Mathematicians and Fishing.

Fermat’s Last Theorm by Simone Singh was an entertaining read, as he was able to simplify maths enough to integrate it with a suspense novel. Reading the book still requires grade seven maths understanding, which is not a problem. The book revolves around a 300 years old maths puzzle, with a price on it’s solution. The puzzle is simple enough and the fact that the prize was left unclaimed over such a long time is interesting. Simon Singh brings vibrancy to the “dull” life of a mathematician, and is able to capture and retain the reader’s attention for the entire duration of this short book. Science writing has its fans, but alas, all too few. A highly recommended read for anybody interested in mathematics.

I also managed to breeze through Paul Torday’s Salmon fishing in Yemen. I like the book for three reasons: a) It is written by an engineer b) Paul has spent considerable time in Oman, where I worked for, alas, too short a time, and c) The book treats people in the Middle East with respect and understanding. A very entertaining read, and a quick book to read through in a couple of sittings. I could appreciate the message in the book, which although vey simple, was relevant for me, a middle aged person. The crisis in the middle aged of marriage and profession was well related with no loose strings. I would recommend for a nothing else to do, rainy day read.



Odds and ends

The race for the oxford professor of poetry turned nasty, what with the favourite candidate , Derek Walcott, withdrawing after allegations of sexual harassment were made anonymously. This now turned into a two horse race with Ruthe Padel winning easily. A few days later she is accused of tipping off journalists on the allegations against Walcott. And then she resigns.

Now what happens? Does the remaining candidate, Arvind Mehrotra, professor at Allahabad University automatically take up the post? Oxford is silent, living up to the highest traditions of English traditions- when in trouble be discreet. Be very discreet.

Anyway Arvind’s poetry is nothing to be scoffed at. Here is

Canticle for My Son

The dog barks and the cat mews,
The moon comes out in the sky,
The birds are mostly settled.
I envy your twelve hours
Of uninterrupted dreaming.

I take your small palms in mine
And don’t know what
To do with them. Beware, my son,
Of those old clear-headed women

Who never miss a funeral



Delhi Chronicles

Now that the Indian cricket team is safely out of the T20 world cup, a lot of my friends are catching up on their sleep. The IPL and the T20 matches at night kept some of them awake till late hours, with consequences the next day. Fogginess to be dispelled by cups of coffee and tea were the order of the day, besides the hours lost in discussing the details of last night’s match. Too much T.V cricket is not a good idea for an alert mind. Pakistan winning the cup was consolation of sorts; at least the cup is in the general neighbourhood.

This summer has been horrible. The temperature stayed above 40C for days, touching 44 C frequently, and with the electricity and water playing truant, Delhi turned obnoxious. The met is promising rains in the first week of July, but I have no faith in that government body. I do not think they know anything about predicting weather, although they get paid to say they do.

Poet Laureate

Carol Ann Duffy is nominated as the next poet laureate, the first woman to be so, and she stands in honourable company, along with Wordsworth and Tennyson. I discovered this poet in my ramblings in the British Council Library, and in fact had picked up her 1985 T.S. Elliot prize winner “Rapture”, a book of related love poems. Carol writes beautifully and with insight only a poet can pen down. Reading poetry is much different than prose. One can let prose wash over you, and one’s engagement with the book can vary over the course of reading the book. Not so with poetry. Either one is fully into it, or not. I cannot read poetry casually; I need to concentrate and let the poem seep into my soul; else it is like chewing gum. One champs around without getting any sustenance. I quote from the movie “Dead Poets Society”- One does not write poetry to make a living, one lives to write poetry. My favourite poem from the book is reproduced below:

Cuba

No getting up from the bed in this grand hotel
and getting dressed, like a work of art
rubbing itself out. No lifting the red rose
from the room service tray when you leave
as though you might walk to the lip of a grave
and toss it down. No glass of champagne, left
to go flat in the glow of a bedside lamp,
the frantic bubbles swimming for the light. No white towel
strewn, like a shroud, on the bathroom floor.
No brief steam on the mirror there for a finger
to smudge in a heart, an arrow, a name. No soft soap
rubbed between four hands. No flannel. No future plans.
No black cab, sad hearse, on the rank. No queue there.
No getting away from this. No goodnight kiss. No Cuba.


