Mathematic Musings
By Prakash Subbarao
His name was MG and he was our maths professor in college. Very popular,
very friendly, with a booming voice, that’s how I remember him. In my
mind’s eye he was over 6 feet tall, extremely well built, always smiling,
always willing to help a student in need.
I was a 5th semester student in need, one day. For some reason, my Jawa
motorbike, which normally started with half a kick of the pedal, wasn’t
starting. I had been kicking the starter pedal over and over again for
about ten minutes and was exhausted. “Yennayaa, Subbarao!” I heard a
booming voice say. I looked around to see MG standing behind me. He had
obviously seen me struggling to start the bike.
“Good morning, Sir!” I said. “The bike is not starting”.
MG looked at the bike for a moment as though surveying its innards with
X-Ray vision. He too had a Jawa; a beat up one at that. Finally he turned
to me and said “I will give this bike’s starter one massive, powerful
kick. Either the bike will start or the starter pedal will break. Are you
willing to take that risk”?
“Yes Sir” I said.
He gave one horrendous kick to the bike and lo and behold, it sputtered to
a start!
MG just smiled and walked away.
My classmates and I maintained a close rapport with MG. His rule of
friendship was simple. You needed to hate his colleague, MKM, with a
passion. If you could do that, or could successfully pretend to do it, you
were his bosom pal.
The problem was that MKM was a distant relative of mine and an old family
friend and MG perhaps knew it.
Some quick and cold blooded calculation told me that MKM, though friendly,
was aloof and distant whereas the fire-breathing MG was a man for all
seasons, a man to be retained as a friend and possibly as a Godfather. So
I put on a big show of support to him and took a vaguely anti-MKM stance.
That was enough for MG. I was accepted into the fold My classmate M.S.P.
followed my footsteps.
M.S.P. was always with me because of two reasons. Firstly, because we were
classmates and secondly, but more importantly, I was his ride home! He was
my neighbor, you see, in distant Jayanagar, 8 kilometers away from
college. He came with me and went with me. On occasion, when we crashed
up, he fell with me. But the falls were far apart and in general he sat
behind me, on the pillion, eyes tightly shut, praying fast and furious
that his life would be spared. Unaware and unconcerned, I sped on, doing
the 8 kilometers to college at an average time of 6 minutes.
Time flies. Soon we were in the 10th and final semester.
Somewhere along the way M.S.P. applied for a job with the army and was
selected. He started getting a salary from the 8th semester onwards. He
would get to retain the salary if he passed out of college and joined it;
if he failed, by any chance, he forfeited his job and had to return the
money. Those were the terms of agreement.
The final examination of the 10th was mathematics. The moment we completed
the exam and stepped out, we would step out as free men; we completed
college and were now moving on to a different station in life.
But first things first. We had to pass the maths exam.
A first cursory glance led to alarm. The paper was tough! A more detailed
look confirmed this and our hearts fell. This was
sadism at its worst. Instead of a farewell, moderately tough maths exam,
we were to be tortured a la the Spanish Inquisition!
After the exam was over, and we emerged into the college quadrangle, there
was no sense of joy that our five years of engineering study was over. We were
filled with a dread that we may indeed ‘plug’ (fail) the exams. A more
detailed autopsy showed me as just scraping through but M.S.P. being a
definite casualty.
The thought was horrifying.
He would lose his army position.
Our first thought was MG and we rushed to him. We found him in the
teacher’s staffroom having a cup of coffee. “Yenrayyaaa!” he bellowed upon
seeing us (The equivalent of “Hey guys! What’s up?”)
“Sir, M.S.P. is in deep trouble” I told him, taking on the role of a
spokesman while M.S.P. hung his head in shame and wrung his hands.
“Yaakayyaaa?” (“Why? What has happened”) he asked M.S.P.
“Sir, I think I have failed in the maths exam” M.S.P. stammered.
“So why are you so upset? Study well next time and appear again and pass!”
a nonplussed MG said.
