On conference talks and editorial duties

"Explain 2024 for you in one word,"  demands my social media timeline.  Conciseness is not my strongest quality.  So, I am going to sum up two years, 2023 and 2024 in two words: talks and reviews. 

(Conference) talks: In early 2023, I was invited to deliver a mini-course in a number theory workshop at NISER, Bhubaneswar.  I chose one of my favourite themes, central limit theorems in number theory, and prepared the lecture notes and slides with great enthusiasm.  Underneath the enthusiasm was a pressing need to present as much material about this topic in as short a time as possible.  "How do I present all the important theorems in this field along with all the proofs so that every minute counts for the participants?"  Further underneath, of course, was the "real" desire to present all MY results on this topic.  After the first lecture, I was taken aback when my host gently pointed out that I was going too fast. I slowed down in the second lecture, but received the same feedback. So, for the remaining lectures, I did the sensible thing of slashing down the content to less than half, and focusing on a few essential principles with applications. These lectures saw a far higher engagement from the audience. After giving up the self-imposed pressure to present everything I know about the topic, I felt relaxed. 

That evening, I walked back to the guest house with Professor Michel Waldschmidt, a distinguished number theorist who delivers excellent lectures, and is possibly one of the friendliest people on this planet. I confessed a form of impostor syndrome: an innate fear of being judged for not knowing enough if I don't present everything I want to. This was pushing me to present more than what a handful of hours could reasonably contain. I received valuable advice from him, which helped change my attitude.  

Through 2023 and 2024, I have put in some thought and practice into pitching my talks at the right level, keeping the content substantive but pleasant, and ensuring that I do not exceed my time slot in any lecture.  This requires better self-organization than I have practiced before. My most recent talk was at a number theory conference in Chennai two weeks ago. I wanted to talk about the project that I have spent the last few months working on. There was a real danger of devolving into technicalities. Without any fear of judgment, this time, I spent the first 25 minutes talking about the application of a classical technique to the most basic L-function, namely the zeta function, as the best features of the technique can be demonstrated here. I used the last 5 minutes to discuss how the idea can be adapted to the functions of my interest, namely the modular L-functions, and the technicalities that emerge in this application. (Here is the link to the talk, in case anyone is interested; it starts at 1:18:52). In a most pleasant turn of events, Professor Waldschmidt was in the audience and gave me warm and encouraging feedback for my talk this time. I reminded him of our conversation two years ago, and he was thrilled to know that his advice had been helpful.

A thought to ponder upon: many mathematicians prefer to deliver talks on the board. This requires planning and careful thought: you cannot write on a board in 30-40 minutes what you can show on slides. Can you convey your work effectively without all the equations neatly lined up on your slides for ready reference? The impact of a properly organized board talk is miraculous. In some of the best talks that I've attended, the speakers manage to make it look effortless, and it can affect the audience as deeply as a well-practiced musical composition. For the year 2025, I plan to experiment with this form, and get some practice in concision.

(Review/referee duties): The other academic duty in which I have found myself spending a considerable amount of time is writing referee reports for journal articles. I am not sure I have the most efficient system to fulfill this duty, but over the years, I have been getting better at it. This is a job we do (and others do for us) purely as an academic service. It takes a sizeable amount of time; and in Mathematics, you simply have to sit down and verify all the steps and details, which can take longer than planned. A large part of our duties as postgraduate advisors is similar: we proofread articles and theses written by our own students or mentees and check all details before they submit their work. 

Sometimes, people outside our immediate academic circles send us their work with a request for feedback; this often reminds me of early faculty days when I started writing to some senior mathematicians for feedback on preprints. Some had never had any prior interaction with me. Almost always, they wrote back and shared extremely helpful inputs. There were also occasions when anonymous referees gave thorough inputs for my submissions, much beyond the "call of duty", so to speak. These inputs and comments not only improved the quality of the article, but also helped shape new ideas for future research. 

How do people manage their own thriving research programmes and also take time out to write in detail to people seeking feedback, I wondered. While a desire to help is perhaps at the root of their response, they must have very good personal work habits (and sturdy systems) to be able to do this effectively. Does this develop with practice and experience? Do we develop good systems in response to a strong sense of purpose to serve the academic community, or does one develop a strong sense of purpose by performing such duties, beginning perhaps in small measure, and increasing our capacity with time?

