Vivek's Info

Publish and perish

Vivek — Sun, 29 Aug 2010 15:47:33 +0000

In his fascinating book, “The world of gold today“, Timothy Green wrote about gold reserves in Fort Knox as one of the silliest ventures taken up by human beings. We slave hard to take out the gold that lies under the earth at tremendous cost of lives and resources. We refine it, transport it across the world and then bury it again under the earth at enormous cost. There can be no venture sillier than that, he argued.

I just had my Fort Knox moment. I discovered that four of the papers that I worked hardest on and got published have been cited once cumulatively in four years. While that is bad, it gets worse. I heard a statistic that the average dissertation is read by seven people in all, and that often includes the mother of the author. We devote years and resources and to burry ourselves into the walls, only to produce something that will be buried in turn, a venture as silly as the gold stores of Fort Knox. It is sobering to realize that the posts I do on Facebook do much better than that, and generally takes only a few minutes to do so.

My recent realisation came when I looked at the software called Publish or Perish. The software helps us to track the performance of various authors, articles, journals and gives us an indication of the “impact” that the author has had. The impact of an author certainly goes beyond the citation that he or she receives: no doubt about that. Such software tend to underestimate the citations one has received since they do not cover all sources, no doubt about that as well. After taking all that into account, it still leaves the work that we do in the academia in very poor light, and life in the academia looks like the perfect route into oblivion: to publish is to perish.

Ps. To those masochistic ones who wish to measure their oblivion or the sadistic ones who wish to precisely estimate the unimportance of your “friends”, you should download and play with Publish or Perish. It costs nothing to download and run; costs to emotions are a different matter.

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Fatehpur Sikri: Non-stop harassment of tourists

Vivek — Thu, 05 Aug 2010 13:43:59 +0000

Visit to Fatehpur Sikri, a gorgeous world-heritage monument, became a nightmare thanks to non-stop harassment by “guides” and others.

I recently visited Fatehpur-Sikri near Agra with my friend, Dr. K, and faced the worst harassment I ever have in my life (to give you the context, she is a tall-blonde-white-American girl). The process starts at least 2 KMs before one could reach the 16th century monument. Our taxi driver warned us to lock the doors of our car well before we could enter the area, and we realized why in just a few minutes. A gang of “guides” tried to divert our car into a narrow side road at first, but we managed to get past them. Within seconds another gang waved their hands indicating that we should stop. When we refused, one of them literally jumped in front of the car, barely avoiding an accident. While one of them blocked the car, two others bargained with us to hire a guide. Thankfully, our doors were locked and so they were not able to enter the car to bargain with us (which they do according to our driver).

After much bargaining we went to the parking area from where visitors are required to take an official bus to the monuments. The next ten minutes of waiting was spent in telling the next set of guides that we do not want one. Even when we decided to ignore them, it became impossible to have a good conversation among ourselves thanks to the persistent nagging that we faced. Interestingly, our solicitor argued that he should be hired, else other guides will harass us once we enter the beautiful monument built by Akbar. He was not wrong.

The official bus took us to Sikri and the third round started for us. This time, we were followed inside. Each time I tried to give my friend a background of the place, two guides who followed us argued that I am not supposed to explain anything without paying them money. One of them started abusing in Hindi starting with “Do you think we are insane” (when I did not respond to him after a point) to “I’ll take care of you when you come out”. After these two thugs disappeared, we were confronted with at least five more gangs of guides giving us barely two minute intervals to enjoy our visit to the beautiful monument.

We were finally harassed with the guides demanding us that we should give them our tickets, and very often impolitely. The trip was the most unpleasant one I ever undertook, and it was just impossible to have one peaceful moment. I am sure that the story is not unique to us, and many others have faced the same. As a small step, I am creating an e-mail tool with the contact ids of Incredible India (agency of Ministry of Tourism), District Collector of Agra (the chief administrator of the District), and the Director General of tourism of UP (the State in which Taj Mahal and Fatehpur-Sikri are).