“I will lose my job in the Army” M.S.P. said. He was so overcome by this
ghastly prospect that he actually started crying. We explained the
implications to MG.
“Do you have the supplementary answer sheet number?” MG asked M.S.P. “Yes”
he sobbed. It was an SOP (standard operating procedure) amongst us
engineering students to note down the supplementary answer sheet numbers.
In the event of a calamity such as this. “Give it to me” MG demanded.
M.S.P. meekly handed over a chit of paper with the information on it.
“I will give you a ring when to come and see me” MG told us. We left, our
mood much lighter and hope in our heart.
In those days our college, The University Visvesvaraya College Of
Engineering (also known as the Government Engineering College) was a
premier institution. The exam papers were invariably set by its
professors; the answer papers were invariably corrected by its dons; the
entering of marks into the various registers happened there and, at the
end of the long process, the Bangalore University marks cards were also
filled up there. A small army of professors, administrators, clerks
etcetera descended on the college and took over various portions of the
institution. The college library was where the marks cards were entered.
About a month later I got a call from MG. “Come to the college tomorrow”
was all he said.
The next day a very tense M.S.P. and I were in the college quadrangle at
ten a.m., and we took up our position outside the library. We had
established that MG was within the hallowed precincts of the library where
the entering of marks into the University registers was in progress. A lot
of people were bustling about officiously; serious looking professors came
and went; clerks with piles of registers precariously perched in their
arms tottered into the library only to leave bare handed after a few
minutes..
Of MG there was no sign.
Finally at around 2.30 p.m. a weary looking MG emerged. Looking around he
saw us and came to us. Putting a hand around M..S.P.’s shoulder he said
“Pass aaythoo kanayyaa!” (“You have passed my friend”). M.S.P. just could
contain himself. He fell on the ground and hugged MG’s feet with respect.
We later learnt how he had done it. He had positioned himself where the
10th semester mathematics papers were being checked and entered into the
marks register. He had checked each and every paper’s continuation sheet’s
numbers till he had found the ones with the number given by M.S.P. He had
then, just when the paper was coming to be entered into the register,
offered to relieve the person doing the task. Such was his standing in the
academic community and personality that he had had his way and the
authorized officer had made way for the unauthorized MG to take up this
task. When he had M.S.P.’s answer sheet in his hand, he noted that M.S.P.
had scored a paltry 23 out of 75, a failing score, since for a pass one
needed 25 out of 75. “Score please” the clerk entering the marks into the
marks card had called out to MG. “30” MG had replied. The clerk entered
‘30’.
M.S.P. passed.
We soon left Bangalore. M.S.P. took up his military career. I went to
Calcutta to join Chloride. I lost track of MG.
Years passed. Decades passed.
One day in end 2004, I had just parked my car in Jayanagar when I saw MG
on the pavement in front of me. “Good evening, Sir!” I wished him. He
peered myopically at me and failed to recognize me. “Who”? he asked in a
shaky voice. “I am Prakash Subbarao, Sir” I told him. “Don’t you remember
me?”
“Oh yes! I remember you. How is M.S.P.?” he immediately enquired.
“He is doing well, Sir. How are you?” I asked of him.
He told me that old age had caught up with him. He spent his time at the
club drinking and playing cards. I filled him in on my personal details
and we chatted for a few minutes.
“I have to go” he finally said. “What happened to your Jawa, Sir” Do you
still ride a motorbike or do you have a car?” I asked.
“I rode the Jawa till a few years ago. Now my eyesight is weak, I cannot
see properly so I don’t drive” he told me.
We said our goodbyes and I watched him shuffle away.
Such were the teachers of yore. There is only one word to describe them.
Stalwarts.
And oh! I forgot to tell you. M.S.P. was promoted recently. When I last
heard he had become a Brigadier.
Epilogue:
In Karnataka, they say that the Brahmins hate the Gowdas and vice versa, but I, as a Brahmin, haven't experienced it. MG was a Gowda and MSP and I were brahmins but here was a Gowda who went out of his way to help a Brahmin boy in trouble. I think that's very inspiring.
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