On choices: reflections from two beautiful books

From time to time, social media erupts with debates about "right" choices and "wrong" choices. The subjects of the choices revolve around marriage, children, and lately, the working hours of a PhD student. I have often found these discussions leading to an angry (almost vitriolic) exchange of opinions. Somehow, this theme touches people in a rather raw way at the most vulnerable spots in their minds and hearts. This makes it nearly impossible to have a reasonable discourse on these forums.

In complete contrast, two books that I read recently presented thoughtful perspectives on the theme of choice, and helped me to reflect (without unnecessary noise and anxieties) on how we make and own our choices.

The two books, "The Memory Keeper's Daughter" by Kim Edwards and "The Real Deal: Lessons, Learnings and Laughter for Girl Scientists" by Karishma Kaushik belong to wildly different genres. The first book, based in Kentucky and Pennsylvania, is a fictional narrative spanning three decades from the 1960s to the 1980s. The second is the memoir of a contemporary Indian scientist who has experienced the scientific ecosystem in India and USA, and who has contributed to science in multiple ways: as a medical doctor, researcher, educator, science communicator, and as a leader of a national science programme.

"The Memory Keeper's Daughter" is based on a premise reminiscent of Bollywood movies from that era: Dr. Henry, who helps his wife deliver twins at his clinic, realizes that the second-born child shows signs of Down syndrome. While his wife is unconscious, he hands over the baby to the nurse, Caroline Gill, with instructions to take the child to a nearby institution. The wife, on regaining consciousness, is told that her baby is dead and has been cremated. Caroline, on entering the premises of this institution, is so revulsed by the atmosphere that she makes an instant decision to adopt the child. As the wife mourns the demise of her daughter, Caroline relocates with the baby to a different state (after informing the doctor), and starts a new life. So far, this is a dramatic (and if one may say so, hard to believe) story. But soon after, the book evolves into a reflective account of the individual journeys of the protagonists: how they face the consequences of the sudden choices made by them over the years, and how people close to them are affected without even being aware of what had transpired in the first place. 

We see Dr. Henry living under the pressure of his choice, and gradually becoming distant from the rest of his family because he cannot communicate with them. While there is an effort on the part of the author to explain to the reader why he made the choice he did, there is an undercurrent of regret, guilt and missed opportunities, an undercurrent that he is consistently aware of. With respect to the relationship with his family, "the lie had grown up between them like a rock, forcing them to grow oddly too, like trees twisting around a boulder." [1] He finds solace in photography and finds recognition as a photographer, hosting art shows all over the world. However, he is painfully aware that photo after photo, he has been trying to "make an image powerful enough to obscure the moment when he turned and handed his daughter to Caroline Gill." [2]

Caroline, on the other hand, patiently raises the child, building a supportive community consisting of her understanding employer, a loving partner and other parents raising children with Down syndrome. She fights the education board of Pennsylvania to get her daughter (and other children like her) a place in the formal education system, witnesses the milestones in her growth and makes arrangements for the time when she would no longer be around to take care of her daughter. What keeps her moving forward is her acceptance that while this was not the life she had imagined or dreamed of, it was "her life, built with care and attention, and it was good." [3]

Based on how the lives of both the protagonists play out, we learn the difference between being imprisoned by a choice versus being nurtured by your choice (and, in turn, nurturing your choice through resilience, love, and community). Dr. Kaushik's "The Real Deal", while belonging to a completely different genre, has plenty to offer with respect to the "nurture/nurturing" aspect of choices. The book, is, of course, about much more. The first half of the book is an account of her experience, struggles, learnings and reflections as a scientist donning multiple hats, while balancing her career and family, especially motherhood. The second half is an exposition of larger issues surrounding science in India, including factors which prevent women scientists from growing into their full potential. Some comprehensive reviews have been written on the book; see, for example, this excellent review by Aditi Jain. 

