Mary

Mary is a real estate agent.
She has been an agent before I was born. She must have started in the 50's; if there was such agents in 50's.

I had fixed an apartment to stay temporarily even before I left India, thanks to many possibilities the internet has opened up for my generation. But finding an apartment for long-term became a challenge. That had to be optimised in a complex plane, as the mathematicians say. Budget, distance, and the facilities, strictly in that order, had to be tackled very delicately and with skill. So we searched in internet, walked around, made phone calls, visited several apartments, and finally made a call to an agent. It was a number given below an "Alouer" (read 'alew') sign. I thought I was talking to the owner. But it was an agent. French can be a very confusing, especially if you have English prejudices.

Calling an agent certainly was not in my mind. I have known such agents, and I personally prefer to avoid them. Mary spoke to me very nicely over phone. It took my slow brain a few minutes to register that I was talking to an agent. By then she knew where I work, that I do not drive a car, I do not even have bicycle, and I hate to spend money or time on transport. She had a way of talking, like a school teacher or nurse; some times sweet and caring, sometimes stern and commanding. So when she said she can show me several apartments in the area, I smelled a rat. I knew it was a shrewd, cunning, greedy real estate agent.

So I played smart, and did not go to meet her at 5'O clock sharp, as she had asked me to. Then she called me at 5.05; She said she has been waiting for me. I said I have work. She reminded me that I had promised her to meet her at 5, and it is five minutes late already, and she has been waiting. She was a headmistress then, and I ran to meet her. But when I reached the place, there was nobody.

Of course, I did not count a frail old lady in her seventies sitting there on a bench. Montreal population is largely very young students and very old pensioners. The old people are seen walking around with their only comfort, small dogs. They live in apartments all alone. And when they die, someone will know somehow, and they dial 911 for emergency services, then the police will take care. Till then they are treated well with publicly supported hospitals, parks, and in public transport. They enjoy considerable discounts on all services, and generally roam around trying to see their place in a world they have built up.

So I ignored Mary until she asked me if I am looking for the agent, for this frail old woman was the agent. Half my misgivings went away when I saw her, she was indeed a sweet old lady. She was short, hardly four feet and with short white hair. She was wearing small black skirt and blouse, and I suspect that's her work clothes; I have never seen in the last four months in any other attire. She was weak too. But her ways were pleasant, and people seemed to like her. She was formal somewhat, and asked everyone "Hello! how are you" on the way. Her phone rang continuously, she attended all of them, only to say something like "Hello, Julie, I am in work, I can't talk to you just now. I will call you later".

Mary did find me a cute, small, apartment to stay, meeting all my criteria, and she did not charge me anything. She said she will be paid from the owner. She works for a large real estate company, and the apartment-owner has to pay something to the company to take care of the legal formalities of renting out, and she will in turn get a commission. We had met her several times before and after that, and she gave us lifts a couple of times in her car. And once when it seemed that we would not be able to rent an apartment soon, she offered that we could stay in her home. "I can always go to my daughters' place. Not that I like to live with my daughter ..." When Femi said she has a grand mother who looks like her, she was more than happy. She said she has 9 grand children.

Children leave their parents when they are between 15-20. It is considered a shame to stay with one's parents after that. They are supposed to find some job. Most would have worked in restaurants or other places in small jobs, and they are often very proud to talk about it. They think it built their character, whatever that means. The boy or girl will find their own partners, and often live together. This gives more freedom not only to the children, but also to the parents, to have their own lives. But the flip side is that if you are left without a partner either because of death or divorce, you are left all alone.

Things are fine as long as you have old-age support and pension. Quebec- the province in which I am living- certainly has several social security measures in place (like if you are old and crippled, the public transport company will send a taxi to pick you up and drop to places for the same ticket others pay for the bus service; from what I hear, health care almost free, and they take very good care of old people. I went to the doctor recently, and had to pay only for the medicine. If you are citizen, even medicine is covered. These programs are funded by heavy tax). Though it looks a quiet and benign city, every right and social security measure here was earned through quite bloody struggles. Quebec certainly has a violent history.

But even then Mary has to work. We will never know if it is because she loves her work, or because she has no choice. I had thought that almost all of the old here are living comfortably. Sometimes I have come across very respectable-looking old men acting as security guards in some building. That is a painful sight. To see them in a guard's uniform and opening doors for all and sundry, when they should be sitting at the garden telling stories to the grandchildren. Life is not that kind to many- even in Montreal.

Mary came to Montreal from Greece long back. In fact, she says she is Greek, though she has been born and brought up here. That's the fate of most people here- to live without roots. They are born and brought up here for generations- but they are still Americans, British, Jemaican's, Chinese or Indians. Blacks came to Canada during American civil war, to escape slavery and certain death. Irish started pouring here during the harsh potato famine in 1840s. The Greeks also came from poor villages. The whole country is made up of people from different parts of the world came to escape from the harsh realities of their own mother-land. Over two centuries they struggled with wild nature, harsh weather, and fought several colonial masters, and now with their own masters, laying down their lives to gain whatever concessions and rights they have.

