Birth, growth, collapse and renewal

Professor Nirmala Jain is a retired professor of Hindi literature from Delhi University, and a well-known literary critic.  A few days ago, after reading her commentary on some well-known Hindi writers (such as Krishna Sobti, Usha Priyamvada and Mannu Bhandari), I was curious to learn more about her own literary journey.  Her autobiography, "Zamane Mein Hum" is a detailed memoir of her life, covering her childhood (she was born in the early 1930s), her long academic career at Delhi University, and her literary associations. I started reading the book in earnest during recent travel, and it gave me an opportunity to reflect on personal resilience in the midst of unrelenting family struggles, the twists and turns of an academic journey, and the joy of being part of an academic ecosystem abundant with talented, purpose-driven scholars. Her journey also provides a glimpse into academically vibrant institutions with great potential devolving into uninspiring workspaces that no longer fulfill that potential. This is the story of many universities in India.

Professor Jain was among the cohort of lecturers who started teaching at Lady Shriram College in the year of its inception, 1956. She spent 14 years at the college. Her interview for the position was chaired by its founder, Lala Shriram, the owner of Delhi Cloth Mills, who also carefully mentored the institution in its early years. She witnessed the change of campus from a small school in Darya Ganj to its current location in Lajpat Nagar with its iconic red building and 55 pillars. She describes the efforts that the faculty members put into the academic training of their students (who came from diverse socio-economic backgrounds) and in creating an atmosphere that fostered wholesome growth encompassing the arts and culture. 

This part of her memoir was fascinating to me for two reasons.  My undergraduate education was completed at Lady Shriram College (LSR).  The college provided a safe, nurturing space for three years to study and reflect on the way forward.  As I entered the college gate every morning after a long, tiring commute from Noida, the red building and its 55 pillars represented a welcoming space that manifested everything positive in my life at that point [0].  A couple of years after graduating, I read the novel "Pachpan Khambein Laal Deewarein" (translation: 55 pillars and red walls) by Usha Priyamvada [1], who was also among the new faculty members who had joined the college. In the world of this novel, however, these pillars and walls symbolized the emotional suffocation of the protagonist. "How could the author not see this space as the intellectually stimulating space that I experienced", my younger self wondered [2]. On the other hand, Professor Jain's narrative was closer to how I viewed the institution, a space that provided its members the resources and opportunities to grow and find their way forward. 

The other reason why I enjoyed reading this part of her story is because it resonated with my experience of starting a faculty position at a new institution.  I joined IISER Kolkata (and later, IISER Pune) in their early years, and saw many transitions of the kind that she describes at LSR.  At a new institution, faculty members have to work with limited resources and often have to take up roles well beyond the purview of the classroom in order to contribute to institution-building [3]. Just as the young Nirmala Jain and her colleagues benefited from mentoring and encouragement by Lala Shriram and other institution builders, we were fortunate to be mentored by inspiring academic leaders such as Professor Ganesh and Professor Shashidhara through tough academic phases (individual as well as institutional). The birth and growth pangs of a new institution intermingled with our personal quest for scientific and intellectual growth.  Reading this part of the memoir revived memories of the journey of the IISERs in the early years. 

The later part of the memoir starts to get sombre. We now start reading stories about the downslide of institutions when a handful of people acquire disproportionate power and start putting themselves above the institution. We read about bureaucratic shenanigans by academics to hurt colleagues who have demonstrated higher scholarly merit, and situations where students try to acquire academic benefits through "extracurricular" means, overlooking the importance of individual, focused effort at the study table. Professor Jain lived through an era which saw the degeneration of many Indian universities into living nightmares. The early phases of this degeneration were also observed by Harivansh Rai Bachchan (a distinguished poet and a professor at Allahabad University who later quit academia) in the third volume of his autobiography. Professor Jain saw institutions in various phases: birth, growth, collapse and renewal. Her memoir presents the story of Delhi University from her point of view. Thanks to her own academic preparation, intellectual curiosity and association with the leading litterateurs of the day, she worked to keep the academic culture of her department alive and thriving. For example, dedicated teachers organized regular conferences and seminars to ensure that students and department members were exposed to distinguished poets and writers who were leading significant literary movements in their times.

