An Important Decision

On Thursday, November 22, 2018 I made an important decision.  I wrote to the Dean Faculty at IIM that I would not like to be considered for promotion from the rank of Associate Professor that I am now to Professor or “Full” Professor that I would be if I were to be promoted.

When I first thought of writing this post I considered pasting my letter in this post.  Then I realized that this is after all a public post.  And the letter is a serious official communication.  I should not diminish the gravity of the letter by pasting it on to a public post.

My arguments in the letter essentially turn on three points. 

One, in recent years, promotion at IIMB has emerged as a reward for and recognition of excellence in research.  A few other performance measures have been added essentially to address the clamour for promotion from non-research active faculty.  As such, those promotions do not receive the same peer recognition as the one awarded for research excellence.

Two, all my life I have sought recognition only for excellence achieved.  I have been reluctant to receive any recognition that has been extended as a commiseration by the employer.

Three, given that I have not been able to achieve excellence along the academic dimensions that IIMB as an institution and my colleagues as a community value, I would feel embarrassed to be promoted.  Such promotion would at best be a commiseration.

All of these are my views and I recognize that they may be at variance at with the beliefs that many others may hold.  They may also represent a certain interpretation of the institute’s policies that the institute may not accept as accurate.

When I first mooted the idea of this decision many months ago, Lakshmi my wife, who has been generally supportive of all my career related moves so far did not agree to the idea.  Her argument was pragmatic, as always:  Given the nature of the work of a faculty at IIMB promotions do not matter functionally.  As such, you do not every have to wangle or lobby for a promotion.  But if the institute thinks you deserve a promotion, for whatever reason, why do you want to deny it?

It took a fair amount of persuasion.  I cringed about how my sense of dignity would not allow me to imagine that I got promoted without having achieved excellence by way of publication for reasons that may not rank high in my employer’s ideals of academic excellence.  And that tongues could possibly wag in corridor gossip about my having been commiserated.  With a few years to retire, that was unacceptable to me at the fag end of my career - call it false pride, ego, or whatever you like to.

And so in the early pre-dawn hours of Wednesday, as I was running off to the airport for an important meeting at Mumbai, I got her to reluctantly let me fire off that letter.  When on the next day I showed her the draft that I planned to send she just said matter of factly that it was well drafted.  If she was unhappy it did not show.

I shared this letter with my siblings.  They were livid that I would do so something so silly.  They were just as sorry that matters had come to this pass in my academic life.  They felt sorry that for someone who was considered to be the brightest in the family and on whom many a hope had been pinned I would have had to finally write that I would pass up a promotion because I thought I did not deserve it.

I had half a mind to explain to them that it did not really matter.  That this was the lesser among the many reverses that I had suffered in my life.  That the email was just a final acknowledgement of failure in a life that had been riddled with setbacks.  Many of them of had been of much larger magnitude. Some had even come in the way of my fulfilling my responsibilities as spouse, parent, son and sibling. The brunt of all of it was being borne by Lakshmi as she continued to silently the suffer long tail of my many failings as a man and as a professional.

I decided against.  It did not seem to matter.  How would I explain all of that to people with whom I had not spoken about those so many other reverses?

My mind had been in turmoil till I wrote that email to my Dean.  I had hoped that it would be lighter after I wrote it.  In some sense I am at peace.  I feel a certain lightness, as I said in my email.  I know when and what I will retire as – unless I screw up even worse than I have so far.

But at least on this blog where I reveal my some of my true feelings I must record that I did break down once, quite severely, after I wrote that note, when I was all alone in my office. 

Was it out of the disappointment that I would retire as an Associate Professor? No.  Was it out of unhappiness that I would not get what many other colleagues would or did, some decidedly superior to me as academics and some probably just as good?  I do not think it was that either.

I think the real reasons for the searing pain that I felt were two.  One, that I did not make the cut of academic excellence when, at the risk of sounding smug, I believe I had in me what it takes to.  Two, just as importantly, there is a sense of sadness and disappointment that I allowed myself to be a part of section of the institution that does not seem to be the most important or relevant sections of the community in the eyes of the leadership, as I understand it.

