Suresh, 1986
On the occasions I did go to my hometown to visit my uncle, I’d take the late train, avoiding the one with the daily commuter traffic from the university. I didn’t want to be seen commuting to my hometown, although I wouldn’t have admitted that to anyone. On one of the rides, I was surprised to find Vani waiting for the train too. We exchanged smiles and talked a bit.
These train trips are interesting, but only in hindsight. During those days, I’d read, or daydream, looking out of the window. It took me years to look back and realize how colourful the trips were. If you took the late evening passenger train, the fellow passengers were quite diverse. The railway workers heading home, people from smaller towns traveling to Mayavaram junction to catch another train, the traders heading home after a busy day's work and the families traveling with children. These trains were busy, but not overcrowded.
When I made a similar trip a month later, I was surprised to see Vani again. She was dressed in blue. She appeared even thinner and taller than she usually did. She seemed to stoop a bit. The kind of stoop common among tall girls, who are often told how tall they are. Her face wasn’t pretty in the classical sense, but was attractive in its own way. It exuded a combination of intelligence. The nose was a tad too long, and would have been described as beaky on a less intelligent face. On her face, it seemed to fit, and enhance the air of confidence.
I was wondering if she was taking the late train for my sake, and immediately admonished myself for such unfounded optimism. She walked over, flashed a quick smile, and started chatting. She had wanted to continue her studies, and had easily secured admission to the M.A programme. The university was great, she declared. The teaching quality is uneven at best, but you don’t really need good teachers for English literature, as far as she was concerned. All she needed for fair, unbiased graders. She said she hoped to get those. I couldn’t see where her optimism came from.
When she asked how my thesis was going, I opened up a bit and told her of the troubles at the department.
Dr. Vanchinathan, My professor, was a vindictive, paranoid man. For those who aren’t familiar with academic circles, graduate advisors had an unusual influence over your academic career in general, and how long it took to finish your M. Phil in particular. I had published a few articles in local academic circles, based on my work. These articles would later be part of my thesis. I made the mistake of giving a printed copy of some of my articles to Dr. Kamalam, the other professor in the Economics department. I was also naive enough to mention it to him. I didn’t know that there was a professional rivalry between the two professors. Dr. Vanchinathan (whom I always think of as ‘Vanchi’) took it really hard. He accused me of trying to work around him to get my M. Phil sooner. I tried pointing out that Dr Kamalam had offered excellent feedback. It seemed to make things worse. In his mind, I was trying to subvert his authority and that was that.
The day before I ran into Vani, things had come to a head. In our bi-weekly review meeting, Vanchi said my thesis hadn’t been progressing well, and I would do well to pick an alternative topic for my thesis. That came as a shock. That would set me back by six to twelve months. It was not in my nature to be conciliatory. I argued my point for a while. When he didn’t budge, I abruptly left the meeting.
I summarized the development to Vani.
‘Did you say Dr. Kamalam was the one who offered you comments? She’s good, isn’t she?’
‘Certainly better than Vanchi, and she means well. Not that it does me any good now!’
‘I edited some of her papers for extra credit. You know, just proofreading and copy editing. Purely editorial work. She needed a lot of help there, but her content was good.’
That was a bit of a surprise, I didn’t know Vani moved in those circles. In my mind, she studied Shakespeare and Shelley. Further, I hadn’t expected her to have an opinion on the quality of professors in another department.
The train arrived a bit late. It wasn’t crowded, as I had expected. We boarded and sat facing each other.
‘Do you have your thesis written in any form now?’ Vani asked.
‘Surprisingly I do. I was naively optimistic, thinking writing as I go would help in the final thesis’. I handed her my binder.
She read in silence for a few minutes. She gave me an amused look. ‘You’re not a bad writer, and I can’t say that about a lot of people here!’. When I remained silent, she persisted. ‘The subtitle says ‘An econometrics driven approach’. Help me understand what Econometrics means’.
I was on familiar territory. ‘Econometrics is the empirical study of data in the real world. Think of it as applied mathematics and statistics. I’m using Econometrics to study the effects of Government financing schemes on small and medium businesses. That’s what I was planning on doing before yesterday at least.’
