Learning is knowing what is already known

Close to my 80th milestone, I am still learning. Often I do not know what I want to know. Most of the time, I want to know what is already known.

I think of my school days. I think of the rainy days I looked forward to, because rainy days were undeclared holidays. I think of the mats on which we sat in front of a wooden desk. I think of Varma Ji, who treated us like his own children. I think of the half-hour laiyya-chana break. I think of the playgrounds with no paraphernalia. No homework, no extra tuition.

Then I came to a factory-school that ran in two shifts. I was in the day shift. The school had a few sections reserved for “good” students. Since it was a factory township, every class had many sections; I was not privileged enough to be in those elite ones. Board toppers always came from those classes. I am speaking of the UP Board of those days—perhaps the largest board in the world then.

Back then, the Class X and XII results were announced in a 50-page night-edition newspaper. The night the results came, every family would step out of their homes, irrespective of whether their child had appeared for the exam. Your child was everybody’s child. If your child passed, there was Satyanarayan ki katha. If they failed, there was always a next time. Many failed. And 60 percent was considered good marks.

Here again, I tried my best to disappoint my parents. I still wonder why they were never disappointed. Despite my poor results, where did they get so much confidence in me?

The realisation that I could do well came a little late, but it came. My mother always said that such realisation had to come from within; no one could force it on anyone. When it came, I did relatively well, and on that basis, I got into a good engineering college. I did well there too. My research phase began in a fine department, under one of the best supervisors, who later became my mentor.

My PhD story is an interesting one. I was given a problem: mass transfer in biological systems. The initial literature search took two months. Based on it, I planned my experiments. My big challenge was the measurement of dissolved oxygen, and from that, the estimation of the mass transfer coefficient. I had no oxygen probe. I built one. It was unreliable. I still used it to begin my experiments. When I finally got a proper probe (then not available in India), I repeated all my experiments. Things were progressing well.

Then, after two years, one day I felt that research was not for me. I thought I was on the wrong track, though my supervisor assured me that all was well. Still, I began looking for a job.

One of my brothers arranged an interview with the Managing Director of a large pharmaceutical company, a friend of my uncle. He spoke to me for an hour and then declared that I was unfit for the job. He said I was meant for better things. I must complete my doctorate. I thought it was simply a polite way of saying no. My job search continued.

Eventually, I got a job—position-wise, “below” me—but I took it because the challenge attracted me. It was my first job: to set up a new division in an institute within one year. We completed it on time. The then Prime Minister inaugurated it. It was one of the most satisfying periods of my life. That assignment filled me with confidence.

Then it was time for me to return to my institute to complete my PhD: only a few experiments and the write-up. My boss did not want to let me go; he wanted me badly. I was desperate to finish my doctorate. He said it could wait. I said it could not. After a brief tussle, he let me go. I completed my PhD in six months and received my degree in a year.

Recently, I read a letter by Richard Feynman to a student who felt discouraged about his project. He was not finding meaning in what he was doing. Feynman wrote:

“A problem is great in science if it stands before us unsolved and we see some way to make progress. I would advise you to take even simpler—or, as you say, more humble—problems until you find ones you can solve easily, no matter how trivial they may seem.”

He then added: “Even if it is only answering a question in the mind of a colleague less capable than yourself. You should not deprive yourself because of a mistaken idea of what is truly valuable.”

And further: “With you I made a mistake: I gave you the problem instead of letting you find your own, and I left you with a wrong idea of what is interesting, enjoyable, or important to work on—namely, the problem where you see that you can do something.”

Finally: “No problem is too small or too trivial if we can truly do something about it.”

My problem was not that I disliked my research topic. Both my supervisor and the MD said it was a good problem. My supervisor gave me complete freedom. The issue was my low self-confidence. My assessment of myself was wrong.

That one-year assignment, and my boss’s faith in me, reshaped my abilities. It changed my sense of what I could do. It brought me back to myself.