I distinctly recall the meeting with an earlier Dean and Director a few years ago when the policy of rewarding publishable research was unveiled to me.  I was told that as part of emphasizing research, going forward, the institute would promote people who excelled in publication in three to five years.  And then as an after-thought I was told that those who did not would get promoted too.  But it would take them longer.

It did not take a lot of imagination to realise right at that time that the two promotions would never be the same.  One would be recognition.  The other would be what I will refer to as institutional commiseration.

The promotion policies at IIMB have come a long way since then.   But every new twist and turn in these policies has only served to reinforce what was first unveiled to me:  That there will be those who publish.  And those who don’t.  The former will decide the future of the institution.  Their work will be showcased – understandably - to the world outside.  The latter will merely exist.

Some may see this as an unfortunate change in the character or ethos of the institution, from being an inclusive establishment where everyone seemed to matter.  Those interested in research pursued it for the joy and legitimacy in the larger world of academics that it gave them.  The others contributed to the institution in ways that they felt they could.  The latter admired the former who were endowed with the intellect and the inclination to pursue publishable research.

And they all moved up in the organization in some fashion that few seemed to understand.  They were all nominated into positions that determined the future of the institution according to some incomprehensible grammar. 

So there would be the inevitable angst about getting to those positions, followed by an occasional round of anger or even resentment at having been passed over.  But no one ever felt it divided them into those that seemed to matter and those that did not.

I view these vicissitudes more philosophically.  Such changes are but inevitable in a world that seems to look for change qua change.  More enlightened institutions and leaders manage it in a way that is consistent with their ethos, especially if that ethos has not been dysfunctional.  Others embrace more cataclysmic choices.  I am too puny to sit in judgment/

No matter what the official line may be, to me this undeniable distinction will exist, as it has from that forenoon of March 2009.  Under these circumstances, the least I believe I could do to preserve what I consider my dignity is not to accept, let alone seek, an award that confirms that I belong to the latter.

Surely the pain will haunt me for many years, if not till the end of my life.  But at least I would be able to say to myself, when it is time for me to finally go, that I did not accept an award of commiseration, ever in my life. 

Nanni….Namaskaaram…

The Writer and Her Context

I came across this interesting piece on the writer and his context that seems to influence to a great extent his writing or even his craft. Read this engaging piece by Tishani Doshi, although I would argue that she could have written in a more engaging style.

http://www.thehindu.com/books/the-mutual-admiration-and-animosity-society/article23271081.ece

Although poorly read, I have come across this in a few instances myself.  Many years ago I read Amitava Ghosh mention in an interview that writers plumb their lives for material for their novels.  Arundhati Roy is said to have fallen back on her own childhood for the main characters of her prize winning debut.  As did URA according to another review of his Suragi that also appeared in the same edition of The Hindua as Tishani Doshi's piece.  Not to forget Ruskin Bond on whom I wrote a couple of posts that you can read here, if you like, just in case you have read them earlier.  http://sgchalayil.blogspot.in/2015/12/ruskin-bond-live.html and http://sgchalayil.blogspot.in/2018/01/bonded-again.html

So that does not surprise me quite.  What did take me by surprise were the extreme rivalry and jealousy between writers, as between Turgenev and Tolstoy and the extent to which they could do to be able to disapprove as Tolstoy is supposed to have done just to show that Shakespeare was no good!

Well, behind those great pens and beneath those immortal writings there were, it would appear, some very ordinary humans, given to the average failings that many of us might have.  Or I certainly do.  Like every time I see Sriram I write I keep looking for something that I can pick on.  I am yet to find one though.

The difference though is that beyond that pettiness I have very little else to show.  Unlike these great writers.  Or for that matter my good friend Sriram.

Now think of the great souls that composed many of the famous Indian scriptures.  They were just happy to leave them behind with no trace of their own identity and let posterity treat them as words from an unseen, unknown of, formless, anonymous God!

Anyway enjoy reading Doshi's piece...

Nanni....Namaskaaram...

Ugadi 2018 and the year that was

Interestingly, yesterday, the day just before Ugadi, our academic year drew to a close.  It was convocation day. 