A brilliant example that comes to mind outside of mathematics is that of the celebrated scholar, Mr. Bibek Debroy, who translated several unabridged Sanskrit texts into English, such as the critical edition of the Mahabharata, the Ramayana, and several Puranas ('unabridged' being the key word here, given the size of these texts). In addition to being a prolific writer and translator, he actively read and reviewed books by others in need of feedback. In early November, after his demise, several younger authors paid rich tributes to him; they wrote how he would carve time out of his extremely busy schedule (his duties included being the chairperson of the PM's Economic Advisory Council) to read their work, provide feedback before submission, and also write reviews post publication. Read here a touching tribute by one such author, Abhinav Agarwal, who describes the deep impact of Mr. Debroy's interactions, reviews and feedback on his writing career. 

The end of a year is a good time to reflect on things that touched us or taught us something valuable. I have been thinking of scholars such as Bibek Debroy, as well as many others in the mathematical domain, who generously devote their time and energy to encouraging and guiding younger people through reviews and feedback. I am reminded here of something that Professor Aravinda, mathematician and chief editor of the Bhavana Magazine wrote to me when I joined the Bhavana team as a corresponding editor. 

While introducing me to the new role, he wrote: "If only we are sensitive to true people's truer sentiments, we can deliver an honest academic service to the world, stamped by the most authentic of documents, and inspire the future -- most importantly, enriching our own lives in the process." I often turn to these words whenever I have a selfish urge to give up editorial/referee-related work because it is "not counted for promotion".

The week in "review"

In the last few posts, I have been sharing thoughts around academic reviews: is research productivity the only criterion that matters to a reviewer? Does time spent in mentoring or teaching beyond our institutional duties matter? Is it judged negatively? What does a review process (and preparing for it in any form) do for us (point (3) in this post)?

One of the reasons why this has been predominantly in my thoughts is because our department was preparing for an external review that happened in the past week. A group of six senior mathematicians visited us for a few days, and met us all individually as well as in a group in order to review how we were doing as a department. For the individual meetings, we were all encouraged to prepare a report on our academic activities in the last five years, and a presentation on our recent and future research goals. The emphasis of the presentation was to be solely on our research work. This was a serious exercise, and we spent hours figuring out how to explain our research work to the committee (which would not necessarily have specialists in our field) in a comprehensible manner in under 10 minutes. With the adrenaline rush of students preparing for their exams, we worked to prepare the slides. Over short coffee breaks, we discussed this with friends and made philosophical remarks about what this was doing to us [1]. 

My individual meeting with the committee was pleasant beyond my expectations. After hearing out the presentation and a brief discussion on research work, the committee asked me a question which I was not quite prepared for: "Are you happy?" When was the last time someone asked me this question in my adult life, I wondered [2]. I had an affirmative answer to this question (and truthfully so), and we went on to have a friendly conversation about related issues such as teaching and student supervision. 

One other amazing thing about this meeting was that two of the members had informally mentored me before I moved to North America for graduate studies. Neither of them had taught me directly, and while one of them was a faculty member in a department where I studied for a few months, I met the other one in a summer school organized by them. Looking back to that time, I don't believe I showed any unusual talent or ability. I just had a strong interest in pursuing mathematics, and needed to know how to continue doing it: both these members gave me the gift of their time, attention and advice when these were needed the most. It is likely that members of the committee had had a similar interaction with some of my other colleagues. An important take-away from this meeting, therefore, was that my fear about being judged negatively for spending time on mentoring or outreach activities beyond research and teaching at IISER was unfounded because it was clearly something that these members also care for [3]. 

Later in the week, the committee met us all as a department and we had a lively exchange of ideas about our larger goals and challenges. The committee members also talked frankly about facing similar challenges at earlier stages of their careers, and once again, one could not help but appreciate their gift of time and attention to all of us.

While this review process undoubtedly turned out to be a great experience, not all reviews have such positive outcomes. Occasionally, feedback or suggestions received in a review process of any kind, be it from an article referee, grant agency, audience at a seminar or even PhD advisor/mentor may not align with how we think and work. Sometimes, we may not receive timely, or well considered feedback at all. Recently, I listened to an episode of the podcast Pratidhvani, in which the guest, Professor Suresh Govindarajan described a challenging situation during his PhD days, when his advisor chose not to give him timely feedback on his work. In addition, the advisor made a suggestion that did not align with the student's value system.

