Eight Hours of Sleep Later…

I knew I could never give up on precious sleep! Anyway, eight hours of sleep later, I’m more relaxed and I can ask myself why I feel so nervous about an impending mid-term. The professor, I hear, has a propensity for giving F’s. This has been freaking me out for a while now, although I pretend that I’m too cool to care.

The fact is, one can either study every single day (boo-rriinng). Or study once in a while. I keep telling myself I could be the first kind of person but let’s face it, I’m not. I’m the kind of person who thrives on last minute panic. Not too last minute. I can’t study the morning of the exam. But the week before the exam is when I shine.

This is actually the first course I’ve taken in this school where you can’t fake your way through. The professor doesn’t repeat the same set of homework questions every year. Neither does he allow open book exams (just a single sided formula sheet for reference). And (huge sigh of relief here) I don’t think he repeats the same exam over and over every single year. So, this means that next week’s exam will actually tell me where I stand among the huge crowd of first, second and third years taking this course.

Should my performance in this one exam be an absolute indicator of my talents and abilities? No. Should I take my performance in this exam as a sign of whether or not I’m suited to analytical research? No. Should my ego be bruised if I can’t handle the level of math this course requires? No. Should I really be comparing myself with third year students (who, having cleared their quals, are probably taking only one or at most two courses this semester and therefore have all the time in the world to prepare for this exam)? No.

But does rational thought prevent me from answering “yes” to all of the above? No…

Of Math, Research, and Papers

This week has been a nightmare. I’ve been up late trying to get things done. But nothing gets done. This means I just stay up even longer trying to get more things done and so on and so forth.

I’ve finally reached a point where I can read a research paper in a single sitting. And I can now even tell the good ones from the ones written only for the purpose of increasing the author’s publication count. This doesn’t mean I’m happier around math. I’m still as intimidated by an integration symbol now as I was when I was in class five and I saw it in my brother’s M L Khanna book (remember the big fat IIT mathematics book?). Hard to believe that I have a bachelor’s degree in engineering, huh? I still can’t appreciate the effort it takes to drill down an idea to the point where it is big enough to attack but not small enough to be insignificant. Appreciating a research paper is an art. I’m only just now beginning to make a little sense of things.

Why is it that it’s only when you’re busy that you have fundamental questions about the nature of your work and the purpose of a PhD degree? I wonder if anyone who in a PhD program ever feels competent. I’m sure there are many. I wonder where that confidence comes from. Does it come from knowing that you’re good at what you do? Or at feeling generally competent enough to handle the math and the work that comes your way? Does the comfort come from knowing right in your first year what your dissertation is going to be about? Or is it just a general zen thing. That you either have it or don’t? But more disturbingly, is confidence (or a lack thereof) a bigger sign of some things? Is it a personal thing? Or does it depend on the environment?

I’ve been trying to make sense of things for a long time now. What part of the jitters is from my own general incompetence? What because I feel I’m not suited for rigorous (at least by my standards) mathematical work? And what from just waiting to see where life takes us? And do I really feel this is a bad fit or am I so tired of moving that I don’t want to like anyone or anyplace or anything anymore?

 

Women’s Day Tag – (edited)

I guess it’s in the rules, so here’s the image:

I’ve been tagged! Thanks for the kind words eep! This is eating into homework time but I think it’s important. I hope you like it…

 


 

Ah, the Indian woman. The dainty creature, clad in silk, walking gracefully as a cat with never a frown, never a word of complaint and never a sigh of disappointment. She is the the perfect mother, the ideal wife, the dutiful daughter, the miracle worker, the one whose prayers are always answered (think no further than Nirupa Roy). She is the ideal of the Rama Sena and the Shiv Sena and all the Senas of the Hindu Gods. But is she real?

The Indian woman. She is sold by her own family, bargained for, bought by rich Arabs looking for young wives, raped for amusement, raped for punishment, gang raped to preserve honour of the men, abused, beaten, burned for dowry, and shunned for sins she did not commit. She could be your maid. She could be that woman you see in the bus. The woman who sells flowers by the street, the woman who sweeps the streets, the woman who cleans your toilets, the woman who stitches your clothes, the woman who rents out her womb, the woman who works in the fields and sleeps hungry because there is no food left for her. She is the very real woman who has no voice.