Odds and ends

I have been reading the poetry workshop every month on the guardian books website, and the last poetry workshop was special for me. I finally had the courage to submit an entry. I do not know if there are any bathroom poets like me, but this is one opportunity for you to submit a poem anonymously like I did. If it gets mentioned in the honours, hey! you may be in business. Go ahead, and try out the one this month – the subject is night.


Delhi Chronicles

Delhi’s summer seems to be settling down well. There are days of hot weather with the temperature touching 44 C, but with squalls on most evenings. This weather pattern had been lost for quite some time, and goes down well with me. During my childhood I remember this pattern coming in at least twice a week, sometimes everyday. The pattern seems to have been lost for a decade or so, but I am not complaining if it comes back. The mango season is not going quite as well. The safeda mango is not as sweet as in other years. For course, the price at Rs 35 per kilo is not helping matters. We persuaded a guy coming in from Ambala over the weekend, to bring in some 15 kilos which we will consume in the office in a “Mango” party. Apparently in Muscat this is done every year on a day where the Ambassador of India inaugurates the affair.

The Geek Dad

I just finished two books by Issac Asimov- The Currents of Space and Cleon Emperor. For a change both were good fast reads, and I enjoyed them thoroughly. After reading a ton of literary fiction it is a delight to go back to my childhood novels. I remember I was mesmerised by the Foundation Trilogy, and then by Arthur C. Clarke’s Space Odyssey and the Rama series. So, when I am trawling the bookshops, I find a SF novel I have not read, I will invariably pick it up. Maybe, because I am a SF fan, I decided to stick to engineering, rather than change to Finance or Marketing and make obscene amounts of money.

Although Asimov is not a great writer, the sheer originality of his ideas catches one’s imagination. To dream of a galaxy wide empire, and then flesh out the details is laudable. The ability to fire one’s fantasies through sheer power of the ideas is the essence of SF writing. One is not looking for subtleties of literary fiction, but the ability of the writer to think of future (but realistic!) scenarios is much appreciated. Asimov is the original master of this art, and I would recommend the Foundation series for any kid.

Which is exactly what my kid does not want. I tried my best to get her interested in sciences, and Physics in particular by referring her to this excellent course – Physics for Future Presidents. My daughter took one look at it and dismissed it. When I tried to urge her to at least have a look, I was labelled as a geek- an old one- but a geek nevertheless. I have to re-examine my life now. I am sure I did not start off as a geek, but became one over the years. Question- Can geeks be fifty years old?

Odds and Ends

Watching Aamir Khan on TV urging people to vote is really pissing me off. Now he is using kids to sell his idea, and I find that disgusting. We are suckers for kids pedalling anything; from cell phones to health drinks. I think using kids to sell ANYTHING is despicable, because the kids are not endorsing; it is just their parents who are making a quick buck. As a skeptic, I insist on finding out the truth- not that it is easy to find. So, if Aamir Khan wants to figure out the best candidate in my constituency, he would have a job on his hands. If we sieve out the uneducated, the history sheeters, the schemers, the manipulators, the power brokers, the free loaders, and the extremists, there is nothing left. So, all I have to say about this is – Won’t.

Delhi Chronicles

Now that the humble shoe has been declared a weapon of mass destruction, it has captured people’s imagination in ways unforeseen. Laid-off workers are promising retribution, disgusted voters are threatening action, and fringe elements are contemplating protests. This is not without risks as the original show thrower got jailed for three years. But the risks are dropping as the FM’s assaulter got away with a warning. And not all people getting shoes thrown at are unhappy. I noticed that the FM gave a smug smile after the the incident. After all, joining the club of people who have had the “shoe thrown at”, is pretty impressive. In fact celebrity seekers may be disappointed if nothing comes their way, and may decide that paying for this service is worth while. So, a new career shows up on the horizon – The Shoe Thrower- which will teach a student the right methods and attitude to throw a shoe. The shoe manufacturers are rubbing their hands with glee, as they envisage the profits to be made by this great advertising opportunity. So, we can have branded shoes sponsored by companies selling soaps and potato chips, thrown by disgruntled elements wearing T- shirts, also sponsored by companies selling soaps and T-shirts at celebrities who are endorsed by companies selling soaps and T-shirts. I shudder to think where this form of protest will go.

