Part I
This morning I found myself in a lecture hall listening to Professor Hans Günter Dosch, a (quantum, among other things) physicist from the University of Heidelberg; he had been invited by the South Campus of University of Delhi in a collaborative effort by the German Embassy and the Philosophy Department of DU. His paper was titled “Un-noticed Perceptions of Leibniz: A Basis for Metaphysics of Neurophysiology”.
Herr Dosch is easily identifiable as the scientist in the room. He is wearing a loose and ragged jacket over a baggy button-up sweater and old pants, his teeth look as old the rest of him; a crown of white hair on his bald head.
I don’t know anything about Leibniz except the vague bells his name rings when I think of Calculus or his calculating machine. He was a 17th century do-it-all. Leibniz was a mathematician, philosopher, scientist; and everything in between. Anyway, this lecture is about, as the abstract reads, “the system of pre-established harmony [which] allows a neat separation of purely (natural-)scientific problems and those of philosophy”.
Dosch has a delightfully archetypal German accent, and the wry humour of a man who knows!
He talks about the divide between metaphysics and physics, and uses an illustrative example which I like; the measurable impulse in the brain when exposed to a sound, and the sharper wave it forms in the graph of the two (of three in all) subjects who are trained musicians!
The entire lecture is reminiscent of the Schrödinger Cat syndrome: Where does physics cross the boundary line into leaps of intuition?
When the Professor is done, I make an observation I have had in my head ever since I had my first taste of quantum mechanics. Appa’s favourite example of this kind of leap of genius, as he calls it, is Kepler poring over Tyco Brahe’s meticulous and thus far useless columns and columns of numbers; observations of the “measured motion” of the planets. Kepler looked at them, and as I always imagine, said aloud, in a timeless Eureka-esque scene, “Hey, this looks like the areal velocity swept per unit time by the planets in their orbits is constant! That means the orbits must be elliptical!” Of course, why he is Kepler and I am not is that he would have said the same as, “This looks like the areal velocity swept per unit time by the planets in their orbits is constant. The orbits must be elliptical”; i.e. without the added drama.
Dosch likes my observation that this is to me borderline mystical. He says that Kepler’s tale is actually an example of good metaphysics!
On my right sits an old, very distinguished looking gent, a Sardar dressed soberly and neatly, a worn wedding band on his finger and his hands wrinkled gently like an aristocrat who has seen his share of the world too, in his day. He has what I feel is the hint of a Calcutta accent, but I forget to ask. He looks at the book I am carrying (for effect as well as to quote from; it is applicable everywhere!), Chaos: The Amazing Science of the Unpredictable, by James Gleick, goes ‘ahem’ to himself and asks me if I am from the Science department. I reply that Lady Shri Ram College has no Science department; I am a student of Literature. Ah, the next best thing! says he, politely. I do not particularly care for the line of criticism he employed when questioning Dosch; still I find him interesting, and he is obviously a man of some erudition. I ask him before the room clears, where he is from. Oh, I teach Sociology at Delhi School of Economics. I am suitably impressed and say I don’t know his name. Uberoi, he says, writing it down for me, Drop in for a chat sometime. Uberoi as in Patricia? I ask stupidly (we studied a paper of hers on marriage and kinship systems last year; she is a big name in Sociology). Yes, I am her husband, says the gent, One of my other achievements; smilingly.
Alrighty then. I feel all intellectual.
Meanwhile Professor Pandit, Head of Philosophy, South Campus had a German accent and knows his stuff. He is nice. My teacher calls me, Pandit wants to talk to me. He asks if I am from Mathematics and then compliments me on the level of my question, and adds in an avuncular fashion that students must also learn, slowly, the art of not giving a speech when asking a question to a presenter.
I corner Herr Dosch with my Chaos book in hand, asking for his autograph. I suspect he has not been asked this before, since he is surprised, and laughs gaily. But I did not write this book, he protests. I know, I say, But I don’t have any of your books and this is the book I carry around the most. So he says, Oh I didn’t think I should bring copies of my book…give me your address and I’ll send you a copy of my book on Semiotics.
Part II
I look, out of habit, at the Events page in Delhi Times to see if anything is worth watching/hearing tonight. I discover that the Orchestra del Teatro Regio di Parma, the Italian Parma Royal Theatre Orchestra is playing at Purana Qila (Old Fort). It is in collaboration with the Italian Embassy. No mention of tickets or passes. I carry enough money for either, and reach the venue, many excruciating stop-lights later, about twenty minutes late. I am wearing a deep purple turtleneck sweater, respectable jeans, black sensible shoes, fake diamond studs and a long black overcoat. All in all, I don’t look too bad. This is important to note, as you will see. I am confused about where the entrance is (even though this is where we sang with Artistes Unlimited for the private gathering of Fortune 500 company CEOs earlier this year). I see some well-dressed foreigners rush toward a golf-cart or airport-jeep kind of vehicle; on asking, I find this thing is to take us into the grounds. In the cart, my heart stops for a minute – I see passes in everyone’s hands. Shit, I’m sunk.
The cart stops and there is a ten-second walk to the seating area which is at a raised level. The lady at the foot of the steps (barely older than me, I should guess; a volunteer I suppose) asks, Your card please. I put on a harried expression and lament that I left it in the car. She asks me my name (not that they seem to have a guest list, which is just as well) and says I can’t go in. I beg, saying I’m in a tight spot. A man behind her busily says I should be let in quickly, no time to waste. It was all because of the fake diamonds and the svelte overcoat, I tell you.
So here I am at this exquisite venue, the ruins behind the orchestra, in the midst (or behind since I got really bad seats so late) of a thousand-odd dignitaries, diplomats and (I can only imagine) various sundry celebrities.
As it turns out, the Parma Orchestra tradition goes back to the Renaissance; Paganini, no less, was director of the Ducal Orchestra, and with him the Parma Orchestra became the best in all Italy.
It is a delightful and unforgettably beautiful evening of Verdi, Puccini, Donizetti, and I am new to them all.
As I walk out, the Fort rises in silhouette above me, out of the smog; the sounds of the busy thoroughfare reach me from barely a few hundred feet away; I must catch an auto-rickshaw back to the hostel. It is cool, not cold, and beautiful, the avenue of palms all lit up and the ruins of a lost empire exuding silent grace.
I have sung here.
My heart is light, I feel small at being here like this by happy chance and a little trickery! but lucky too. In the air still linger the expensive perfumes of the ladies in high heels, and the smell of Old Delhi is nowhere.
I exit and manage to find an auto immediately.
Now I am back in hostel, sitting at a borrowed laptop, wondering how on earth I am going to finish studying for my Philosophy exam on Wednesday. And did I mention it’s Monday?
I love Delhi. I don’t know if I live in real Delhi at all, but the bubble-city of academic circles, culture and world views that I inhabit is perfect tonight.