If you have been harassed or if you know of someone, I’d appreciate it if you can send a quick mail to them about it. If you are planning a trip, it would be great if you can send them a mail asking if the place is safe. If there are sufficient e-mails on a regular basis, it may create an impetus for change. The government has managed to protect tourists within Taj Mahal, which is in the neighbourhood, and I trust that they will be able to do it with Fatehpur Sikri if we generate the will to do so. To use the complaint form, click here.

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All in a day’s trip

Vivek — Sun, 04 Jul 2010 23:14:41 +0000

With 15 minutes to go for the Jaipur-Delhi bus, I decided to give the toilet a try. I was directed to dark and damp room with an Indian styled pit-toilet. After finding the only dry spot to stand on, I precariously balanced my pants on my shoulders with nowhere else to hang them. Just when I was to get into business there was a loud crashing sound on my door, and the sound repeated itself in every five seconds along all the doors in the toilet complex. It was a muscular man in a hurry.

“Are you mad”, shouted my neighbour.

“Sis f***, one can’t even potty peacefully in this country”, shouted another in solidarity. Sensing our unionisation, the muscular intruder withdrew into silence. Just when I was about to get into the act, my door rattled again forcefully. The suddenness of the sound was shocking and momentarily scary, and it took renewed concentration and effort on my part to get back to business. I was left wondering how wrong the expression, scaring the shit out of someone is. In any case, this banging was not helping our man’s case. When I finally opened the door he rushed into the room pushing me, and I felt thankful that he at least let me out of the room in his hurry.

I had chosen an A/C bus for the summer heat in Rajasthan. Moments after the bus left the air colder was on in full blast. Half the vents in the bus were broken and passengers blocked them with their hankies, towels and anything they could find. When the bus stopped mid-way at noon, thirty of us streamed out to bask in the Rajasthani summer sunshine, and we watched others hurrying into the restaurant to get some cool air. The three hours were full of irony, improvisation, drama and all about mundane things like going to the toilet or travelling in a bus. I guess that’s what makes life in India intense, happening and fun, with something to smile about simple acts that would be consigned to dullness elsewhere in the world.

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Creating history

Vivek — Sat, 12 Jun 2010 11:43:55 +0000

This is a desperate attempt to create a story where none exists. As a young man who has freshly returned from the United States after announcing his white girlfriend, I expected some fireworks when I got home; but all was calm in the eastern front. I thought, perhaps an announcement that I will be moving to LA with her could create excitement; that did not help. Will it help if the cause if I make it clear that we have not decided to marry? That did not either.

I am sorry to tell you, my reader, that I have no story to offer: no fireworks, no excitement and nothing interesting to share. My grandma in her mid-eighties now demands to see Dr. K on Skype, and my family is preparing to meet her soon. As a demonstration of acceptance, a long list of people are bracing for her visit with a list of ENT ailments, and we are preparing to turn the guest bedroom into a clinic. Some complaints may require surgeries, and the family is considering installing a floodlight, an oxygen tank and a table with the hope of converting the bedroom into an operating theatre; after all, improvisation is a part of being Indian.

All this goodwill is very disappointing, for I have no story to share. I heard that happy people, like happy nations, have no history. It surely feels good to be happy, but the urge to make history is irresistible. Perhaps I should provoke an uncle or two with something really scandalous. The clock is ticking.

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Preparing for the death of a close one

Vivek — Thu, 10 Jun 2010 05:00:12 +0000

Death needs preparation. Preparation, especially for those who will be left behind, and I have started preparing for the death of a close one. She has been my bedside companion for many years, and the holder of my most intimate thoughts. She has been a part of my conversations with friends, my work and my leisure. She is the one I turned to when I woke up, and she put me to sleep for many a year. It looks like she may die soon.

When she dies, she will take with her a part of me – naturally. A friend once told me of a ninety year old man who just returned from his friend’s funeral. With the passing of this friend, he said that no one remembers him as a child anymore. While my case is not as dramatic, some memories of me will be lost forever with her passing.

You may argue that a laptop is not like a person that she will not take her memories with her passing; and that I can transfer the memories with a little effort. But for me, a laptop is not merely a machine that contains and processes memories. The tactile sensation, the sight and sound of a laptop is unique to it, even if it were mass produced. You may argue that I could go for a newer, faster, better looking laptop after this one. I guess it’s like an old man getting a trophy wife; there is something to be excited about, but much will be missed with her passing.