The coming up of institutions such as the IISERs, new Central Universities, new IITs and NITs represents a promising phase in science and education in our country (similar to what the older universities represented in the earlier part of the 20th century). The later part of Jain's memoir makes us reflect on what keeps an academic culture flowing and growing versus the attitudes/actions that have the opposite effect. Can we continue with the resolution and clarity of vision to put academic excellence above all else? Can we support and nurture academic potential in ourselves, our colleagues and students? Can we show up every morning to our work with a sense of wonder, and a commitment to give it our best? 

[0] It's a different matter that I had to walk across this part of the building into a darker, less inspiring section where the mathematics classes were conducted.

[1] The pen-name of Professor Usha Saxena-Nilsson, who later worked at Allahabad University and the University of Wisconsin-Madison. 

[2] I learnt to appreciate that no author is obliged to represent something exactly as I view it, even if the topic is close to my heart :-)

[3] For example, folklore has it that Professor Ambika, one of our earliest faculty members at IISER Pune who also served as dean (academics), personally intervened to wake up students who slept late and were at the risk of missing their exams.

Only with time

This semester, I am teaching a batch of students from the 4th year of our Integrated BS-MS programme. Technically, they are at a level equivalent to first year MSc students. Last week, while discussing properties of the Fourier transform with them, I suggested that in case they forget a certain property or formula, but need it, they should not hesitate to work it out by applying the basic definition of a Fourier transform. "Since there's only a handful of you, you will almost certainly get extra time to finish your quiz or exam," I joked. Before I knew it, I started reflecting loudly on an important change that happens gradually in our lives around their age. Up to a certain point in life, academic success almost exclusively depends on how quickly one can answer questions (correctly) in a time-bound exam. But, as we transition into adult life, success or progress in a career (and other parts of life) depends on how much time we are willing to give to a task at hand. 

I was thinking about what my students would be doing in their fifth year and onwards: working on research projects for their MS thesis and beyond. This would involve learning new topics on their own outside of a structured curriculum, often from research papers which are not easy to read. It would involve spending time on answering a new question for which no hints are given at the end of a textbook. There will be no assurance that the answer will arrive, or about when it will arrive. Any progress will be visible after long days and months of tedious calculations and focused thinking on a topic. One will make mistakes, and correct them time and again. The same holds for other areas of our lives: health, fitness, developing personal relationships or learning new skills. A functional adult life is a direct consequence of how much time we devote to whatever we take up (sometimes by choice and sometimes by compulsion), and how patiently we wait for growth or progress.

Many games that we learn in our childhood, such as arranging jigsaw pieces, building objects out of lego pieces and playing chess train us to be generous with time along with concentration. For that matter, even in the exam-dictated part of our lives, the ability to perform well in restricted timelines comes from long hours, days and months of dedicated, unapologetic practice. Thinking or taking quick action on your feet when time is short comes when you have practiced something for long. For example, while learning to play tennis, the backhand motion takes long to learn for many of us (true at least for me). But, a few months of practice down the line, we don't even think for a second when there is a need to use it. Delivering a decent lecture requires a long preparation time. The shorter the lecture time, the longer you have to spend in organizing the essential ideas in order to communicate them without going over time. As Pascal pointed out, even writing short letters takes time. Almost everything meaningful in life requires time and patience. 

Taking time to do something has multiple aspects. The first is the "woodpecker" aspect: the basic "action" level of spending time on activities. This time is to be devoted, either in short, regular chunks of time, or in long chunks, based on the situation. On a regular basis, we set aside time daily for an activity, preferably during hours when there is minimal chance of being disturbed. When a project is stuck or nearing completion, we dedicate larger chunks of time to it, at the cost of ignoring or postponing some other tasks.  During collaborations, things often get sorted out while the collaborators are visiting each other, as opposed to meeting online. While time-bound, regular online (or offline) meetings ensure progress, a collaboration visit nudges all parties to put aside other activities for a while, and spend long hours thinking about something at a stretch. This often accelerates a project out of a rut, and this is precisely why summer time (when we don't have to worry about teaching schedules) is so valuable for scientists. But, in any case, whether in regular periods or in larger, continuous chunks, the woodpecker aspect is about chipping away at something.

