ACHARYA D D KOSAMBI

"Institutions such as schools, churches, governments and political organizations of every sort all tend to direct thought for ends other than truth, for the perpetuation of their own functions, and for the control of individuals in the service of these functions" - Phædrus

chalega- better than a
Padma-this-that-or-the-other!

If there is one person, whose legacy the writer would, in the eyes of posterity, love to inherit- or usurp if you please, it is DD Kosambi. If there is anyone in our era who qualifies for Shakespeare's dramatic words, it's him: 'His life was gentle, and the elements mixed so well in him that Nature might stand and say to all the world: This was a man!'

He was cast in the classic mould  as an hero. Just read the tributes paid to him by eminent personalities when he, a fitness expert at the height of his prowess, suddenly passed away in sleep, leaving people shocked and grieving. What is most adorable about him is the greatness and sheer breadth of his philosophical mind that allowed diverse antagonistic entities to coexist there in comfort-Bunyan,Charvaka, Bhratrihari, Marx, Statistics, Gandhi, Genetics, Archaeology, Atheism, Hinduism, Buddhism, humour, peasants, nuclear science, nature worship. Like Einstein he was different, a non-conformist with a difference. Did he not remark: 

Why should anybody ignore the beautiful lily of Indian Philosophy in order to concentrate upon the dismal swamp of popular superstition…Anyone with aesthetic sense can enjoy the beauty of the lily; it takes a considerable scientific effort to discover the physiological processes whereby the lily grew out of the mud and the filth..

Imagine- in spite his avowed animosity towards the Bhagvad Gita, he derived 'immense aesthetic pleasure from its power of expression and peculiar beauty'....Not many people can aspire to do that, for it involves felicity to take intellectual leaps from one concept to another, and be at ease with each. It comes only to monumental minds like Einstein whose thinking is in basically in terms of abstract, and then the abstract template or paradigm may be applied with equal ease and comfort to mathematics, to violin, to theology, to peasants, to love of pets, to cabbages, to Kings- or even as a sword in case of conflict! His mind worked with the sort of intellectual scalpel conceived by Phædrus quoted above, or in the language of software, he possessed an uncanny ability to programme quickly in machine language...whewww!

Damodar Dharmananda Kosambi- mind you, of amcho Goa again (b.1907 d.1966, a mere 59), master of all that he surveyed, made invaluable original contributions to Pure Mathematics as well as Statistics, but is best known as a Marxian Historian. Babasaheb Kosambi, as people affectionately called him. In the not too distant past, the Marathi male child would invariably be addressed as (choose one): Baba, Nana, Baban, Balu, Raja, Dada, Anna, Sonya, Tatya, Appa, and upon growing up the appellation would get suffixed with Saheb or Rao or Bapu, depending upon the station in life. Likewise, in case of the girl child: Baby, Tai, Jiji, Akka, Chhaku, Rani, Thaku, Manu, Didi...being Deccanese, you find the flavours both of North and South...

DDK also studied at Cambridge, Mass., Harvard etc. He taught Mathematics and German at BHU, then Mathematics at AMU, then Mathematics for 12 years at the Fergusson, served for 3 years at TIFR, then taught at University of Chicago and Princeton, returning to India thereafter for good, to engage in full time writing of commentaries and books on Ancient Indian History and Sanskrit texts. For some time he also served as Scientific Advisor to the Government of the Peoples’ Republic of China.

He fell out with Dr. Bhabha and left TIFR because “when scientists were debating the relative advantages of solar and nuclear energy, Kosambi argued for the sun whereas Bhabha preferred uranium and had the backing of Jawaharlal Nehru…” He wrote thus in favour of solar energy:

“The cost of research on direct utilization of solar energy would be far lower than for atomic energy. India has much greater supply of solar energy than most other countries; in fact, the problem is to keep the land from being blasted altogether by the sun. One difficulty is that the sun’s energy is not constant. There is the variation between sunrise and sunset, with nothing at all at night. Again, cloudy days make a difference. The problem of storage, however, is not too difficult. Better storage batteries can certainly be produced, to give long life without heavy servicing. Another method would be to pump water by use of solar energy, at whatever variable speed the sun allows, into high-level tanks (say on towers). The water can then come down by gravity through turbines which turn electric generators, and can be further used for irrigation. The advantages are that the fuel—the sun’s radiation—costs absolutely nothing, and there are no harmful exhaust gases or radioactive byproducts. Moreover, the installation can be set up anywhere in India, and will work quite well except perhaps in the heaviest monsoon season. The research is of no use for war purposes. That is why it attracts some of us, but does not attract those who control the funds…” (the parting kick in the para being for Bhabha- read http://permanent-black.blogspot.in/2012/06/unsettling-past-dd-kosambi-and-romila.html)