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Thoughts on Tamil television

Vivek — Tue, 01 Jun 2010 14:13:02 +0000

There is almost an invariant formula for a Tamil television serial: a catchy title song with an amateurish dance, three units of sentiment, one unit of crying (with joy or sorrow), and one unit of suspense towards the end. The formula gets repeated at least ten times a day across television channels. Where is imagination?

—

The schizophrenia of the production houses between producing movies and television is fascinating. Women in Tamil television come through as strong, thinking, acting characters. The woman of the movies is typically a diva in trouble dependent on the hero to be rescued. Heroes have the license to humiliate, dictate terms and harass women in a display of manliness; after all, the most enduring image of a Tamil song is that of a hero chasing the reluctant woman. The woman of the small screen is refreshingly different and stands up to herself. I wonder if this difference is due to the fact that women are the predominant viewers of television: if it is so, it is something to feel happy about. But then, I don’t even want to start speculating about the typical movie goer.

—

The ultimate reality thriller comes in Tamil Television. “Should I shift my job?”, asked a viewer. “Which subject should I study” asked another, all on telephone. The responses are candid and cover issues such as marriage, jobs, education, children and every big ticket item in life. The advice is based on two bits of information: name, date and the time of birth and that is all. Nothing gets spookier. It scares me no end to think that people may actually base their decisions on such major issues in life based on a computer generated advice using just their name and time of birth: but that seems to be the sad reality. Such is their popularity that every channel devotes mornings to these reality shows, “Dravidian” channels included.

—

The Sunday morning prime time show includes one on marriage. A listless set of people appear briefly on TV to introduce themselves and to place their demands for the bride or the groom. The standard questions including what caste they are, the occupation, will the bride be allowed to work, etc. I find it difficult to understand how anyone who is interested in marriage watches it as the route to finding a partner. What beats me completely is that people who have no interest in getting married (or getting someone married) too watch the programme. What is it that is attractive about monotonous repetition of some strangers’ caste, income and bridal preferences? I shall always be a stranger to the Tamil sensibilities.

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Grandma diary

Vivek — Sat, 29 May 2010 04:16:59 +0000

Grandma reminds me of the “grandma proof” Lenovo ad these days. She uses my laptop screen as a prop when she wants to lean, and sprinkled water all over my screen earlier today. I am not sure if this laptop is going to survive my summer…

Click here to view the embedded video.

—

It’s summer and my cousins have been playing Thayam a lot (a dice based game) with grandma. I am surprised at how smart her moves are at 83. She would be a force to contend with if she remembers which coins are hers.

—

Grandmother believes that attack is the best form of defence. We had a family reunion today. With her memory failing she tends to forget people now and then, and today she decided to attack. “Do you remember me” she went and asked people who she had not met in a long time. Unfortunately, with her eyesight failing, she stunned a few that she meets all the time.

—

Cousin got a tooth paste and grandma took it to be a mosquito repellent.

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Dr K

Vivek — Tue, 20 Apr 2010 21:53:09 +0000

For the purpose of this post, I’ll call her Dr. K. She is not one of those real doctors, the kind that I will be. She is the kind that deals with medicines and treats people one-by-one. Her speciality, I am led to believe, involves slashing people’s throats regularly and whipping people’s faces into shapes that she desires. In fancy words, she is an ENT and facial plastics surgeon. She is an avid reader, a pilot, compulsive shopper and (to borrow her friend’s words) her sunscreen budget rivals the GDP of small nations. Despite her sunscreen budget and a thousand different creams, lotions and potions I have been introduced to in the last two months, she sincerely thinks that she is “low-maintenance”.

We both realized early on that we have an interest in sports. She likes watching Ice hockey most, and I like Cricket. When I asked her why she likes Ice hockey, she said, “It’s a fast game, and there is the genuine possibility that there will be blood, and that makes it a sport”. With that I gave up the idea that she will ever take an interest in the “Gentlemen’s game”. But we did try watching one Ice hockey game together. Being my first, I asked her what the rules are. “There are no rules. They score goals, and they fight” was the succinct response. I got the impression that that scoreboard looked like the one below to her.