The second is the "washing machine" aspect [1]. This aspect is about putting in the time to go through a process. For example, this involves waiting patiently for an experiment to run its course and yield the results. Situations, where we take action, and wait for the consequences, however long it may take. Those of us who waited for visa appointments in the Covid and post-Covid periods will relate to this. There is nothing we can do while the process is going on, other than regular monitoring and paper-work.  The medical treatment to recover from an illness is part of this category. We go through the course of treatment and wait for healing. To a large extent, the endeavour to get fitter could also be considered as an example here. One makes a (hopefully, sustainable) diet and exercise plan, follows it diligently and waits for as long as it takes for the body to respond. 

Then, there is a third "flower blooming" aspect, one of the most important aspects of any scholarly activity. This aspect is about working with a new idea or method, and waiting for time to shape it into different manifestations and applications. Our duty, which is the equivalent of watering and nurturing a plant, is to actively reflect upon the meaning of the idea by thinking about it, making a regular effort to write and rewrite it, and by finding out its connections with other ideas and problems. We try not to let it go unheeded, as we wait for it to "bloom". As an idea blooms, we revisit, polish, review and reframe it over time. As students, this aspect of time comes into play in our journey of learning. While a course introduces a topic, the learning, understanding and absorption of the content will take much longer than a semester and will be each student's individual journey. Here is the translation of a beautiful Sanskrit verse shared by my colleague, Professor Pavan Kumar: "One fourth from the teacher, one fourth from own intelligence, one fourth from classmates, and one fourth only with time".

[1] Most posts on this blog are written during long linen-wash cycles. 

Not your Ma'am

 Reflections on a few things that I was thinking about in January:

1) Not your Ma'am

The other day, someone on X (formerly, Twitter) left a reply on a tweet. Soon after that, they left another tweet apologizing for not addressing me as "Ma'am". This made me think more about appropriate ways of addressing faculty members, senior colleagues, peers that we are communicating with for the first time, and of course, people with whom we interact on social media. I think I can reasonably assert on behalf of almost all my colleagues (and especially those of us who are on social media) that we do not expect to be addressed by honorifics such as "Sir" or "Ma'am". At IISER, several students address their teachers by their first names. But, many students prefer sticking to the time-honoured tradition of "Sir/Ma'am".  

Professional, polite and mutually respectful interactions involve more than modes of address. While it's not exactly rocket science, this aspect does involve more effort than choosing a form of addressing each other. It includes, for example,

A) writing emails with complete sentences, 

B) showing up on mutually decided meeting hours on time or letting the other person know in advance of any delay or change in plans, 

C) making reasonable requests (such as informing the instructor well in advance if you are requesting for a reference letter, providing them all the documents that will help them write the letter and following up closer to the deadline), and 

D) learning to conduct smooth discussions on matters of disagreement (such as when the student and the instructor differ on the grades that the former should receive, or when two colleagues have a difference of opinion).

The above contribute much more to an atmosphere of academic freedom and meaningful exchange of ideas than choosing (or not choosing) to call someone by name. 

Some (not all) of my senior colleagues insist on being called by their first names, and can even be a little fanatic about it. They feel that if a younger person is addressing them with titles and honorifics, it will prevent them from freely sharing their thoughts. The younger folks do not necessarily believe this to be the case. I have never held back from expressing my views based on how I am addressing the other person: obstacles to free expression usually arise from how the other person reacts, especially if they are in a position of power over you [1]. 

At the same time, I can see a distinct advantage in insisting early on that your younger peers call you by name. When former students and mentees become colleagues, it is unbearably awkward to continue to be called "Ma'am" by them . But, it is also awkward for the younger person to change the mode of reference.  Nevertheless, the change has to be made, and it's probably easier to do it sooner than later [2]. 

It is totally okay to call your instructor by name (especially if you are making an effort on Points A-D, where the real work lies). It's even more okay if you pronounce/spell the name correctly.

2) The choice will make itself

The spring semester is a time of great churn. Our second year BS MS students are now in the process of making a decision about what they want to major in. The PhD admission and postdoctoral application season has started. Many people, while navigating between different entrance exams (such as NET, GATE, NBHM etc) and multiple applications, are trying to determine whether they want to walk down the academic path or consider alternative careers. In many cases, there are at least two options that look equally attractive. In some cases, one option seems to be what they really want, whereas the other option appears to offer better worldly benefits. A common conundrum among students who talk to me is to choose between majoring in physics versus mathematics. "I like both the subjects, and the thought of choosing one over the other is causing me a great deal of anxiety and FOMO," said a student. 

