Helium (2 page)

Right after breakfast I took a taxi from our house on Amrita Sher-Gil Marg to the IIT campus. Because of dense smog I was unable to notice any major alterations in the engineering campus. Or a large number of puddles and stray dogs. To my surprise the office keys were ready; all I had to do was sign a special form. However, the room looked a bit run-down, different from its picture, the one the Chair had sent me via email. I must explain. IIT gave me a tiny office for six months to facilitate my sabbatical. The office, a favour, like all favours, came with a price. The first thing they demanded nefariously on the day of my arrival was to help conduct a PhD exam.

I was still dizzy, mildly feverish and foaming with jet lag. However, the student did an outstanding haze of a presentation. When I was his age, work as good as his was often described as ‘fucking good’. What I relished about the talk were the old-fashioned no-nonsense slides – helpful because I had not read the thesis. Hurriedly I flipped through the document and found he had even cited a paper of mine that had appeared fourteen years ago in
Physical Review A
. My colleagues asked the candidate questions about the assumptions of the model he developed and the data he generated. One of the key applications of his work was to help clean up soils in heavily industrialised areas, and damaged soils in areas like Bhopal.

But these notes are not about tragic industrial disasters or Dow or Union Carbide. I am assembling material connected to an unspeakable event that took place barely a month before Bhopal. How those three or four days in the past ruptured my relationship with Father. Ruptured is the wrong word. With years a lot of dust has settled on our so-called relationship, but the passing of time has made little difference, or rather neither of us has changed or relaxed the way we expected each other to. He knows I know he is not innocent. Nevertheless he considers himself justified. My absence, now that I think about it, has been an immense loss; my long voluntary absence kept me from participating in the colossal transformation my country has gone through, making me a stranger to the city where I grew up. The gap of years has not even helped determine the ‘why’ of my troubled relationship with Father. Troubled, once again, is the wrong word. The word I would like to use doesn’t exist. But, to move ahead, it is essential to venture near the interstitial spaces of language. I must unravel the primary mechanism(s) of the problem. Gather evidence. How else would I figure out the mechanism of my own grand failure . . . ?

There was a professor of mine who used to emphasise the difference between ‘dependent’ and ‘independent’ variables. If the population of human babies, for instance, starts falling (in a city like Bhopal) and the population of black dogs starts rising simultaneously, it would be wrong to jump to the flawed conclusion: the dogs are responsible for killing the babies. It would be erroneous to rely on simplistic cause-and-effect correlations, because we are really dealing with two independent variables here.

During the PhD oral examination, for some unknown reason, my mind drifted to my own student days, and I could not help thinking, amid a jumble of stray thoughts, about the most harrowing event I ever witnessed. The event that made me stare directly into the dark face of history.

On the morning of 1 November 1984, my professor, who taught us introductory courses in engineering, was killed brutally during the pogrom that followed Indira Gandhi’s assassination. I was nineteen years old then, a boy about to become a man.

The professor was over six feet tall, in his early forties, and taught us Feynman’s Lectures and a class on failure analysis, and he had also screened 8mm films of collapsing structures. I recall now his lecture on Karmen Vortices, and the collapse of Tacoma Narrows Bridge, and phase diagrams of a major industrial accident.

I first encountered him not in a classroom, but in the student residence. In 1981 my mother had accompanied me to the residence with two items of luggage (a black aluminium trunk and a roll of bedding) and she had ventured beyond the visitors’ lounge for she wanted to personally test the quality of the canteen, and there Professor Singh, the boys’ hostel warden, spotted her. Instead of getting mad, he walked up close (yellow tie fluttering in the wind) and asked if he could be of assistance. He reassured her and joked
if your boy doesn’t like the ‘spartan’ food here he could always eat at my place
. The warden’s accent and choice of words conveyed three or four crucial years spent abroad. British, American, Indian English, strands no longer distinct, fuzzy, like a superposition of sine and cosine waves. Even his majestic turban looked Westernised.

I recall he pronounced ‘ethane’ like ‘
eh
thane’ and skipped an ‘i’ in alumin(i)um. But it was really hard to pigeonhole him. Sometimes he would arrive without notes in the lecture hall, a bit unprepared (or so it seemed) in blue rubber hawai chappals, as if woken up in the middle of a research paper, and he would try a few partial differential equations spontaneously with a coloured chalk on the board, and then use his left hand to rub out those beautiful micro-symbols and try again and was not afraid of making mistakes. He rarely opened the thick textbook on the desk.

Nelly and my place
. A few months after joining IIT, the day I topped the class, he extended an invitation. A real invite in a soft-spoken voice.
If you are free this evening you are most welcome to dine at Nelly and my place.

Nelly and my place
. The molecules of air around me vibrate still, gathering evidence.
Come to our place
. I still hear an echo of that ghostly voice, but am unable to foresee what fate is riveted to that cheerful face. Professor Singh’s actual area of specialisation was helium. The second element in the periodic table – ‘He’ – the so-called noble gas. Colourless, odourless, tasteless and monoatomic. The invisible ‘He’ atoms don’t interact much with each other (or with others), preferring ‘isolation’ or ‘solitude’. The gas doesn’t ‘burn’, no combustion reaction in the presence of oxygen. Slowly it keeps escaping our earth’s gravitational field. To this day I am able to quote his lectures.
If we are not careful on Planet Earth, in thirty or forty years not many atoms of this ludicrously light element will be left behind
.
All our primordial helium has already vanished.