‘So it’s economics with numbers?’
‘In my context, yes.’
‘Shouldn’t you start your thesis by describing that?’
‘Actually, I hadn’t consciously thought about how I’d start my thesis. This is meant for the Economics audience, so I may have thought it didn’t need this kind of introduction.’
‘My friends studying economics will do anything to avoid learning about statistics related subjects. So you should start with a friendly introduction.’
That was a valid point. I nodded.
‘So, what are your options now? Do you need to find a new topic?’
‘Not sure, I’m thinking of going to the head of the department. But I’m worried Vanchi is going to read that as another challenge to his authority.’
‘It’s your life. You should. You can frame the conversation as you asking him for advice’.
‘It’s a ‘her’. Dr. Rachel Deivanayakam’
‘Is she good?’
‘Not sure, I don’t have any opinion on her.’
‘Can I borrow this copy to read? I may be able to give you some editorial advice.’
‘If that’s what you want to do on a Saturday and Sunday.’
‘I always read. It's like breathing. It’s no problem. Can I write on this copy?’
‘Sure, I made two copies, and I also have the hand-written original.’
I realized I couldn’t have had that conversation with anyone else in my circle. My friends somehow considered me an intellectual snob, and were reluctant to give me advice. Nandini, my sister, had no interest in reading or understanding anything outside science. My mom lived in a different universe, her mind mostly occupied solely by health concerns about her family and food.
We talked about other things for the rest of the journey. When we arrived, my heart felt a lot lighter than it had in the recent past.
The next day, I met Amma and Nandini at the Riverside Ganesh temple. Amma teared up on seeing me, but tried to hide it, fearing I might fly off the handle. We had been meeting occasionally at the temple. There were other occasions, at a friend’s wedding, and at Vasavi restaurant. Anywhere but my father’s place, actually. My mom insisted on buying me clothes for Deepavali. I had met her at the store after she assured me that it was her money from her inheritance, and not my father’s money. I felt guilty dragging her to all these places, but couldn’t think of a better way for us to meet. Nandini would occasionally phone me at my hostel to make sure I was doing well.
I had been receiving occasional updates on her via Vani too. I had to pass the English department to go from my classes to the hostel. She would stop me in the hallway to provide some tidbit from Nandini.
That evening, Amma seemed listless. She seemed too distracted to even voice her usual admonishments over my untidy hair, or to fuss over my well being. Nandini did most of the talking. We talked for an hour. As I was leaving, Nandini seemed to muster her courage to tell me that Appa hadn’t been feeling well. No particular ailment. His walking had slowed and he seemed sullen and withdrawn, she added. I merely nodded and walked away.
The next week was eventful. And that’s an understatement.
I had been provided a desk along with the other teaching assistants in the department, my only perk for correcting test papers and being a poorly paid teaching assistant. Late in the week, I arrived at my desk to find that my thesis paper and the tray containing the hand-written papers had disappeared. I asked around in mad panic. I finally learned that Vanchi had taken them to his room.
When I approached him, he coolly said he had taken my thesis home to re-read it to see if anything could be salvaged. When I asked him about the hand-written manuscript, he acted surprised, and said he didn’t know. I left his office, confused - could he have known that I was planning on escalating the issue to the head of the department? Or was he merely being petty? Who do you complain to about a missing pile of papers?
Luckily, I’d given Vani a copy, I thought. I phoned her department. She said she had marked the copy up and had more comments for me - and could I meet her at the library at five thirty? That would give us 30 minutes to go through her comments.
I was listless as I went to collect the papers, I just wanted to get the papers and lock them away somewhere safe. When she saw me, she beamed. ‘Once again, you are not a bad writer at all. It could be your superpower. Economists are notoriously drab writers, I hear. Let’s grab a table. I can walk you through my comments.’
I was floored by the comments. They were editorial, not merely in grammar and spelling, but how the document held together, logical flow, suitability for the intended audience and so on. I didn’t know that any of my colleagues worried about most of the things that she was commenting on, but found the comments well thought out. She handed me a few sheets with her comments, hand-written and neatly organized.