I have read the first half of the book so far. It speaks straight to the heart on the theme of choices, both in the professional and the personal context. We read the story of a woman who actively makes choices based on her interests and strengths, and works hard to meet the challenges that the choices entail. There are honest accounts of vulnerable moments when she feels she may have hit a wall. For example, she describes the time when she did not hear back from grad schools in her first attempt to apply for a PhD: as a medical doctor with an MD from one of India's most prominent medical institutions, she wondered if her career was over before it started. Through discussions with her spouse, she found a way around this impasse and went on to pursue a PhD. Mr. K encouraged her to volunteer her time at a laboratory in the University of California system, close to where they lived. This would not only give her an experience of the American research ecosystem, but also add strength to her application the next time over. For someone keen on doing a PhD, this was a resourceful and productive way to deal with the situation at hand. As we read the book, we come to learn about several situations beyond her control where a less resourceful person would have given up or descended into cynicism. The book does not shy away from recounting the challenges in pursuing a science career. These include insufficient professional support for young mothers doing a PhD, inadequate resources at state universities, mind-numbing bureaucracy, and incoherent hiring policies at several institutions. But, the undercurrent in this book is that of optimism, openness to opportunities (even when one does not have everything figured out from the word go), and high-agency behaviour.

While reading "The Real Deal", I also got a chance to reflect on another valuable component of "choice-making": learning to make a choice from the point of view of strength rather than a point of view of weakness. We must learn to develop an accurate understanding of our skills, preparation and strengths (professional and otherwise), and keep these at the center of our choices. I observed the protagonist practicing this at many places, and this is among the features that I loved most about the book. She weighed her options and made choices based not only on what an opportunity was offering to her, but also on what she was going to offer to the opportunity. An adequate conviction in our "strong points" gives us the emotional flexibility to consider all angles in our choice, and to be true to our priorities and goals. Choosing and acting from a position of weakness, sadly, does not gain us any brownie points. Instead, it makes us ignore important factors in a choice. It also enables other people to cross boundaries and make unreasonable demands on our time and energy.

Sometimes, our circumstances dictate a certain choice. Sometimes, the choice makes itself. That is, even as we are noting the pros and cons of different options, an event beyond our control leaves us only with one option. Responding to such choices is an exercise in character-building: one tries to find the best way forward while not letting the feeling of victimhood take over our response. On the other hand, in some situations in life, we find ourselves at the crossroads of multiple possibilities, with the freedom to choose the path that suits us best. This is also an exercise in character-building. We learn to balance different parameters of a choice, including our professional training, personal preferences, and family commitments (not necessarily in this order). We learn to discuss, with an open mind, the choice with multiple stakeholders who will be affected by the choice. We learn to seek support for our choices from the right people, and also provide support to them in their choices. We learn to let go of the frustration when a choice does not work out, fully accepting our agency in that choice and also acknowledging that not everything pans out as we thought it would.

I am really glad I redirected my energies from scrolling on social media to reading both these books while reflecting on what goes into making a choice and owning it. Reading these books gave me an opportunity to observe choices from the perspective of those making it. In social media discourse, people judge and question the choices of others on the basis of their own personal needs and desires. But reading well-written books helps us develop the maturity and nuance to view situations from the point of view of people making their own choices. This, in turn, can often generate valuable lessons for ourselves. Can we practice the self-discipline and humility to not burden protagonists with our own voices when reading or hearing about their choices and lives?

[1] Page 258-259, "The Memory Keeper's Daughter" by Kim Edwards, Penguin Books, First Edition, 2005.

[2] Page 274, "The Memory Keeper's Daughter".

[3] Page 253-254, "The Memory Keeper's Daughter".

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.