Á Different Invite

Unlike most wedding cards we receive, this one was different. It included a book of poetry compiled by relatives of the bride. So, for the first time I actually read a wedding card. This duty is normally done by my wife who is promptly blamed for forgetting the wedding day or the venue. I could never forget those trivial but important dates now. I also could not forget Van Morrison’s song included in the invite. I was pleasantly reintroduced to Van Morrison through this device, and I reproduce the song below for your enjoyment.

Days like this

When its not always raining therell be days like this
When theres no one complaining therell be days like this
When everything falls into place like the flick of a switch
Well my mama told me therell be days like this

When you dont need to worry therell be days like this
When no ones in a hurry therell be days like this
When you dont get betrayed by that old judas kiss
Oh my mama told me therell be days like this

When you dont need an answer therell be days like this
When you dont meet a chancer therell be days like this
When all the parts of the puzzle start to look like they f it
Then I must remember therell be days like this

When everyone is up front and theyre not playing tricks
When you dont have no freeloaders out to get their kicks
When its nobodys business the way that you wanna live
I just have to remember therell be days like this

When no one steps on my dreams therell be days like this
When people understand what I mean therell be days like this
When you ring out the changes of how everything is
Well my mama told me therell be days like this

Odds and Ends

Have you noticed the lack of any rancour and adrenalin pumping in-your-face aggression in the current India-New Zealand? I credit this to Daniel Vettori and his team mates, who have refused to be drawn in Aussie-like into alpha-male contests or as they justify- psychological warfare. I always thought Aussie on field behaviour was more to do with being bad losers, rather than any scientific approach to overawing competition. So, all credit to the black caps for keeping the contest clean, and to the men in blue for reciprocating. Let cricket win at the end of the day.

Delhi Chronicles

The spring is here, and so are exam times for the kids. The X and XII class kids are taking their exams, and everyone is freaked out. When the kid has an exam, the whole family accompanies the kid to the exam centre and wait for three hours outside, worrying and fretting. In fact when I refused to accompany my kid to the exam centre on grounds of “When I took the exams I went on a DTC bus, and my parents were barely aware of this momentous event in my life” , I was properly castigated for being a delinquent dad. Examples were thrown at me, on how so-and-so’s dad stood in the sun for the entire three hour duration of the exam. I ignored all such exhortations on the grounds sheer madness – there is no way standing in the sun will help your kid get more marks. Of course, when the results are in, everyone in the extended family and circle of friends want to know the marks, and the parents can be squirming if the results are not in the 90s.

The other effect we note is that the child is now hugely dependent on approval ratings of parents which may be based on system generated numbers. This dependency can, and does, become a handicap when the child has to take control of his destiny- choosing a career or life partner. A middle aged man living with his parents is quite common in India, which may have its positives as far as looking after the aged is concerned, but is it suffocating the man-child? I think we can do better if we let the child decide his future and stop worrying about the system-oriented marking scheme. Unless the child is passionate about the subject he picks up as a life long study, I doubt the child can sustain in his career.

Anger in Mumbai

This is dedicated to Sabina Saigal Sakia, who I knew briefly while in college, and have since followed her career with interest.

Anger in Mumbai
Once there was a girl who loved writing,
meeting people, talking
endlessely on things immaterial,
fascinating others around her.

She went to a party and
talked the editor into hiring her
for a job she always wanted,
to write about food and things on

So her books came out
year after year,
telling people where to eat
drink and make merry.