The usual things happened. We all went in a procession.  Teachers and taught alike, under the watchful gaze of those who manage us and keep us on the straight and narrow.  They are an interesting bunch.  But I do not envy them.  I certainly don't wish to trade places with them.

The Chief Guest spoke as did everyone else who had to.  Degrees and diplomas were granted to those "who had been examined and found worthy" by the institution.  Medals were awarded to those even worthier, arguably.

And everyone sat solemnly through the whole evening, in spite of the rains testing our resolve.

Convocations are generally a solemn ceremony.  I approach them with mixed feelings.  I look forward to them because they are the culmination of many months of effort for everyone in the institution.  I don't like the fact that they mark the departure of many fellow-humans.

Following painful denouements some years ago I have come to be more rational in the way I deal with the after-effects of convocation.  The results have been encouraging.  I have been progressively been able to go home with a heart that is less and less heavy.

But is it because of the rational way of dealing with the movement of the students?  Or is it that my  mind is filled even more with the thought soon I will no longer be part of this important day in the life of IIMB, once I retire?

It is hard to say.  Understanding oneself is so hard.  And yet we claim to know everyone else that comes into our lives that we even put them into boxes, pass judgements on them.

The late Professor Ashok Sahni used to often remind us that if a man or a woman cannot even understand his or her spouse how can he claim to understand  his friends and colleagues.  I go one step further.  Let alone the spouse.  Can I say I understand myself?

This year's convocation left me sadder though for a different reason.  Being an institutional matter and being a loyal citizen of the institution I shall not dwell any further on this matter.  In any event it is my personal view.  But a view that will leave me sad for a long time, if not forever.

I also liked the Chief Guest Mr.  Piramal taking the trouble to know what the all-rounders and medalists had done to win those medals.  I am sure those winners valued those few moments as much as they did the medals.

Personally AY 2017-18 has been a mixed year.  It is the year I returned from my sabbatical.  I came back hoping to be a good and liked teacher.  They are not always the same.  I hoped to do many things that I could not for the years that I had been Chair of NSRCEL and prior to that as Chair of OIA.

The year did not quite turn out that way.  My core course teaching turned out to be sad and disappointing.  In particular one section, Section D, made me feel utterly worthless.  On one not so happy day, I must say that I regretted even having chosen to be a teacher.

May be I deserved it.   But then up until then no group of students had made me feel so.  I felt like I was a performer who had been hired to show and tell.  And then when I fell short I felt like the performer who had not earned his nickels.

The health of someone dear to me in the family also went through some issues.  While I tried to not let that come in the way of my work it did pull me back to a certain extent.

This was in addition to the ghosts of the past assailing me in the form of pangs of affinity for people from the past who have moved on.  Of whom I know very little anymore.  Of whose whereabouts I care so much for.  As in the past I prayed to the Lord to give me the good sense to move on.  As I noted in an earlier post and as I say often the greatest Grace that one ask of the Lord is the ability to move on.

In the event I can only pray to God to give me a better year in 2018-19.  I pray for His Grace, now especially that I have taken on new administrative responsibilities, even though I know I do not deserve it.

Nanni...Namaskaaram...

Bonded again

I noted my admiration for Ruskin Bond in a post that I wrote many months ago.  Here is the link for those of you might wish to read it.

The mastery of a writer over his craft lies in his or her ability to dive into the depths of the minds of his characters.  And present them in a way that makes the reader identify with the protagonists.  It is manipulative, in a nice way of course most of the time.  And Bond is a master of that.

Bond's mastery was in full display in the lesson that I helped my son with last night, The Meeting Pool.  Rusty, the main protagonist, comes back to a pool that had been a memorable part of his childhood.  He and his two friends, Anil and Somi, had spent many years enjoying the innocent pleasures that the pool afforded.

A full ten years later he lands up there, keeping what the author describes as "his part of the pledge" to be back with his friends - only to find that the other members to the compact were not there.  The passage of time seemed to have not only obliterated all memory of the pledge from the minds of his friends, but also changed the course of the stream that made the pool as much as it had the "course of the lives" of his friends.