Harivansh Rai Bachchan: an inspiring PhD story

We know Harivansh Rai Bachchan to be among the most distinguished and prolific poets in the 20th century.  Although he primarily wrote in Hindi, his formal academic training was in English literature, and he served as a faculty member in the Department of English at Allahabad University for several years.  He had a rich, multifaceted and eventful life, which he documents in his four-volume autobiography. The first volume describes his family, early life in Allahabad, his student days, and culminates in the passing away of his wife, Shyama ji, who succumbed to tuberculosis at a very young age.  In the second volume, he describes his further training and search for stability in his professional and personal life, meeting Teji Bachchan and starting a new life with her.  This volume essentially concludes with him getting a regular faculty position at the Allahabad University.  The third volume is the motivation behind this blog post: it covers the period in his life when he travels to Cambridge as a visiting student to pursue a deeper study of the poet William Butler Yeats, and stays on to obtain a PhD, becoming the second Indian (after Balachandra Rajan) to obtain a doctorate in English literature at Cambridge University [0]. In the fourth volume, he narrates his life after quitting academia, his move to Delhi to join the Ministry of External Affairs, and further developments as his children grow up. I am only a few pages into this volume, and have not been able to immerse myself fully into it.

A common theme in the first three volumes is that of the nearly continuous stream of struggles and upheavals in his life, and how he faced them with resilience and tremendous self-discipline.  He shares his emotional journey with candour, and does not hesitate in letting us see (and feel) his vulnerabilities as he deals with bereavement, career struggles, unexpected disappointments, rejections and failures. Poetry enthusiasts will appreciate his attempts to describe his creative thought process, and to explain some of his poems in the context of his life events at the time of composition.  

The third volume, "Basere Se Door" describes his PhD story, and offers us much to reflect upon and learn.  Many aspects of his journey mirror issues and situations that we think about and live through in academia.  This includes figuring out our academic goals (on our own, even if they are starkly different from that of our peers), taking steps to fulfil them (often involving life-changing decisions), staying focused on research while also dealing with anxieties due to not having job-certainty for long periods of time, balancing a feeling of contentment with a desire for growth in the phase when certainty arrives, the willingness to see oneself as a student all through our lives, and the mental flexibility to make tough choices if our perspective towards academia changes or if academia can no longer meet our needs. 

After finishing his Master's, he spent nearly 10 years holding temporary academic positions, including that of a high school teacher, research scholar and short term lecturer. After 10 years of uncertainty in his professional life, he obtained a regular position as a lecturer in the Department of English literature at Allahabad University in 1941.  Although he experienced a feeling of contentment after obtaining this position, he simultaneously encountered the common acquaintance of almost every academic: the impostor syndrome.  He was sensitive to gossip around him about a Hindi poet being at an English department [I suppose multidisciplinary skills weren't valued much in those days].  As was his usual tendency, in response, he devoted an unusually high amount of time and energy on his teaching assignments. [1]  

 While he grew into his role as a teacher, he also observed the academic atmosphere in the university, and reflected upon what career progression meant to people there. Why is seniority relevant in the context of university, he wondered.  Can intellectual growth be measured by a wall calendar? The mind expands or shrinks according to the work that it engages in. He felt that research and self-study demonstrated in a concrete form through scholarly publications should be used as a parameter for progression as opposed to counting age, in order to prevent stagnation of the mind.  

"Admittedly, it is difficult to determine criteria to evaluate intellectual ability, but if universities don't make an effort to do this, who will?"

[Basere Se Door, Page 23, 2013 edition, Rajpal and Sons (The translation is mine, and I apologise for any deficiencies.  I don't have access to the English translation of his autobiography.)]

His observations proved to be prescient.  Despite being a meeting ground for intellectual giants in all fields in pre-independence and early independence days, Allahabad University lost its eminence over the next few decades (as did many of our older universities), mired in bureaucracy and unhelpful policies that did not nurture academic growth. 