His taike on India’s population problem:

“Children are the sole means of support for those among the common people who manage to reach helpless old age. The futility of numerical ‘planning’ of the population, when nothing is done to ensure that even the able-bodied have a decent level of subsistence, is obvious to anyone but a born expert. Convince the people that even the childless will be fed and looked after when unable to fend for themselves and birth control will become popular..”

What monumental foresight – how much ahead of the times! We imagine he was not the recipient of a Padma-this or a Padma-that or a Padma-other because the Government had not the guts to offer one to him. You know what Baba would have said. He’d convulse in his virtual grave if someone tried to award one posthumously. We always believed that the Padma awards should be rechristened 'Pavlovshri' etc, for what are they  but instruments for seeking affiliation to the ruling classes' beliefs and morality (we can keep artistes out of the pale of these accusations, he, he). These awards are not meant for non-conformists like Kosambi, in whom one sees an aks i.e. عکس of Phædrus. But does this mean that our educators deprive our generations of information on this person, who is one of the greatest of Indians? Our opening quote is intended to address this conundrum which should leave compatriots curious about the method by which our society chooses its mentors. The ચોર of ચોરવડ is a super-hero and few know about DDK! If it were not for the democratic features of the net, the very traces of Kosambi, who himself discerned whole societies in a grain of sand, would ironically disappear. But for any of us who desires to know about D D Kosambi, each word ever penned by Kosambi is available for free-his life is an open non-copyrighted book..the best things in life are still free...but surely he has a cult following

The most poignant tribute, when he died, came from A.L.Basham, the famous British historian…here are some excerpts:

“When his attention turned increasingly to anthropology as a means of reconstructing the past, it became more than ever clear that he had a very deep feeling for the lives of the simple people of Maharashtra. When he described local festivals, and religious ceremonies or showed the excellent colour slides that he had taken of them, one felt that he would have liked to participate, to identify himself with the peasants worshipping at a village shrine or making a pilgrimage to Pandharpur…

“..one realized that the range of his heart and mind was very wide. He had a great love of literature in all languages. Once he impressed me by quoting passages from John Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress from memory. I was astonished that he should know this seventeenth century English religious classic so well, and suggested that his taste for Bunyan was rather incongruous in a professed unbeliever. He replied that he loved Bunyan because his language was so beautiful and simple, he was a product of the popular culture of the time, and he imparted valuable moral lessons, even to one who had no faith.…..

“Impatient with hypocrisy, inefficiency, bureaucracy, dogmatism and intolerance, a man of very deep convictions and strong principles, with a very powerful will, he may have made enemies as well as friends…

“I am not qualified to pass judgment on his work in mathematics, and have hardly the right to assess his editions of Sanskrit poetical texts, which, according to the specialists, are marvels of their kind….

“As a historian he made very important contributions to the study of many aspects of Indian history. His statistical analysis of the punch-marked coins has produced one of the most convincing interpretations of these so far to have been offered. His An Introduction to the Study of Indian History is in many respects an epoch making work, containing brilliantly original ideas on almost every page; if it contains errors and misrepresentations, if now and then its author attempts to force his data into a rather doctrinaire pattern, this does not appreciably lessen the significance of this very exciting book, which has stimulated the thought of thousands of students throughout the world…..

Here is a passage form C.D.Deshmukh's autobiography of DDK (he,he,he,) which will be of interest to my poha brothers . You won't get the full picture about DDK till you read this:

This episode well illustrates his personality in those days. (q 12) Principal R.B. Joshi had said, ‘the students of the Holkar College of Indore had organized an excursion. They had planned to stay in Dr. Sukhtankar’s Bungalow at night and spend the next day climbing up and down the mountain seeing the waterfalls of Patalpani, Brahmakund, Mendikund, etc. Vishnupant Barpute, the chief of the Scout Movement in Indore was our leader. Damodar Dharmnanda, i.e., Baba Kosambi had joined us. ‘We all appreciated Baba’s company. All of us were curious about the way the son of a world renowned Maharashtrian, educated in America would talk and behave with us. In the beginning we would watch him from a distance because there was such a lot of disparity between him and us. We could talk in English falteringly while he would talk mostly in English fluently and that too in American English. He talked in Marathi too but only a little and it sounded quite unnatural. For an age of 16 or 17, he had a brawny and hefty body. His solid shoulder muscles peeping through the open collar of his Khaki shirt looked like the sloping sides of a pyramid. The portions of his arms below the half sleeves of his shirt, from the elbow downward were shaped like a sculpture. Attired in khaki shirt and khaki Knickers with a haversack flung on his back and a solid stick in his hand stirring around, his attractive figure arrested our attention. Despite these heroic qualities he talked so freely and with such ease that i felt he was one of us. His English became intelligible to us and we sensed the difference between spoken English and bookish English. He gave toffees that he had brought with him to all of us. He occasionally would take a toffee back from someone telling him, ‘Hi, you have one too many!’ and give it someone else. I heard this idiom for the first time and remember it ever since. At times he did not spare even Barpute from his banter.

‘When he took off his clothes for bathing in the Mendikunda, his form in perfect proportion like a Greek statue astonished us. He then started talking about exercise and showed us how to exercise and build the muscles of the back and the shoulders into perfect shape without using dumbbells, chest expanders and such other equipment. 

(Incidentally Vishnupant or Tatya Barpute is the writer's direct ancestor from paternal grand-mother's side. Their association arose on account of a common bond- Boy Scouts; it's the final seal of pojitivess, and YT proclaims- he is a Boy Scout too...once a Scout, always one- the logic goes reverse really- a Boy Scout is for ever...we remembering inducing Bharat Scouts, Daryaganj, Delhi 110006 to open a savings accounts with Chabiwala Bank, Janakpuri, Delhi 110058, when YT was the Branch Manager there.. in AD 1985...)



A senior DDK tends Bonzo in his Poona home: When employed in TIFR, DDK reputedly did up-down to Bombay daily in Deccan Queen

***************

Favourite Literature: a habit of his which did not meet the approval of western scholars including Basham, was juxtaposing  thoughts and skills of Sanskrit poets, on those of western poets of eras far removed, say Goethe or Blake, to the disadvantage of the former that is Sanskrit poets. Basham held his Marxism responsible for the alleged mis-judgement based on class-related content. Bring me my bow of burning gold quoted on the masthead of the blog is a virile and passionate sample of William Blake's poetry which Kosambi loved.

 

Read only short story DDK wrote for children, explaining the beginning of everything, with a touching passsage on the traditional practice of worshiping the Bodhi tree. Although a non-believer, he wrote on matters concerning sentiments with an earnest empathy that can be possessed by an ardent believer...therein lies DDK's greatness..

****************

BARC work environment: This establishment has a dark record of suicides. While reporting on the suicide by a young scientist Ms Titas Pal, in 2010, the Mid-Day, as a sequel to scientists' laments on the HR, wrote the following words:

The Niligri building where Pal stayed in flat no 1414, has a history of suicides. A BARC resident, on condition of anonymity, said that in 1996, the entire building was fenced with metal grills to prevent any suicide attempts.

Grandma's Treasure

Our last blog was published a few days back, after a gap of around 2 months, a chasm which has been looked upon by our 3 dedicated readers with anxiety and concern. So we follow it up quickly with another short one, one of the many we have been working on for the last few decades.

A member of that unenviable tribe, Managers of Public Sector Banks, yours truly was posted as the head of a largish branch of our Bank, located at one of the leading religious centres of the country. At the end of an action-packed day, we were sitting in a swivel chair, licking the day’s wounds. It was dark, damp and eerie outside and as the Manager’s only loyal companion, the peon on daily wages was downing the shutters, there was a visitor, imploring our man to let him in. The Raven? Or was it a member of another hapless tribe, that of the Salesmen, we thought? Let’s give the poor fellow an audience, we told our man.

The Raven happened to be a lean and tall man. He wore a dhoti and a kurta, dyed in turmeric. On his forehead he sported a long, red, vertical, namam like tilak, and at the back, a pony-tail . He settled on the chair before us, as if it were the bust of Pallas in the poem below, and started to address us, of all languages, in Sanskrit. The speech lasted about two minutes and we could not pick up a single word apart from the aham at the beginning, so fluent was he, and/or so ignorant was the audience. Although our patience was running low, we were definitely intrigued. Our tired little brain, in the face of that torrent of words, was conducting an exercise in free association, and the words that whirred past were (*) ‘living fossil’, ‘crank’, ‘revivalism’ etc., and last but not the least, more ‘expenses-not-enumerated-elsewhere’. (* )-you guessed it correctly, stands for inter alia, the all-time favourite.

