The Laws of Twenty-one

This Bengali nonsense poem by the great Sukumar Ray talks about the strange laws in the imagined country of Lord Shiva. Such laws may or may not resemble real laws in real countries. The laws relate to the number 21 various ways.

Today being the 21st of February, the International Mother Language Day, AND Maha Shivaratri, the annual worship day of Lord Shiva, I couldn't resist the temptation to translate this poem to English from my mother language today.

In the land where Lord Shiva stays,
Terrible laws one must obey!
If someone happens to slip and fall,
A policeman will arrest and haul
To the court, and the judge opines,
He pays twenty-one rupees in fines.

There, before it's evening six
For sneezing you need permits.
Without permit, if a sneeze will come,
Bang! Boom! On your back they drum,
A dose of snuff the Chief applies,
Until you sneeze twenty-one times.

A loose tooth, if someone has,
They must pay four rupees as tax.
If whiskers grow on someone's face,
A hundred annas is their cess.
Poking his back, bending his neck,
Twenty-one salutes they have him make.

While walking, if someone chance
To cast left or right, a sideways glance,
At once to the king this news will rush,
The soldiers all jump and make a fuss,
They make him drink, in the sun at noon,
Water in twenty-one serving spoons.

With poetry, those who fill the pages,
They are caught, and put in cages,
And made to listen, in tunes variable,
Recitations of the multiplication table.
They have to read grocery-store ledgers,
And do additions for twenty-one pages.

If suddenly when the night is deep,
Someone snores while they're in sleep.
On their head they rub with glee,
Cow-dung mixed with apple puree,
Twenty-one times they are spun
And hung for hours twenty-one.

(Translated by Sugata Banerji)

Remembering Dadu

Very old readers of this blog may remember my post on my grandfather's birthday, fourteen years ago. This blog was only a few days old at that time, and I wrote more regularly.

Today is my grandfather's birthday once again. What's more, today is his 100th birth anniversary.

My grandfather, or Dadu, as I called him, was a man of many interests. When he got interested in something, he worked at it until he became an expert. The fact that these interests often had no practical value did not deter him at all. Some of the activities that he tried during his life (other than mathematics) are contract bridge, carrom, aquarium-keeping, candle-making, ink-making, spirograph, carpentry, book-binding, sandpaper-making, homoeopathic and biochemic medicine, and astrology. Most of these were before my time, of course, and so I only know these from stories I have heard since my childhood. I have also seen him making innumerable small tools and gadgets around the house. 

A spirograph design by Dadu

Dadu was a man of discipline. He woke up by 4:00 every morning and walked to the banks of the river Ganga, which is about a kilometre from our house. When heart troubles appeared later in his life, and the doctor advised against brisk walks, he went there by rickshaw. If I was visiting Hooghly at the time, I would accompany him there. The two of us would sit there on a bench and he would tell me stories from the Mythologies, incidents from History, facts from Geography, theories from Physics. He pointed out the Milky Way and talked about astronomy. He talked about old Hollywood movies. He explained to me the difference between the different kinds of boats passing in the still dark river. He recited verses from the Gita and explained their meaning to me. There was hardly a subject on which he couldn't talk. He told me about all these things throughout the day, of course, but during that early morning hour I had his undivided attention. Dadu also had a great collection of books. Most of those books are crumbling and somewhat obsolete now, but I spent hours with those books, looking at pictures and reading up about the world. He also bought many such books for me. I wonder if my daughter will ever develop an interest in those books, or if that interest will even be relevant in the age of the Internet.

A sample of Dadu's english handwriting

Dadu had a great sense of humour. He loved to joke and play pranks on everyone around him. When we lived in Allahabad, I sent a letter to him in Hooghly every week, and he did likewise. These letters were often very odd - I sometimes substituted words with little pictures. Both of us sometimes wrote little riddles that had to be solved to get the full message. He once even wrote a whole letter in heavily sanskritized bengali, describing mundane everyday things in a hilarious manner. Also, his handwriting was amazingly beautiful. Waiting for letters, writing of letters and reading letters is another set of pleasures that our next generation will never know. 

A bengali letter from Dadu (click to enlarge and read)

I could go on writing, but then, this post would never end. So there is no point in going on and on. The only thing that I wish on Dadu's 100th birthday is that I can use at least some of the teaching techniques that I learnt from him to teach my daughter. She wasn't fortunate enough to meet Dadu, but I hope at least she can learn from one of his students.

Fourteen Years

How long is fourteen years?

When I was a child and my mother used to tell me stories from the Ramayana, fourteen years always seemed an interminably long period for an exile. Later, when I read the Mahabharata, I realized that the Pandavas spent about fourteen years in exile as well - twelve years in the forest, one more year anonymously, and then about another year preparing for the battle (which lasted eighteen days). Again, a huge chunk out of the lives of our heroes.

And yet, when I look back at that night fourteen years ago when I started writing my blog, it seems just like yesterday. It will be an exaggeration to call this my "exile", but it does mark my time away from home. First in Hyderabad, then in Kolkata and finally in the suburbs of three cities across the USA - New York City, Washington, D.C. and Chicago.

While it doesn't feel like a lot of time has passed, a lot has changed in these fourteen years. I left my IT job, started and finished a PhD, did a post-doc and then became a professor at a college. I got married. I became a father. And fatter. In the world of social networks, Orkut died off, Facebook came to rule the world. Blogging went out of fashion, microblogging caught the fancy of the world with the introduction of Twitter. Cellphones became smart. Tablets and e-book readers came into existence.

I bought a DSLR. Two DSLRs actually, and started calling myself a photographer.

And in between all this, I started a second blog. In Bengali. While I hardly write in either one anymore, I definitely enjoy writing when I do. Nobody reads my blogs anymore, of course. Nobody reads blogs as much as they used to do fourteen years ago.

Still, it seemed like a nice occasion to commemorate by writing a post here on my first blog. I missed the actual date by a day, but what difference does a day make in fourteen years?