Harivansh Rai Bachchan spent the next 11 years teaching at the university, and describes these years as those of good health, professional stability and personal contentment.  He raised his children, and spent time in study and creative writing, but stayed away from formal movements taking place in the Hindi poetry world. But, instead of settling down into complacency, his mind was agile, and open to opportunities to learn and grow. Therefore, at the end of 1951, when the British Council announced some travel support for faculty members to spend six months at a British university, he decided to apply.  He revived a research project that he had initiated several years ago on the work of William Butler Yeats.  Putting his plan into action was not easy: after receiving invitations to spend a few semesters at both Cambridge and Oxford and getting a sabbatical from AU, he had to arrange for finances for a 15-month stay in England.  This required negotiations with publishing houses who published his poetry, and dipping into family savings, but he received whole hearted support from his wife in his plans [2].  When he did not get any reply from the education ministry to his application for financial support, she encouraged him to write straight to the Prime Minister.  Pandit Nehru not only gave him an appointment, but also immediately approved the entire amount that was required.  Meanwhile, the British Council did not approve his application for traveling expenses, and he had to make those arrangements on his own.  Finally, in April 1952, at the age of 45, this professor with a permanent academic position left his secure establishment in Allahabad, and flew to England to become a student again.  I was personally quite inspired by this episode in his life, because it teaches us to not let age or complacency come in the way of our intellectual goals. 

At the time of his voyage, Mr. Bachchan had not made any plans for pursuing a doctorate. His plan was to explore some questions about the work of Yeats while spending six months in Cambridge, followed by nine months in Oxford.  At Cambridge, he met Professor Thomas Rice Henn, who agreed to supervise his work, and gave him access to all his collected books.  He writes about his daily schedule:

"I would go to the university library after breakfast, and study there until 1.30 pm.  After a light lunch, I would go to Mr. Henn's office, and study until 6 pm.  Often, he would drop in during that time, with questions and suggestions about my reading.  After dinner, I would either attend a seminar, take a walk, or enjoy theatre or cinema.  After that, I spent several hours reading anthologies of modern English poetry, making journal entries or writing letters before going to sleep."

In Henn, he found a hands-on advisor who provided him the necessary guidance and resources for his project.  Naturally, with the progress that he made on the project, he started to consider the possibility of staying on at Cambridge and expanding his work into a doctoral thesis.  He was encouraged by a friend, Vishwanath Dutt to follow this plan.  Henn enthusiastically agreed, but explained that since Bachchan had only two years, he would have to formally register for a Master's in Literature, and write a thesis: if the degree committee found the thesis and his performance in the viva strong enough (and this would be exceedingly hard), they would consider the thesis for the award of a Ph.D.  With the further support of his wife, therefore, he registered for an M. Litt. and started working on his thesis.  

His doctoral studies started full steam.  His description of Henn as an advisor is touching: Henn met and guided him regularly, kept his project goals on track, gave him feedback on his writing (this included approving thesis chapters which contained a point of view very different from that of Henn, as long as they were supported by literary evidence and proper analysis), and often invited him home for meals and long discussions.  He was also sensitive to Bachchan's mental anxieties on account of his family in India (especially the financial and other hardships that his wife was facing bravely on her own [3]).  

As part of his thesis preparation, Bachchan also visited Ireland to meet Mrs. Yeats and other people associated with Yeats.  They met him graciously, and answered all his questions. He describes a heart-warming episode at the end of his stay in Ireland, when he invited Mrs. Yeats and some others for a farewell dinner.  After dinner, the hotel manager refused to accept any payment for the dinner gathering, because he was a guest of Ireland.  Bachchan suspected that Mrs. Yeats had secretly paid the hotel bill herself, so as not to strain the finances of a struggling PhD student. 

The book is full of such incidents and many others, which tell us about the importance of deep and regular work for a thesis, staying focused [4], good mentorship and a support network of peers from graduate school. His housemate was a statistics student by the name of Ranvir Singh Bawa, who taught him how to live with minimal expenditure, and supported him emotionally through good and bad times.  