Liquid helium, the coldest fluid, boils at extreme low temperatures, around minus 269 degrees Celsius. In the lab the professor, wearing a white lab coat over a tweed, would demonstrate a purple glow under very high voltages, purple like a jacaranda flower. Helium gas is also capable of altering the human voice radically, although this demo never took place in his presence.

That day Professor Singh invited me to dine at
Nelly and my place
. I got delayed by a full hour, apologised. I could not reveal the real reason for delay. Accompanied by a bunch of classmates I had gone to Chanakya to watch my first adult film. The ‘obscene’ images involved two or three fully exposed breasts, nipples longer than mulberries, enough to give me a huge hard-on. Simultaneous pleasure and pain of a kind I had not experienced before. Plus, the campus gift shop was closed to mark an optional religious holiday, and I felt embarrassed arriving empty-handed. Hesitantly, I rang the bell. The bookshelves and other objects in the house suggested this family was steeped in deep knowledge about the world. By now I have forgotten many details, but this I remember. Twelve or thirteen shelves in the living room. Books spilling all over. More, a flash distillation.
Encyclopaedia Britannica
. The Nobel laureates series. European, American fiction and poetry. Not a single science and engineering text (only one on ‘Bose–Einstein Condensates’ borrowed from the library, a monograph on the Dutch scientist, Onnes, and the first editions of Feynman Lectures.) This is Nelly’s territory, said Professor Singh.

Nelly was perhaps the most beautiful woman I had ever encountered, a serene Sikh beauty, and the most refined. She would call him ‘Mn’ with a sense of ease that Indian wives of that generation didn’t normally possess. (Mn or ‘em en’ stood for Mohan and was the best chemical tease.)

She greeted me with a sardonic smile. In fact, both Nelly and Professor Singh had the same sardonic smile.

She had studied literature at a state college in Punjab, and was much younger, only eight or nine years older than me; they had married after he returned from the US. When I arrived at the house she was playing a musical instrument, a rabab. Her two children, a boy and a girl, were asleep in the bedroom. In our class she was known as Mrs Singh; everybody fancied the ‘khubsurat sardarni’. Until that evening I had only seen the enigmatic Nelly from a distance; I will never forget the bread pakoras she fried, not with dhaniya-tamarind but with what she called cranberry chutney. That was the first time I tasted cranberries. There was a layer of spicy potatoes in the pakoras. She served channa-kulcha as well and cashew burfi and chiki as dessert. The professor seemed more relaxed that night; he unfolded his beard, and loosened his navy-blue turban. Two or three strands of grey in his robust beard. Nelly had on Ella Fitzgerald songs and now and then she would step out of the house, and this seemed to annoy him but he didn’t express his annoyance properly.

After dinner Professor Singh did something unusual. He washed the dishes.

Nelly retired to her room without wishing us goodnight, and I ended up discussing ‘dimensionless numbers’ all night long with my teacher. By the time I departed, both of us sensed a new layer of relationship sprouting, the layer commonly known as friendship.

These days the
Times
often runs profiles of highly qualified immigrants returning to India. Better jobs, better quality of life. Good life in Bangalore or the Los Angeles-style Millennium City, Gurgaon. To me these returns are not even half as interesting as Professor Singh’s decision to return when it was really hard to return.

‘Why did you?’ I had asked him that day.

‘Perhaps you know the answer. When I hear the national anthem, an electric current goes through me.’

Often I would go to his office. The walls had developed cracks and the electrical wiring was visible. The left side was covered with awards and commendations and important citations. On the right wall hung a huge black-and-white photo of the so-called great leader, Indira Gandhi. Even then I found her hideous because she had imposed the dictatorial Emergency only six or seven years ago. One day, her bleached hair appeared yellow to me.

I stopped going to classes for a while (in the final year) because I was sick with jaundice. Everything around me turned yellow (including my shit and urine). While convalescing I felt as if coming into contact with everything for the first time. Objects strange and familiar through surge and flutter of marigold yellow. I almost fell down . . . Stumbling through a meta-stable state of diminishing nausea I walked into the college to collect the handouts I had missed. Professor Singh finished his lectures at eleven on Tuesdays and Thursdays and I showed him my new face then. I remember, too, the faint odour of chemicals in his office. In the cupboard there were four or five dark brown bottles, and liquefaction apparatus no longer in use. One Tuesday morning I was still in the office when a weighty parcel arrived. He unwrapped, in my presence, a yellowish book. The thing had arrived all the way from the New World.

‘Do you know where Ithaca is?’ he checked in a husky voice. Up until that day the place Ithaca was merely a Greek myth; I was completely unaware of the names of American university towns. Somewhat hypnotised by his accent my gaze fell on Professor Singh’s tennis shoes. For some mysterious reason he always kept them in the office under his desk. The package was mailed by his friend (a room-mate during the grad-student days) at Cornell. He asked if I were interested in reading the ‘the periodic table’ by a man ‘who belonged to some other world’.

The author, a complete unknown to me, had organised ‘seemingly harmless’ memories around twenty-one chemical elements. Neither a hardback, nor a proper paperback:  the uncorrected proofs. Curious, I borrowed the wondrous ‘book’ of ‘memory and alchemy’ a week later. The friend had inscribed the title page and inserted a copy of his typed review, the one he had submitted to the
Times
. I have no idea why I still remember the expected launch date, 19 November 1984. First English edition. The reviewer/friend, overly generous, claimed it was an admirable and ‘true’ translation. Little did I know then that the author would commit suicide three years later on 11 April, 1987.