PhD studentship is one of the most vulnerable phases of life; the final phases of PhD, when your research needs full, one-pointed attention, is also the phase when you have to worry in real time about where you will go next. The role of the advisor, particularly in terms of providing meaningful and regular feedback on your work, in order for you to finish the degree and move on to the next stage of your training, is extremely important here. What if the advisor chooses not to provide such feedback, or to provide it in a manner that is not helpful at all? How Prof. Govindarajan coped with the situation is best heard in his own words (56.43 onwards on the podcast is when this particular situation is described).

This is what I am going to take away from the above episode and from all the reviews I have been through: feedback received in a review is temporary, based on what a particular reviewer (with their own expertise and perspective) is evaluating in a given situation at a given point of time. We should receive it in that spirit. It is not a " permanent indictment" on our whole state of being. Our own performance keeps changing and evolving based on the resources available to us, and the environment we are in. For example, someone who is seen to be struggling while at one department can blossom into their full potential in another department with a more supportive work-place, or where they have people to talk to and collaborate with, or where they simply feel happy. It is difficult to see a review as something temporary, especially if it is negative: human nature is wired to hold on to criticism, and overcoming this tendency feels like a task of Yogic proportions. 

In the context of academia (as perhaps also in the context of a vocation based on the creative arts), a safe coping mechanism to handle reviews of all kinds (good, bad, non existent) is the way of authenticity. What our work means to us and how we want to do it can only be determined by us; it has to be anchored in our own sense of self, our own honest self-evaluation of our work, and our own innate desire to grow. With this in place, an external review, if provided constructively, can bring more clarity in how we can do our work better. It can be a means of encouragement and even inspiration. If the review provided is not constructive, but well-meaning, it may not be as effective, but certainly deserves a sense of gratitude for the reviewer who spent time and energy trying to provide one. 

Handling malicious or unethical reviews is a test of resilience. Here, I am referring to situations where the review cannot be ignored, comes from a party that wields a position of power over you and is not immune to misusing that power to your detriment. I still don't know how I would handle such a situation. Maybe, I won't know until I find myself in one. May we all have the strength, the gumption [4], the resources and the support to handle such a challenge without giving up on ourselves, our values and on what we love. 

[1] For starters, it brought out (or reminded us of) the exuberant, childlike enthusiasm that brought us to mathematics in the first place.

[2] In my own case, by adult life, I mean life after starting an independent faculty position. 

[3] One of these days, I should do a focused, self-therapy session to figure out where this "fear" has come from.

[4] Gumption, not defensiveness.

On work-travel balance and other matters

In the early days of this blog, I would sometimes write "random" posts, that is, posts with short snapshots of multiple work-life thoughts (see, for example, here and here). I am reviving the random "series" again. Here are some thoughts on work-travel balance, accountability to goals, and facing the reviewer "within". 

1) After several days of travel across India (from Kashmir to Kerala), mostly for work, and occasionally for a break, a relatively calmer and more stable routine at home has brought some relief. It's great to be invited to deliver talks, and to travel to interesting destinations, but if we don't balance it with quiet, focused days at the study desk, how will we have new things to talk about? A well-structured life at home is great: you have a regular work routine around your research work, teaching schedule and meetings. You wake up in the morning thinking about the sunrise and next steps in your projects (or the lecture material for your next class), and not about the next flight to catch.  This makes it so much easier to focus on "deep" work. You get to have your cups of coffee exactly the way you like them and at the times you want them. You have complete control over your meals and over your work-out schedule (and access to the gym).Nevertheless, at this career stage, travel is only going to get more frequent in the coming years. One will have to flexibly adapt to different routines and time zones, not to mention, meal options and coffee times (if, at all, coffee is a possibility). One will have to learn to stay calm while dealing with the vagaries of flight delays, missed connections, cancellations, airport transfers etc. 