TEAM A
Goals	6
Fights	3
Some number	28
I don’t care what the number is	13

She is a woman of conventions. “You have to go to this game Vipul”, she told my housemate.

“Why”?

“Because they are giving cow bells, that’s it. You have to go. Everybody rings the cowbells”. Vipul of course does not understand that everybody does it is the key to argument of this woman of conventions who is quick to seize up to what is done, and joins the party. Poor Vipul looked for a logic that pays some attention to his likes and dislikes, leaving him perplexed with her argument. Thanks to her, our house was decorated green & red for Christmas, and was decked with hearts in the middle of February – till of course, Sripathy anxiously took off every shining heart on the wall at 5 am on February 15.

I can go on and on about Dr. K, but will stop with my one my most enduring memories of her. Dr. K is a complete teetotaller, and when the clock struck 12 this New Year she went around the room asking everyone in the party, “Would you like some apple juice”? With champagne flowing in the room, no one answered her. But the stunned look in their eyes and the smile on their faces said, you are sweet, but…That is the quintessential Dr K for us: sweet, strange and cares that those around her are having a good time.

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2009: Towards socialism

Vivek — Thu, 31 Dec 2009 07:46:16 +0000

Last year Joe the plumber prophetically announced that if Obama were elected there would be socialism in the United States. Looking back at 2009, I am convinced that socialism has arrived. Consider the following: I post on facebook that I misplaced my house key and I get a couch to stay in. I need to go shopping, and I get free shuttle service that too with charming chauffeurs. I wish for food and my housemates respond, and I feel like drinking and I get invited within two minutes of writing it on facebook. Cupcakes and cookies appear magically in the office every now and then and no festival has gone without sumptuous food. If all this is not socialism, what could it be?

It all started in February immediately after Obama’s inauguration. I had just written my comprehensive exams and Lindsey called for a party at Taps bar. When it comes to drinking, I suck; but I responded to the call for an evening of revelry. Socialism, as we know, would suffer if there were not a strong party system, and Lindsey is a party organiser par excellence. She doubles up as one of my attractive chauffeurs. Incidentally, without Lindsey around cupcakes and cookies rarely appear magically in the grad bay. They must like her a lot.

Getting back to the story, I met Chellie at Taps. She studies the environment and became my trekking partner. In my first outing with her we scrounged on our hands and knees on snow in search of some ferns and mosses. She’s on a roll when she is gathering moss, and I have seen nothing excite her like those green slippery things. In summer she took me on treks to water falls, swamps, hills, lakes, and the magnificent Adirondacks. Summer has never been more beautiful.

My party life was evolving fast and I started connecting with many interesting people. I should certainly mention the geologists, Thatha and Mimi. They love dating rocks and I love rocking dates, and it is only natural that we connected given this similarity of interests. In this multi-purpose world, they serve as my chauffeurs, squash partners and splendid hosts who guarantee great food and fun. I also met Sripathy, Vikram and Vipul in these parties and we became housemates in August.

Sripathy wakes up early and like good South Indians we start our day with coffee and debate at 6 am. We love arguing and we mean business when we get to it, even if it becomes a mean business at times. Some days I walk into the house to watch heated arguments: “No, I want to cook”, says Vipul; “Dude, I have already started cooking”, says Sripathy. This is a classic illustration of socialism. Vikram promises too cook every week and forgets it most of the times. He then cleans the dishes out of a feeling of guilt. In my socialist spirit, I don’t complain J

If great housemates were not enough, we also got awesome neighbours. Nidhi organises great parties and cooks so much that she has to call us again to finish it. She also organised a trip to the Adirondacks where I swam across a lake for the first time. Her housemate, Stephanie Iyer, is a constant companion for whom arguments are like oxygen. “Women r less likely to have a high paying job bc they by nature, generally don’t have the attributes that men with high paying jobs do. Prove me wrong”, came an SMS on December 15. Proof by her standards are rather rigorous and I was supposed to send my argument with detailed data by mail. I chuckled at the task that her brother has: to explain theory of relativity by SMS. Socialism does have its drawbacks.