For the listeners’ benefit, thereafter, the Swami rendered the speech into Hindi. It was understood that the ‘Sanskrit Prabodhini Sabha’ was to hold a Sanskrit teaching ‘Shivir’ at a venerated temple of the town, and we were to provide the Sabha, funds for publicity banners. To our great relief, they would cost Rs. 400.00 only. That much we could do, one thought, as a mark of our duty towards our cultural heritage, and in keeping with the tradition of ‘community services banking’ of Chabhi-wala-bank... We won’t have to send a ‘nil’ CSB return for the 11th successive quarter next time, he,he,he! Somehow, the Sabha also wanted us to be present at one of their sessions, to establish their bona fides, the resident cynic inside us mused.

So far as their mission was concerned, as an anglicised Indian, we naturally approached the whole thing with a measure of healthy scepticism. What was the point in teaching a reportedly dead language to living beings? Anyway the expenses were sanctioned, and we had them off our back, so we thought. But boyyyy....were they persistent! Our friend grilled us every evening in chaste Sanskrit and ultimately YF was almost dragged to the valedictory function on day 7.

The workshop was being wound up. In that august hall, in the presence of our venerated saint’s statue, squatted about 50 enthusiastic children, women and a few good men. Standing before them was Ms. Laxmi, a dark-complexioned, beautiful young lady from Karnataka, the lady behind the mission. She knew not a word of Hindi, which was the lingua franca of the audience. One stood transfixed and amazed. The pupils and Laxmi were conducting a fluent exchange in Sanskrit which their mentor had taught them in 7 days flat with the aid of a very small common linguistic denominator, which, to the mathematician in us, was like finding the value of two variables with a single, and not two, linear equations. What was remarkable was the enthusiasm of the tutor and the taught. At the end of the workshop, we were told, they promised to each other that they would keep up their communication by way of letters.

Imagine what long term impact this interlude would have on the lives of the kids, leaving aside the linguistic part. It would ‘supply’ ‘super ordinate goals’, as we would teach in OB lectures in our Staff Academy- something above the daily drill of people, something with a non-material content, which encourages them to rise above ‘petty things’....

It was AN experience for us, but according to Laxmi, this invariably happened wherever in the country she went. She, we were told, had made the popularisation of Sanskrit her life’s mission. Familiarity with the language would promote national integration, she believed. Such was her dedication, she had even taken a vow of celibacy!

One almost wanted to be a believer. Wasn’t Sanskrit said to be the most scientific, computer friendly language? No less a person than Dr. Raja Ramanna had vouched for the greatness of Sanskrit. But alas again-did she, i.e. the language, have a future really, or was she, too, condemned to celibacy?

As we left the venue, we were certain of two things, one that the organisation’s money had been spent on a cause someone passionately believed, which is rare, and two, that old Granny Sanskrit may yet have something for us in her humble, derided potli!

Aside: 

 No, my friend,this time it is not about Hairy Harry, but about a fetish of ours, The Raven, which often makes a guest appearance in this blog. Edgar Allan Poe is reproduced below:

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'
Merely this and nothing more.


Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'


Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.


Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'


Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.'


But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'


Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never-nevermore."'


But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'


This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!


Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'


`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'


`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'


`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

George Bernard Shaw was a great admirer of Poe, and wrote something to the effect that ‘when Poe passes, we lesser mortals just stand and doff our hats’. We’ll have to look for the exact words.

Some other views:

"It's because I liked Edgar Allan Poe's stories so much that I began to make suspense films."
-Sir Alfred Hitchcock

"Your 'Raven' has produced a sensation, a 'fit horror,' here in England. Some of my friends are taken by the fear of it and some by the music. I hear of persons haunted by the 'Nevermore,' and one acquaintance of mine who has the misfortune of possessing a 'bust of Pallas' never can bear to look at it in the twilight."
-Elizabeth Barrett Browning, writing to Poe.

"Where was the detective story until Poe breathed the breath of life into it?"
-Sir Arthur Conan Doyle