I believe that in this phase of travel, I made a lot of progress in dealing with all the disruptions and changes. I prepared all my talks well before the travel, and this itself took a lot of the stress away [1]. While I relish my early-morning coffee at home, I no longer feel disturbed when I can't get it. I do manage to make healthy meal choices based on what is available, and have also learnt to travel with a Yoga mat and Yoga props (which can be easily folded into the suitcase). Pretty much anywhere in the country, academics are blessed with good campuses with safe and pleasant routes to walk/run on. So, I have learnt to be responsible about my health while traveling. If I could develop the resilience to show up to my morning writing hours with focus during travel, the work-travel balance will essentially be sorted out. Question: is it possible to adapt to travel so seamlessly that one doesn't feel any difference between being at home and being away from home? 

2) Talking about Yoga, last week, as I was recovering from a hard day at work, I had this sudden wish to miss my Yoga class. I wrote to the instructor with a request to record the class, which I would practice later on my own. However, within a few minutes of the start time of the class, I started feeling very restless: it felt as if I was missing out on something substantial: so, I did show up for the class and participated in the remaining part of the class. I was sufficiently rejuvenated after the class to prepare two classes for the math course that I am teaching this semester. 

The next day, I went about my routine as planned, and wondered what would have happened if I had indeed missed the Yoga class. In addition to the mental regret, it is almost certain that I would not have practised it on my own, thereby missing important instructions that would be needed in the next class. Or even if I did, I would have had to carve out an hour away from some other activity, and then, there would be a cascading effect of making up for lost time in a variety of urgent activities. Some important activities would have to be put aside for later. Unlike a rolling stone that gathers no moss, rolling time schedules do gather moss, and the time taken to finish an activity only increases with each postponement. Showing up with a sense of responsibility and accountability, and not caving into the "all or nothing" approach keeps the days rolling smoothly. 

3) A strong motivating factor in showing up for scheduled activities every day is to remember the larger goals. But, for that, one needs to have larger goals. In different conversations with two colleagues recently, we discussed this point.  Some activities that force us to reflect on our goals are writing grant proposals, and preparing evaluation reports. Both of these activities help us to think about our vision: what is our story, and in what direction are we taking it forward? How is the story shaping up, and what parts of the story need more development? In many cases, when we write for an audience who are not necessarily working in our area of expertise, we also have to compose and present our goals more creatively. Well before we hear back from the evaluation committee or the grant agency, our own "inner" reviewer gives us a fairly accurate feedback on where we stand as researchers, provided we care to listen. Among my friends and colleagues, we share a lot of jokes (and internet memes) about writing grant proposals: but, I have never felt that time spent on writing one was wasted (even if the proposal was not successful). In fact, on a recent occasion, I finished a research project with my PhD student based on one of the goals I had written in a proposal. As a pleasant surprise, I heard about the acceptance of the article as well as the successful approval of the grant around the same time. This was so encouraging: I am now motivated to develop the other parts of the "story" of which this project was a part. While writing the grant proposal, the co-PI and I had a very good feeling about it: our "inner" reviewers appreciated the honesty, clarity and sense of purpose with which we wrote it, taking into account our respective expertise and the themes that could be developed in collaboration. Even if the application was not successful, we promised each other that we will continue working on these ideas. But, as it turns out, the peer reviewers also felt the same way about the project: we got the entire amount we asked for, and it will enable us to hire two postdoctoral fellows to join our project. 

This was a rare occasion when our evaluators agreed with our own inner assessment of our goals and work. Papers and grant proposals get rejected frequently, and often, the reviewers may not share our own assessment (and this can go in both directions). Most of us just get on with it, especially if our inner reviewer gave us an honest feedback (good or bad), and we have a healthy mechanism to face it. It makes me wonder: when we feel a strong sense of revulsion towards review or evaluation in any form, do we fear confronting the external reviewers or the reviewer within?

[1] Yes, I have had phases in past life when I prepared for talks during flights, but have given up on this in the interest of my mental health. If one really needs to work on a flight, the no-internet time is much better utilized by working on new problems.

Does it matter?

Two months ago, I traveled to Srinagar for a few days. This was in the middle of the teaching semester, and I had requested my co-instructor for the course (a large second year class of 200 students) to cover for me. This trip was not for a personal vacation, but it was also not for a research conference or collaboration. I am a member of the editorial board of Resonance, a journal of science education published by the Indian Academy of Sciences. This journal is widely read by school and college students and teachers all over the world, and the goal is to publish good articles, either containing new discoveries or a good exposition of existing science which can be understood by a wide readership. This year, Resonance decided to combine one of their editorial board meetings with an outreach programme at Srinagar. The programme would bring together college students from all over Kashmir, who would be treated to expository talks in the different sciences for a week. They would also have the opportunity to interact with the speakers (plenty of time was allocated for this) about topics of interest, and to ask lots of questions about the topics, course of future study, a life in science and more.