I then met Kristin who I added quickly to my chauffeur collection. I watch movies at her house and dine at her place at least three evenings a week. Like her, the movies she chooses are great to watch and difficult to understand. She is currently on a project to acquaint me with American culture and to feminise me (as if I were a male icon needing intervention).

Between all this fun writing had to suffer and there was a social solution to this too: a writing group. Dana and Diane started coming home to write together and things started falling in place. If all these were not enough there have been lunches with Chris, trips with David, reunions with the D.School gang, singing party, hundreds of hugs from Anya and Dave, a 15 course thanksgiving dinner, nurturing teachers, and the list goes on.

Socialism has not been without its limitations and its evils. The biggest shortcoming yet is that some of my good friends don’t hug enough. That is appalling and I am considering the shameless puppy approach to civilize them. The continued absence of a girl friend in life is unwelcome. That situation has to be remedied. As my conservative friends point out socialism can be evil since it restricts individual liberty. This is certainly happening seen by the fact that I have lost my liberty not to dance in parties. But overall, it seems to be working as I wake up each day looking forward to what’s to come.

To put it à la Dickens, it was the best of times, it was the best of times. Thank you friends for making it such a marvellous year that counts as among the happiest in my life.

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Reflections of a retiring TA

Vivek — Mon, 21 Dec 2009 13:19:01 +0000

It is often assumed that Teaching Assistants are powerful, vested with institutionalised power to instruct, monitor and evaluate. No doubt, these represent power over the students. But this is nothing compared to the power that students have over the TA; a kind of power that is silent but brutal. When a hundred notebooks close silently, it can bring the mightiest professor to a halt. A few glances at the clock or one row of blank expressions can freeze the vulnerable TA and crush his ego at the same time. There is no experience more humbling that the knowledge that you cannot create an interest by discussing world peace or economic collapse when someone outside the class can make them smile with a text message like, “Hey, what are you doing?”

The stakes are high. They decide if you’re cool, if you belong to this place and time, if you are knowledgeable, good looking, witty and everything that you wish to be. None of these, of course, are said in words. I instantly knew that I did not belong when fifty eyeballs turned to me saying, what is wrong with you, when I asked, “did you enjoy the mid-term exam?” I knew I was a relic of the past when the polite comment of a student invited muffled giggles from the entire class, “Oh no professor, I am not texting. I am just entering the date of the next quiz in my blackberry”. If they can quash your ego, they can also prop it up. An occasional comment like, “I think it is cool that you use Skype” would make me sigh with relief; I still belong to this generation.

Being a TA is like going through a long trial in front of critical jurors who will decide something more critical than life – one’s sense of self-worth. The TA surrenders his ego to a set of strangers to be tried week by week for months together. We crave for that occasional smile, a question, a moment of engagement or any other small sign of approval every meeting. What is the power that a TA has to monitor a student a few times a semester compared to the power every one of them has to monitor your every word, every week?

We work hard, prepare, anticipate, discuss with the hope that we can find the ultimate strategy to salvage our sense of self-worth. Unfortunately, there is no definite strategy. Each class is a live organism with its own moods, desires and ideas. What works in one does not work in another. It can be a hit in the morning and a flop that evening, leaving the poor TA vulnerable and exposed. Some days its fun and sometimes its frustrating, and overall it’s a rich learning experience that leaves you without any doubt that your control over the world is limited.

And there was that last day of the discussion sessions. The impatience in them was palpable when I took a brown envelope with forms that evaluate me. “When do we get to evaluate you?” asked one student with a sparkle in his eye that unparalleled anything I had seen so far. I felt at that moment that the student’s experience of the TA must be analogous to masturbating…strenuous, painful at times, but it has that one last sweet moment – when they get to evaluate me. It is time for me to retire from being a TA. I may become a full-fledged teacher one day, but it will be with a firm knowledge of my limited influence, a willingness to surrender and the wisdom to enjoy the moment when it presents itself to me.

Ps. Let me add that I had a great time as a TA and I have high regards for my students. This piece was inspired by the good relationship I developed with my students. They started gently pulling my leg on a number of issues and this is my turn to get back at them with love

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