A disappointed Rusty then sees a group of boys splashing and having fun in the river.  And then the author says, "(H)e did not really see them.  His mind was romping with joy as he saw Anil and Somi splashing about in the shallows of the secret pool."

As I explained the story to my twelve year old son, weary from an evening full of preparation for his exam, I noticed a wistfulness in his sleepy and weary eyes.  "That is how I will feel when my friends and I grow up, Dadda?" he asked me, as he yawned and dropped off to sleep.  That is the power of a master writer.

In a similar situation would many of us not react like Rusty?  The happy days of the past are frozen in our minds like a framed picture.  And we wish that the protagonists of that past would just remain as they were.  Just like we would not like our children to ever grow out of their toddler days.

As I read through the story I was reminded of another great story by another master craftsman, Tagore's Kabuliwala.  In the Kabuliwala's mind his little girl had not grown up until he met the now all grown up Mini.  Do read it.  I would have considered my life incomplete, if I had not read it.  As a thirteen year old I was moved by the story as I imagined by my Dad being separated from me through my growing up years.

And then as I sat down to write this post I am reminded of two young people that I had come to look upon as my own children that I would probably never get to see again.  In a strange way life has cast me in a condition similar to that of the Kabuliwala.

The sad difference though is that Abdur Rahman, the Kabuliwala's daughter probably missed her father just as much her father missed her.  That must have made the pain more unbearable for the father.  I have been mercifully spared of that agony.

Nanni....Namaskaram...

Thoughts triggered by a humble dog

One more teaching term just got over and the grades were released to the class.  Interestingly in the system that I work, this is a much anticipated moment, not just for the students but also for the teachers.  You might wonder why, because that might sound a little out of the ordinary.

The reason that teachers in IIMB wait in anticipation of their grades is that their teaching feedback is released only after the grades are released by them. This helps ensure that the teacher's reaction to the feedback does not spill over to the grading process.

Feedback matters to us teachers at IIMB for three reasons.  First, it tells us how we have all done as teachers.  Second, if we get a great feedback it gives us a reason to preen for a short while. ie., for those who like to preen.  Third, in some ways it influences our career.  It would be inappropriate for me to say more than that about how it affects our career.

As I worried about my not so happy teaching experience in the term that just concluded a younger colleague asked me if I was worried about the feedback.  I responded to him that that I was nearing the end of my working life.  And soon none of these things would matter any more.

That is when I was reminded of this incident that happened some thirty five years ago.  It was a regular Chennai morning on the Eliot's beach.  As the sun was coming out, all ready for another fiery day, I saw this somewhat elderly gentleman, who was on his morning walk, being chased by a lowly cur.

Until a few weeks earlier this man had been perhaps the third most powerful individual in the Indian financial sector, after the prime minister and the finance minister.  He had retired as the governor of the Reserve Bank of India.  And here was this lowly creature, chasing him with the same irreverence with which it would have chased a poor and illiterate rag-picker.

It appeared at that moment that all those years of fame and power in office did not matter.  Not to the dog at least.  Nor to the fellow walkers who seemed to be all focussed on the amount of sweat they were working up, completely unaffected by the crisis that seemed to be building up around them.

His glorious past did not come to the poor man's rescue.  In that moment of unseemly discord between the money man and the mongrel that latter seemed to be all set to prevail.  The elderly man gathered pace, hoping to avoid being bitten by the dog.

As a young officer in India's leading development bank, hoping to reach the position that the old man being chased by the dog had held, I learned an important lesson in life on that morning.  As I grew older and often rued my luck as I plodded through a patchy track record in my professional life I often consoled myself by reminding myself of the dog chasing the former governor of RBI.

As a Hindi poem that I learned in school, Gulab Ke Phool, concluded,

Woh dekho, kaanteni hain usmen
Aib duniyaa mein kismein?
Tum aibon par dhyaan na dena
Vidya seekh sabhi se lena

(Look, there are thorns in it.  Who does not have faults in this world?  Dont pay attention to the flaws in anyone or anything.  Take lessons from everyone and everything in life.)

As I narrated this incident to the amusement of my young colleague, the recent teaching debacle looked utterly immaterial.

Nanni....Namaskaram...