The Indian woman. She is considered leased property by her parents (leased from her future husband and in-laws), the second-grade sibling by her brothers, and free labour by the mother-in-law. She is dismissed by her husband, taken for granted by her children. Her efforts go unnoticed and she never hears a word of appreciation. She is the eternal sufferer, the supreme sacrificer fulfilling endless expectations who never takes a moment for her own self. Ever silent, she knows what she endures but does not speak. She could be your mother, your aunt, your neighbour, or your cousin. She is everywhere around you. She could have been you in another life.

The Indian woman. She seems to have sacrificed saris for jeans and kurtis. She drives a two wheeler, works in a well paying job, and is second to no one. She stands for no discrimination. She expects equal rights at home and at work and is confident enough to disagree with her in-laws. She takes care of herself and remembers to take vitamins once in a while and to use sunscreen. She stands up for others when she can and knows only too well what could happen if she stops standing up for herself. She is me. And you. And all of us others who write well meaning blogs.

Who is the Indian woman? What does she want? What does she deserve? What is this so called Bhartiya Sabhyata? Where do women fit in? So much has been said on the subject that it’s no different from politicians’ rhetoric anymore. Yes, Eep, I agree. We should stop being bitchy to each other. Yes, Careless, I agree. The Mamta thing has been done to death. Yes, IHM, I agree with every new story you post that seems like the same old story all over again. The same story over and over again until we start to lose hope. But should we?

Just like almost everything else in urban India, feminism too now seems the cause of choice for armchair activists. Talking about it is a great first step but at some point, we have to ask ourselves where we go from here. That is what I’d like to see coming from this whole game of blog tag. Ideas about what we can do. Here are my two cents:

  1. Empower someone else. It could be a cousin, a neighbour, a friend’s friend. If you know of someone who needs help, help her. It could be domestic violence, dowry harrassment or general harrassment. A woman doesn’t have to take half the crap most put up with.
  2. Teach someone. It could be your maid, her daughter, the watchman’s kids, the children who live in the slum near your apartment complex, anyone. You could make a huge difference just by spending an hour everyday teaching someone basic reading and writing skills. It doesn’t involve any effort except being home for an hour. You could teach the child while her mother works.
  3. “Adopt” a child. Adoption is not for everyone. But many of us could surely afford to sponsor a child and ensure that she gets a decent education and nutrition and a shot at a better life.
  4. Volunteer at a local municipal school. My mother did this for a long time and she would help children with English or other basic skills. You can make a huge difference.
  5. Fight dowry. It might be a small step but many parents feel that a “bit of dowry” is a small price to pay for their daughter getting “settled”. It’s not a small price. It’s a huge indicator of things to come.
  6. Stand up against seemingly small things. When a manager leaned too close for comfort while trying to “help” me code, I complained. When a guy gets too close for comfort on a bus, I carry a safety pin for self defense.
  7. If you have a son, raise him to not think he’s doing you a favour when does his share around the house. Some day, a woman will thank you the way I thank my mother-in-law.
  8. Support a local shelter. Encourage them to give women some skills that will help them to be self sufficient.
  9. Fight sexist rituals and traditions. I might have been forced into touching my husband’s feet at the wedding but that’s not about to happen again (not that he wants it to, I hasten to add). My father-in-law’s the exact opposite of what tradition requires. His blessings always include the word “granddaughter” somewhere.
  10. Be nice to other women. It seems like a small thing but it’s not. My mother-in-law always tells people we’re friends. (Not that I’m like her daughter which is such an annoying thing to hear). My mother never “lectures” my sister-in-law. My sister-in-law and I seem to get along a whole lot better than my brother and I do!

As Freeze Dried said in a comment, there are some basic rights many of us take for granted that others are still fighting for. It’s time we all did our part. The Gulabi Gang is!

I tag Avu, Freeze Dried and Anwesha.

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