Earlier this year, when Professor B. Sury, the chief editor of Resonance asked if I would be interested in being a part of this programme, I immediately said yes (mainly because of the interesting venue). On the day of travel, I woke up at 1 am to catch a red-eye flight to Delhi, in order to make a decent connection to Srinagar. The uneven sleep hours did not bother me at all. In a truly joyful and excited state of mind, I listened to a podcast and read a book through the journey. I was mesmerised by majestic views of the Himalayas as the plane entered Kashmir, and felt grateful for the opportunity to be here as we descended into the valley.

While waiting at Srinagar airport for a fellow EB member who was to arrive an hour later, however, I suddenly grew anxious: Is it right for me to travel for five days for a non-research-related reason? Is this vanity? Am I avoiding "real" work by doing this?

The essence of all these worries was: does this activity "matter" as much as producing research? In a raw, "transactional" form, the question is: what position does such an activity hold in your CV? Or more pertinently, will it help score a point for tenure or promotion or whatever evaluation you are up for next? This, of course, points to the larger issue of what matters. Sometimes, I've heard the question taking a rather stark form: if research productivity is all that matters, why should a scientist at a research institution spend time mentoring students or making an effort to teach well or, by extension, participating in an educational outreach programme? 

As I was musing on these issues, a gentleman sitting next to me, waiting for his ride, struck up a conversation. Coincidentally, it turned out that he travels frequently for art outreach activities in schools and colleges. He described the students that he meets at these programmes, and their eagerness to learn. This made me realize that I was thinking about the entire question of what matters from a limited viewpoint. The question was not if this activity mattered to a promotion committee. The right question was, "Does this activity matter to the students that I am going to meet?" 

While reading email discussions over the preceding week, I had learnt that students [including a very large number of women students] from all over Kashmir were traveling to Srinagar for this event, and the university administrators had worked hard to make the accommodation and programme arrangements. This was right in the middle of a curfew-like situation because there was to be a presidential visit the next day, and Srinagar was practically covered in a security cordon. People were working round the clock to make this event a success, and most importantly, students had traveled on their own, far away from their homes to learn science. Later, I came to know that Professor Jasjeet Bagla from IISER Mohali (the organizer on behalf of Resonance) had arrived a few days earlier to monitor the arrangements. Professor B. Sury, the chief editor of Resonance, was so seriously invested into making the event a success that he prepared four extra talks, just in case there were last minute cancellations by speakers. The speakers at this event (and associated events organized at colleges in places like Baramullah, Anantnag and Kupwara) spanned a vast and continuous spectrum of ages and career levels. There were retired academics above the age of 70, there were academics at very senior positions and there were some professors who had taught and interacted with me when I was a college student. There were several academics closer to my age and career stage. There were also younger people who had started their faculty positions very recently. But, we were all committed to the programme, and almost everyone had chosen to stay for a long duration (as opposed to simply flying in/giving a talk/flying out) [1]. We traveled the next morning from our guest house at Kashmir University to the venue for the programme (the Government College for Women at M. A. Road, Srinagar). A large community of students from the Physics department at KU (including, to my pleasant surprise, a high number of women research scholars) accompanied us to the venue as volunteers for the event [2]. They also served as friendly guides pointing us to several important landmarks in the city [3,4]. 

Professor Anil Bhardwaj, Director of the Physical Research Laboratory, Ahmedabad, sparked off the programme by a talk on India's space missions. As he shared video footage of the recent moon landing and other successful missions along with scientific details of the work that goes behind these missions, there was loud applause and plenty of questions from the students. Surrounded by happy, inquisitive students and passionate teachers,  I found all misgivings and anxieties about the trip and my participation sliding away. I was where I belonged and I was doing something that I joined the academic profession to do: interacting with students, sharing ideas with them and teaching them in whatever capacity I could. 