She went to party,
came back early to bed
to find death
instead of rest

He came uninvited
and violated the silence,
to shoot, kill mindlessly
in the name of god

And the old men watched
And prayed And talked
And condemned And promised

And did nothing.


Odds and Ends

I have been corresponding to people in some charming parts of the world like Siberia. It is quite a change from writing to people in US, Canada or India. While asking about the weather is polite noise in other parts of the world, in Siberia it is a big deal. I have been told that the temperature is -15 C… on a warm day. For a warm bloodied mammal like me, such lows are inconceivable. For instance I do know that good old steel is a material I can use down to -29C, which becomes useless material of construction in Siberia. I wonder what do they use for everyday living- Stainless Steel? Other innocuous topic of conversation like “ Would you like a drink?” is a meaningless question out there. If one does not have Vodka to serve up immediately, it is would considered quite an affront. Although the climate may not suit me, I wonder if they run tours up down to that part of the world? It would be nice to pay DJ my respects in person.

Delhi Chronicles

Modern Monuments

After the initial euphoria of the Delhi Metro and its promise to solve Delhi’s horrendous traffic jams is over, the truth is now coming home to roost. The Metro’s ubiquitous reach is after all, now, not so ubiquitous. The trains are well packed, now requiring Japanese style people minders to pack the travellers in. They promised to get rid of the cars and scooters packing the roads under them. Have they? Look for yourself. Now we have considerable part of Delhi’s humanity travelling thirty meters from the ground, while at the bottom an equal number of frustrated commuters struggle with their vehicles negotiating the traffic below. The pillars and the elevated structures made of concrete are now not looking like so good. In fact they are an eye sore. Miles of pillars looking like behemoths supporting the roads on which toy trains run look extremely ugly. The skyline, or whatever remains of it after the buildings obliterate swathes of the sky, is now uglier than ever. So while the progress in mass transport is commendable, all I have to say about the Metro is NMB- Not in my backyard.

Success Re-explained

I just finished Outliers by Malcom Gladwell, a New York Times correspondent, writing his third book. I was not too impressed by his second book, Tipping Point, which I thought was stating the obvious. However, he seems to have matured in his third attempt, and some of his theories found resonance in my experience. A couple of points to illustrate this:

The book starts with the 10,000 hours theory, which states that to be a world class exponent of any art or science, one needs to put in these number of hours. This is a necessary but not a sufficient condition of success. This means that if one puts in 3 hours a day, twenty hours a week, it will take ten years for a person to become adept at his profession. This jells very well, with my theory that it takes ten years of decent work for a person to become a world player in engineering. Of course, he has to take care that he does not repeat his experiences too much, and is willing to grab opportunities, as well as drive himself to work at home to get that extra experience which the office cannot provide. I ran this theory past my colleagues, who agreed with the time frame and the effort level involved reaching a certain stage of faculty.

Besides other interesting points Gladwell makes, another one which piqued my interest was the one on plane crashes. Inability to communicate that he was running out of fuel, an airline pilot crashed his plane. This was attributed to cultural aspect which makes people very reticent when dealing with their perceived social superiors. This aspect is also visible in Indian culture, although not too the extent in some others. This particular peculiarity of Indian culture is a massive hindrance to the way modern organisation run. Although a socially acceptable practice, this illogical deference to superiors needs to be rooted out ruthlessly in professional organisations.

On the whole a well written book, this one throws up a multitude of issues relationg to modern stories of success. I had difficulty in relating to the number of theories, wondering of the author is bit glib on throwing these cards on the table. And then suddenly the chapter on plane crashes turns up, and blows you away.

This book is a strong recommended read for anybody interested in the happenings and causes of events in modern society. It is also up for discussion in our book club, Cognition, which the brave Rohit Marwaha is still organising. I am hoping that the book club continues, but I am pessimistic about it.

Odds and ends

I read with interest the Delhi Bloggers Group heritage walk around Mehrauli, whcich inspired me to visit the Garden of Five Senses (see below). The photos taken by Saad were really good and are up at his blogsite. I must visit Jamali Kamali, a monument recommended to me by my colleague too, and that guy is my guru on places to eat and visit in Delhi.