One of the most exciting parts of the book is the period after his thesis submission in 1954. He prepared thoroughly for his viva.  Although Henn had advised him to focus on his research work and not get distracted by anxiety about results,  Bachchan was conscious of what was at stake.  He had heard scary dissertation stories.  Would they tear the thesis into bits during the viva, he wondered. Would he be able to answer all their questions? During the four-hour long viva, he desperately searched for hints about what the committee thought of his work, but all members maintained the proverbial British "stony face" during the proceedings.  Post viva, in which he thought he did well, he had to wait for a few weeks before the final decision of the committee.  Finally, on the day the results were declared, he walked with Bawa to the main office.  It was Bawa who had the first look at the notice board, and confirmed that the 47-year old Bachchan had indeed received a Ph.D.  His instant reaction was the same as that of his wife when she got the good news later, "Izzat Reh Gayi." [5]

Dr. Bachchan's life was full of interesting contradictions: on the one hand, he was unable to afford a gown for convocation.  On the other hand, when he returned to India, he was welcomed and hosted by the families of some of the richest industrialists of India.  He returned a happy, content and confident man to Allahabad, and rejoined the university with renewed hope.

But, the biggest "anti-climax" was yet to happen.  Instead of appreciation from his colleagues for his academic accomplishment, he had to face jealousy at the work place.  The university could no longer give him the work satisfaction and intellectual stimulation he was hoping for, and he was disappointed by the toxic reactions to him.  And so it was that one of India's greatest poets, and a knowledgeable English lecturer who had achieved a nearly impossible academic feat decided to quit academia.  He was invited by Pandit Nehru to join the Ministry of External Affairs as an expert who would supervise the translation of all documents and communication of MEA into Hindi, and to introduce new initiatives to promote the use of Hindi at the work place [6].  

It was with a heavy heart that he left Allahabad with his family, after having spent nearly all his life there.  After devoting years to scholarship and teaching, he moved into an entirely different sphere of bureaucrats.  This, he realized, was what would make him happy at that point of time, and he did not hesitate to change course.  This also makes us reflect upon the deterioration in the work culture at universities in India in those days, and how they lost several bright minds as a result. 

One final thought: it requires great integrity to accept and appreciate the academic accomplishments of others, and great clarity of vision to support and nurture such talent.

[0] There seems to be some ambiguity about this. Some online portals mention that Harivansh Rai Bachchan was the first Indian to obtain a PhD in English literature from Cambridge University.  But, in his book, Mr. Bachchan mentions that his friend who encouraged him to try and obtain a PhD gave him the example of B. Rajan as the only person from India until then to have obtained a PhD in this subject from Cambridge.

[1] He also consciously underplayed his identity as a poet in the university.  He insisted that his students address him as Mr. Harivansh Rai, and not Mr. Bachchan (or Bachchan ji).  He mentions his conscious efforts to dress, walk and behave "like a lecturer of English".   

[2] In the book, he expresses his gratitude to her on several occasions: she was a remarkable woman who braved anxiety and unpleasant situations in Allahabad in his absence, but provided unconditional support to him in all his academic plans.  

[3] He describes a rare occasion when Professor Henn flew into a temper.  One morning, Mr, Bachchan was excited to see a frozen lake for the first time, and walked over it to come to office.  When Henn heard this, he got extremely upset at this irresponsible and dangerous act, and questioned Bachchan about how his family would cope if something happened to him. Bachchan was grateful for the concern. 

[4] which is undoubtedly hard while also facing financial pressures.  Pandit Nehru, who had been generous in the beginning, refused his request for further support: apparently, some colleagues of Bachchan had spread malicious rumours about him. Bachchan had to further dig into family savings to finance his doctoral study.  Today, PhD students receive their fellowship as part of well structured schemes, but one cannot help thinking about students in India who routinely do not receive their fellowships on time, and battle disappointments and anxieties on this account. 

[5] Hard to share the sentiment in translation.  Roughly, they are both relieved at not having to "lose face".  

[6] This, in itself, was a difficult task, as he had to contend with contemptuous English-speaking civil servants.  His experience at the ministry, and later life is described in Volume 4.