As the person in most of these conversations who has been through the process a "few" more times than them, my advice is that they keep brainstorming the advantages and disadvantages of each choice. That they use this as an opportunity to sharpen their decision-making powers by considering multiple angles and perspectives. That they also use this as an opportunity to draw within themselves to recognize (possibly for the first time) what will personally make them happy. I am reminded of a silly dialogue from a movie that had come out when I was about to start my Master's. "Close your eyes," said a character to another. "Who do you see? That's the one for you." Go ahead, adapt this principle to your career choices as well, I joked with a student. Close your eyes, and imagine you are in a beautiful, cosy study room with a big window and a view of beautiful mountains with sunlight filtering in. There's a hot cup of coffee next to you. What do you see yourself doing? "I see myself working with a pen and paper," said the student. To me, that pretty much seals the choice. But it could also mean theoretical physics, the student suggests. 

One cannot deny the absolute importance of individual agency in making life decisions. An unrelenting, thorough reflection on our choices sharpens our logical reasoning, mental resilience, and self-awareness. It gives us the courage to take complete responsibility for our choices (to completely "own them", in popular parlance).  But what finally happens is also based on several factors beyond our control or current knowledge. Can you predict that a pandemic will break out? Can you possibly foresee a diplomatic storm ensuing between your country and the one you wanted to study in? Did the flight/train to your job interview get cancelled [3]? Did the professor you wanted to work move away soon after you joined the university?

On a more pleasant note, while you are more or less ready to move to Field A, you may suddenly end up listening to a beautiful lecture in Field B that will miraculously change your mind. You may meet a wise person during a journey or a conference (or both) who will make you re-evaluate your priorities [4]. 

One must think carefully about all of our choices. At the "moment of reckoning", however, it is highly likely that the choice will make itself. 

3) Give it time

Social media recently erupted with discussions about 70 hour and 90 hour work weeks. Such discussions often touch a raw nerve, as most of us navigate multiple demands on our time, and there is always unfair judgement on what we choose to allot less (or more) time to. 

If we sign up for something or accept a responsibility, there is no substitute to giving it the time that it needs. Every aspect of work, personal or professional, needs time. We hope that before taking something on, we carefully consider the time that it will take, and then take a call based on the availability of time to us. But, more often than not, a task takes longer than we thought it would, and as functioning adults, we do our best to rise to the situation. 

Solving new problems or proving new theorems is that aspect of a mathematician's work that takes much longer than one thought it would. We lose track of time spent on it, and I have never heard any scientist complaining about the amount of time it took them to finish a project: this is often narrated with pride and joy. On a similar note, I have never met a colleague or friend in academia who complained about devoting time to preparing good lectures, either for their courses or for conferences/seminars.

There are other parts of our job which also take time: peer review (including referee reports for journal submissions, writing reference letters for job candidates and PhD applicants), committee work, and mentoring students who may not be directly working with us but reach out for support or guidance. Our reputation is built on the integrity with which we execute these tasks, and all of it directly depends on how much time we allot to it. 

In the last few years, I have blogged a lot about learning to bring structure and consistency over long periods of time to meet goals that seemed challenging. Occasionally, I have also reflected upon how long it takes for growth to happen and for something to come to fruition: a research idea, a book, or career milestones. My personal growth and mental health have skyrocketed after I made a simple pact with myself: that I would give any task the time that it needs without judgement or anxiety. 

It seems that both the industry leaders who brought up the issue of work hours wanted to encourage their employees to have ambitious goals befitting their abilities, and devote the time needed to meet those goals. Instead, at least one of them ended up issuing statements that sounded condescending and even crass. Framing your views thoughtfully before communicating them also takes time.

Footnotes:

[1] Here, I do have to admit, albeit from personal experience, that there is indeed a strong overlap between those who prefer to be called by name and those who accept opposing points of view without going ballistic :-)

[2] The Bengalis seem to have evolved a working solution to this problem: they follow the middle path, and simply add "Da" or "Di" while calling older people by their names. This can remain constant even as one graduates through different career stages,

 [3] This has happened to me. On a January morning several springs ago, I boarded a flight to go for a job talk in another city, but the flight never took off. The runway was being used by some aircrafts for Republic Day practice. 

 [4] Yes, it does sound over-the-top, but both have happened to me, and to some others I know.