting! A contradiction. Hence proved.’

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In rare moments of playfulness, he’d throw a puzzle at us: ‘You are given 19 sugar cubes to be put into four cups of coffee such that each of them has an odd number of sugar cubes in it.’ We would struggle for hours and fail. When pressed for the answer, he’d say, ‘That’s easy: three each in three cups and ten in the fifth.’ We’d protest in unison, ‘But, Sir, ten isn’t odd!’. Without any hint of jest, he’d declare, ‘Ask your mother; she’ll confirm that ten is certainly an odd number of cubes to put in a cup of coffee ...’ With that, you’d never forget all your life that an even number of odd numbers can never add up to an odd number!

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His favourite joke was, predictably, a pun. One day, Jesus said to his disciples: ‘The Kingdom of Heaven is like 3x squared plus 8x minus 9.’ St. Thomas looked very confused and asked St. Peter: ‘What does the Teacher mean?’ St.Peter replied: ‘Don’t worry – it’s just another one of his parabolas.’