I often see Mary talking to her clients. Though still meticulously professional, she always takes some time off to remind me that if I ever have any problem I should contact her. When I don't see her, I often thought of her. Then yesterday I came across a half-page size close-up of wrinkled old face in the front page of 'Globe and Mail'. Globe is running a 7-day series starting yesterday . It is about the retirees forced to go back to work. Mind you, people retire at 65 here. Several big companies have pleaded bankruptcy this year. Employees have suddenly found that the companies have not kept their promise to contribute to the pension fund. According to the journal, about 40% of the pension promises will remain just that- mere promises. "Canadians are facing national pension melt down", says the Globe. It seems next week about 11000 retirees of Nortel Canada is going to demonstrate in Parliament hill, among them an old president of Nortel Canada along with then union leaders. The report tracks down retirees selling homes, selling paintings once they have done as a hobby, trying to find new work and realising that they are too old to be hired. Suddenly a country tells its elderly, we have nothing saved up from your life's toil, get back to work, or starve!

I still see Mary around. I love seeing her, and I hope she is working for the sheer pleasure of it.

 [image from: http://image.shutterstock.com/display_pic_with_logo/172054/172054,1252963225,1/stock-photo-old-lady 37065358.jpg]

Voodoo Science

A few years back I came across an interesting book. It was titled "Voodoo science: The road from foolishness to fraud". It was written by Robert L Park, who was then the spokesperson of American Physical Society. It was a collection of Park's essays in popular media, where he responded to various pseudo-science claims by individuals (mostly inventors of perpetual motion machines), corporations, and the American law itself.

It was an interesting book to read. But there is more to it than just
reading, in the Indian context.

1. Park, a professor from Maryland University, chose to respond to pertinent
issues and he used the professional body of American physicists,
to educate the general public.

In India, we have three different association for almost the same set of scientists.
They have annual meetings, and a few inconsequential public lectures
on topics similar to 'effect of lead on a certain variety of rat found
in tropical forests of ...' . In my experience
They never challenge/dispute/contribute to any issues even when
they pertain to science policy, science education, or scientific outlook.

Indian scientists see themselves as a part of an aristocracy, well secluded
from the general public. They perhaps see it beneath their dignity to
respond to day-to-day issues, and to offer down-to-earth explanations
to the layman.
(P Balram of IISc sometimes writes on issues of general interest,
but he often write
in journals that are meant for scientists or science students.
They do not reach the general public).

This in turn has helped people and organisations, fools or frauds,
to think that they can make any type theories/assertions/claims, and
get away with it. This also has resulted in our lack
of role models for science.

2. A consequence of this is apathy of Indian media towards science.
We often hear about our own achievements when it is first reported
in Newyork times. One remembers the discovery of the algorithm to determine
the irrational numbers a few years back by students of IIT-Kanpur.
It made news in India after it was reported in US.

American and British media
regards science journalism very seriously. They place it very competent
hands, often people with doctoral degrees in science, handles science
sections in these newspapers. Simon Singh joined BBC after finishing
his PhD in particle physics from Cambridge.

In India I found only one science journalist worth reading.
R Ramachandran who
occasionally writes for Hindu and Frontline.
Ramachnadran does his own research, meets people,
before he write an article.

Most of our science writers use internet and fill their articles
with loads of freely available information. They are still better than
nothing. Many of our news papers may not even have science editors, or even if they have, they are inconsequential people.

In Malayalam there are some old professors, and some writers who had
brief stints in research institutes writing random stuff
and pseudo philosophical reflections copied from various
authors and books, and pass it as science article.
There usually are some interesting and original stuff in them,
but as someone said, what is interesting is not original,
and what is original is actually rotten.
Mathrubhumi publishes them often, with pictures of english books
and some photographs of random englishmen mentioned in the
article.

Well, everyone gets old and senile. If you have not done anything
significant in life, you end up writing such stuff for Mathrubhumi.

Apart from the above mentioned rather poor exceptions,
science journalism in India revolves around child prodigies,
incredible exaggerations, and just plain stupidity or fraud.

3. Is there hope for science in India ?

Science in India, whether it is research, science education,
science awareness, or scientific outlook, is in bad shape now.
Most of our research output is just plain trash except a few jewels once in a while.

A meaningful change will come only when scientists become ambassedors
of the pursuit they are after, and take time to communicate to
the common man- not only within the narrow limits of their research,
but in general issues related to scientific outlook.

I think that is the only way true science become more visible,
scientists become more visible, pseudo scientific nonsense
get to stop, and the best of the men get attracted to science.

Let Robert L Park be the inspiration for our scientists.