Delhi Chronicles

The winter has had its truncated say in Delhi this year, and was unusually warm. A cold snap here and there helped us to remind us of its nasty reputation. But now in end January the sun is out, and it is a wonderful time to be going out and visiting the gardens. I decided to visit the Garden of Five Senses at Meharauli. Found it with great difficulty, as the metro construction has despoiled the road leading up to the garden. I lost my cell phone, so obviously the garden did not do enough to awaken my senses. The food at Bauji’s Dhabha was really good, but other than that there was little to write home about. Extended families of mind boggling proportions were out picnicking, and every spot of grass was occupied by people eating away home cooked food transported in huge containers. A dilapidated amphitheatre abuts on a upmarket restaurant, whose clients can roll in their Mercedes into the garden, while the rest of us have to park outside. A “solar bus” powered by solar charged batteries picked up kids from one end, fought its way amongst the cars from the aforementioned restaurant, and then had to have some manual help from a guy with long stick to flip around its electric contactors overhead, to make the trip back. A sad state of affairs. Methinks this garden will soon resemble the ruins it is surrounded by, and will have the honour of reaching the state of dilapidation in one hundredth the time.

Troubled by a book

The White Tiger

This award winner has not been able to rustle up enthusiasm amongst the literati or the critics. I read the book for discussion in a book club, and had to do some speed reading to meet the deadline.

The two big things which I noticed immediately: First, for a Booker award this book reads easy. Amongst the recent winners this is by far the easiest book to read. The narrative is smooth, the storyline captivating and the message apparently simple.

Secondly I am amazed at the authenticity of Delhi life portrayed by the author. For a person who is not a Delhiwallah, the ability to latch on to the nuances of Delhi life is astonishing. A couple of personal instances which mirror the ones in the book are:

I have personally witnessed an incident in which a minor boy driving car causes an accident, and his driver, arriving at the scene some 15 minutes later, promptly takes on the burden of guilt. No kidding- this happened in my colony.

The name of the roads in Delhi keep on changing as Lutyen’s Delhi explodes like a monster, and the politicians replace British name with today’s, mostly Europeon, no American, relevant political personalities. As any Delhiwallah knows, the old name lingers on, and only a tourist will use the newly christened monikers.

The inability of Delhi bureaucrats to keep to a simple logic when numbering streets and blocks is evident. I live on Road No 56, and Road No 55 is half a mile away in an unexpected direction.

Aravind has spent many an observational evening in Delhi, and it shows.

I am surprised that book has left many Delhiwallahs untouched. Have we become immune to the poverty and the social injustice, which is evident everywhere? Or is it that Aravind drags these things out of the sewers , much to the discomfort of the middle class literature reading audience who can dish out Rs. 395 for this book? The apathy of the not so unfortunate people is a telling commentary on our times. This begs the question: Are the middle class, for all their protestations, at all interested in social justice? As we climb up the social and wealth ladder, are we capable of looking back and committing to helping the less fortunate? Do we think that if we contribute a measly amount to some fashionable charity or, donate some money at a temple, it will be good enough for our conscious? Are we bothered by our conscious at all?

Aravind leaves nothing to imagination. His story is straight from the guts, painfully visceral, horrifically detailed, and prods the reader’s sleepy conscious wide awake. The incidents he relates in the book, are unfortunately, all too real. This is not Bollywood’s glamorised poverty, but a in your face, take it or puke kind, which is very uncomfortable to read. One needs to keep an arm’s distance to not get upset with the portrayal of the characters.

The writing style leaves much to be desired. It is a straight journalistic verbiage, with attention to detail and authenticity, but with little creativity. Salman Rushdie would be justifiably upset that his book , The Enchantress of Florence, with all its shortcomings, did not even make it to the Booker short list. His is much better crafted book than The White Tiger. The only reason I see this book as a winner is its ability to keep one constantly uncomfortable with the contradictions of a pluralistic society, and the price one pays to climb the ladder in a developing economy.