Coming back to the question of what matters, the simplest answer I can now come up with is that one has to remember the goals of each activity and place them in the right "box" if we must. It is true that when I prepare my next appraisal report, I will focus on my research projects: articles, PhD supervision, teaching duties at IISER. The outreach/science communication activities will most likely be relegated to the last page. In a sense, good communication skills involve a judgement of what to communicate in different situations. A tenure/promotion/evaluation committee (consisting of members who are spending their precious and severely limited time trying to understand our performance, and give us helpful feedback for our career progression) would be more interested in a presentation of our research programme and ideas, and how well we have been able to take them forward. So, this may not necessarily be the right place to describe our passion for outreach/science communication. 

Nevertheless, this does not detract from the value and importance of participating in an activity like the Resonance Science Outreach Programme. It is a valuable opportunity to teach younger people about what we do and love. In a country like ours with a vast student community that is hungry to learn, such opportunities matter and they have an impact. But, we are more likely to find the impact in the shine in a student's eyes than in an appraisal report. Those of us who have spent considerable time and effort in teaching and outreach beyond our institutional duties will attest to the sheer delight of receiving emails and updates from student participants over the years as they make their way up the academic and professional path. Somewhere, somehow, we made an impact to that one person, they remember and value that association, and we get a chance to see them grow, even if from a distance. And the right place to share our excitement of such activities may not be an appraisal report, but a lecture or outreach session itself, expository articles and possibly, blog posts such as this one! The fundamental issue, therefore, is not about whether something matters or not, but where does it matter and who does it matter to.

If science communication/outreach is something that someone genuinely enjoys and finds value in, the onus is on them to contribute to the extent possible. I do realize that not all academics may consider this important, or even have the skills to do this effectively [5]. Prioritizing science outreach may involve a tremendous amount of personal organization and time management, and there may even be times when we absolutely cannot make time for it. But isn't this true for all the things that we love? Choosing to not participate in outreach activities or not having the time or willingness for them is okay. But, if we do want to participate in them and avoid them only because they do not carry "weightage" in a CV, we may be losing out on something valuable that can indeed have a real impact.

I hope that I may always have the energy and willingness to balance all my professional activities: make progress in my research to the best of my abilities in the supportive ecosystem that IISER provides, make the best use of the opportunities and resources that are available to me, and also be able to share the joy of doing mathematics with students whenever I can. I can think of so many colleagues (including senior colleagues) who work very hard at their science research, are excellent teachers and travel widely to deliver lectures to students in schools and colleges all across India [6]. 

While spending time on teaching and outreach activities, be it within or outside our institution, it helps to remember that we are all part of a chain of teachers, and must keep it going. While at Srinagar, another symbolic way in which I was reminded of this was a view of a temple named after the great monk and teacher, Adi Shankaracharya, that stands atop a hill visible from many parts of Srinagar.

The trip to Srinagar certainly mattered to me in more ways than one, and I will always cherish the memories and the reflections. 

[1] It is my lasting regret that I did not stay for the whole week of the programme. I wish I had also volunteered to travel to other places in Kashmir to give talks, like many of the other speakers. 

[2] The men students told me about a difficult situation: earlier that morning, they had all been turned out of their hostels without advance notice due to the security arrangements for the presidential visit, and had to find alternative accommodation.  They still managed to keep up their spirits and attended all the talks. I felt terribly sorry for them; students at IISER would be very upset at a much lower level of inconvenience. I do understand the tough choices that the administration had to make, and this makes me reflect on how students in Kashmir have had to navigate their studies through challenging times.

[3] Thanks to the inputs from one of the students, I made a solo trip to the Shankaracharya temple. It was one of the most memorable temple visits I have made; to imagine Adi Shankaracharya being here several centuries ago brought a lot of inspiration.  

[4] Something amusing and intriguing happened as I started walking up to the temple: a CRPF security member at the temple told me that this was not my first visit, and that she had seen me before. There's very little chance of that happening; I was last there in 1997. The driver who took some of us to Gulmarg the next day said the same thing: that he had seen me before. It made me very curious about a potential doppelganger (like the Canadian Maple to the Kashmiri Chinar) :-)

[5] At the cost of sounding mean, I can easily think of some people who will actually drive students away from science if they were to venture to give talks at such events. 

[6] Please check out the YouTube page of the Science Activity Center at IISER Pune. In these videos, many IISER members, as well as well-known educators from various parts of the world deliver lectures on interesting science topics to school students.