She asked how the conversations with Vanchi had been going. I reluctantly told her about the developments. She looked horrified, but tried to point out the bright side. ‘You have a copy, and it’s about to get even better!’
She seemed thoughtful for a few minutes as we chatted. Then her face cleared, ‘Listen, I have this friend who types academic material for a living. I can ask her to make a fair copy for you. Or two. Do you want me to ask? It will cost some money, but it is a good precaution considering this is the only copy now.’
I agreed. We agreed that I would replace the pages that needed rewriting, and then hand her the copy.
I rewrote the pages and passed the new version to her the next day. The whole thing came back as an impressive package in a couple of days, neatly typed and in a binder. As she handed it over, she asked if I meant to escalate the issue. When I nodded my assent, she wished me luck.
As I walked away, she called after me. ‘You may want to frame it as you asking for advice. And if you are offered a compromise, take it, rather than fight it out.’ I was struck by how she assumed the role of a fixer when she heard my troubles.
I dawdled a couple of more days and walked into Rachel’s office one morning. I took a deep breath, swore to stay calm and non-confrontational as I walked in.
She was a severe looking, older woman, who always dressed in crisp cotton sarees. She peered through her thick glasses, recognized me, and asked me to take a seat.
‘Dr. Deivanayakam, I have a.. ahem… sensitive matter I need your advice on.’
‘Go ahead. I have fifteen minutes.’
I told her briefly how my thesis was ruled unsuitable, and how it sets me back. I didn't mention the issue of missing manuscripts.
‘It’s your advisor’s judgment. It wouldn’t be proper for me to intervene’.
Despite my promise to myself to remain calm, I found myself redden. ‘Is there an appeal process? What is my recourse if I felt this was unfair?’
‘It’s not that simple, Suresh. You have to write to the University, and it will be a long process. Not to say embarrassing to some.’
My resolution evaporated. I felt my breath quicken. ‘Ok, there is something I didn’t mention. All the papers that I had on my desk disappeared after my conversation with Vanchi.. Dr. Vanchinathan. If I lodge a formal appeal, I’ll have to mention that as well.’
She remained calm, at least as far as I could tell. ‘That will be unfortunate. You realize your name will be under a cloud as this investigation goes on, right? I’m not saying you’ve done anything wrong, but if you make this a formal charge, there may be things said in defence that might ..’ Her voice tailed off.
I decided to give her one more chance. ‘So, this is all the more reason I need your advice. What will you do in my position?’
‘I’ll look for another topic.’
‘My current work is good. I want to ask one more time. Is there someone who can review my work without this being a formal appeal process?’
“Do you have a copy of your work, even a rough one?’
‘Fortunately, I had a copy at home.’ I handed her the new and improved version of the draft.
I went through the motions for the next few days, wondering if I should follow up. The third morning, the department attendant seemed to be waiting for me in the morning, and informed me that the ‘professor madam’ wanted to see me.
I rushed to her office, and knocked, and entered, trying not to show my anxiety. My heart was hammering.
She calmly nodded towards a seat, indicating that I should take a seat. I complied. She was reading from a bound volume with many hand written inset cards. I presumed that was my thesis.
She looked smiled, and started. ‘I usually leave judgment on the worth of projects to the supervising professors. It sets a bad precedent if I second guess their decisions.’
I nodded, wondering where this was heading.
‘On this occasion, I took a liberty and asked for a second opinion from Dr. Kamalam Parameshwaran. She said she understands why Dr. Vanchinathan has reservations, but thinks the thesis may be salvageable with more work.’
I was about to argue, held my tongue and nodded again.
‘Given the circumstances, I believe moving your work under Dr. Kamalam Parameshwaran may be the best course. That way you don’t lose any work, and there is no need for hm.. unhelpful complaints and bad blood.’
But that might mean that Vanchi would get away with his dirty tactics. But that was the best I could have hoped for, so I thanked her, took my papers from her, and walked out.
When I met Dr Kamalam later in the morning, she looked at me as if she was meeting me for the first time, and asked me how I knew Vani.
I said the week was eventful. The week wasn't done.
(To be continued).
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