[This was my response to the following blogs: nerd, pappoos, and suchand ]

Life in the Undergrowth

It was long back. There used to be an old man a pale young woman sitting outside the hostel I was living in Bangalore. The woman- or girl, for it was impossible to ascertain her age- wore saree, and sat quietly besides the man, always pointing her gaze downwards. Both were in rags; the man had rather ugly voice, and he begged for money in a passionless or monotonous way, that only irritated passersby. Even with the miserable look of the girl, they did not make much money, for she did not partake in begging, only sat there, without any expression, and the man was also not a seasoned beggar. Over time they became a constant background of that Yeswantpur bus-stop,like the advertisement of radio mirchi, and the regular passengers always ignored them. One Sunday morning, on a what promised to be a beautiful day, not too hot and not too cold, bright red flowers of March beginning to appear on both sides of the highway, we were going to the market. We saw the man sitting a bit far away from his usual place. There were some other usual beggars squatting nearby, some smoking, as if on a holiday. As we walked close by the we saw the girl was lying on the earth, her body covered in a new white cloth, and an agarbathi burning near head, along with a few bananas, and sweets. She had that calm look on her face as she always had.

We don't know what happened to the man. He was never seen there afterwards. I believe he begged only for the sake of the girl. From remote parts of Karnataka and India people flock to Bangalore in the hope of finding a livelihood. The old man could have come from Bellary from one of the closed mining fields. Or from Shimoga, Kolar, or from neighbouring Peenya Industrial Estate, which recently threw away tens of thousands to street. Or he might have owned huge land in Marthahlli that he was coaxed by big builders to part with. We don't know for sure. If we had a Dickens among us, he would have told us the story of the wandering old man and his grand daughter. But we don't have and we don't care.
In those parts of the world, the third world, human life does not value much. And in big cities bare survival itself is a very delicate balancing act for many.

In India we were made to believe that there are too many to feed. It impossible to feed the teeming millions, and it was implied that, some will have to, well, die. Charity was of course encouraged, cited, and celebrated, as if that is the only thing left to try. (There was even a nobel price for charity.) Naive and gentle intellectuals always assured us that as we control population we will have more resources to spare and share.

Canada is about three times bigger than India. And it has thirty times less people to feed. While India has about 364 people in every square kilo meter Canada has only 3. And Canada is one of the wealthiest nations in the world. It is full of philanthropists of all kinds. To top all Canada has one of the most benevolent (from a naive Indian perspective) and extreme welfare capitalism at the helm

shaped by strong wave of working class movements here. So even when we get rid of extra people- 99 out of 100- who are assumed to be there only to eat and multiply and even when we become the next superpower, and even when half our

rich turn into philanthropy, we will be doing only as well.

Montreal appears as quiet beautiful city outwards. Students, professors, and the government staff. Tourists. Smiling faces everywhere, nice manners, clean city.

But beneath this benign skin lies city's under privileged. They have been carefully segregated from the main city to distant neighborhoods so that the poor

do not swarm around the slums and sewage canals in the city, and prick your conscience.

But city is not well cemented. In July alone 80,000 lost their jobs (Source: Canada Labour Force Survey). Sometimes it is not hard to come across healthy looking men and women, even in the prime of their youth, walking or cycling, with a bundle carrying all their belongings. A bundle of clothes, a water bottle, mug, few tissue papers, all rolled and attached to a single bag. They are not leisure hikers. They are the modern nomads, forced to live on the move, because they have no place to call home. If you are an early bird, and walk around parks and other public spaces you would easily come across many sleeping there. There are more artistic ways as well: like our train musician and street painters. (some are quite amazing, but one must keep in mind that they attract talent on an international scale and level, among them some end up in streets.) Some would come to you, like decent gentlemen or ladies. "Sir, can you spare some change ?". Often when you say "Sorry, no change" they would walk away. Resigned to their fate, and too proud.

But it is hard to maintain decorum, particularly when one goes hungry in extreme weather. Many would sit in street corners often keeping a placard in front of them narrating their situation. Refugees out of provincial healthcare, or other umpteen situations which left them without the support of the state, to seek

charity elsewhere. One such placard was blunt and to the point: "I need to eat."

Yesterday happened to be birthday for one of us. Being a special day, and far from near and dear, a stroll along St Catherine seemed like the right thing to do. It was a beautyful sunny day, and being a long weekend, streets would not be crowded.

St. Catherine is one one saint in North America who share same fate of Saint Gandhi. Roads named after him are usually the busiest and poshest. They contain the most expensive showrooms, restaurants, pubs, massage parlours, and other murky things of city life. They have the statue of the saint in some obscure corner

shadowed by flashy hoardings of obscene liquor or lingerie advertisements.

On rue st catherine near a big supermarket we came across a family- a young handsome man in his twenties sat looking downward on a bundle of clothes, trying to quieten two dogs (I have never seen children in street); a woman of the same age, sat on the pavement. The lady(?) carried a placard, which read: "Today is my birthday; please spare some change".

So much for the first world.

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'Life in the Undergrowth' was a David Attenborough documentary on the
creatures that live under the earth, termites, caterpillars, and the like,
too small or insignificant to notice except when they become nuisance.

[image courtesy:   http://www.aliceneel.com]