January 1st, 1914 CE
First Line Beach, Madras
E ric Harold Neville decided that he really liked Madras.
The people were friendly and in the past week, he had met peers and scholars who were only too eager to entertain him and listen to his lectures. In fact, so well had he fit in here that he hadn’t felt like he was in an entirely different country. Of course, there was no comparing this city with London — it would be freezing there, this time of the year while in Madras, it was just pleasantly cool. A tram rolled past him and he briefly considered getting on, before giving up the idea. This was perfect walking weather; he adjusted his coat and began to stroll along the wide road.
He had been walking further north yesterday, basking in the warm, late evening sunshine, feasting upon the statuesque, beautiful architecture. “You should see the buildings, Godfrey,” he had written to his friend. “These charming red brick structures; these graceful arches, columns and intriguing doors — put together, they quite take my breath away!”
Back had come a reply. “This is all very well, but have you met him?”
The “him” in question was a researcher. A man supposed to be the answer to all prayers, or perhaps the means of more questions — one never knew. Eric did know that aside from delivering lectures, his purpose in Madras was to bring this man to London. “I don’t care how,” Godfrey had insisted, their last evening in his rooms. “You have to get him to England.”
“But I don’t know him,” Eric had retorted. “ Only what you’ve told me and even you’ve been trading letters.”
Arranging a meeting
Godfrey had had no answer to that. Which left Eric with no ideas either, all the way on the ship, disembarking at the harbour and finding accommodation with friends. And he still hadn’t met the man he was supposed to be dragging back to London.
“Maybe I’ll see him today”, he told himself as he finally entered the Senate House, pausing, as usual, to examine and delight in the impressive architecture and design. All these columns, carvings and windows! It looked more like a palace out of the Arabian Nights than a university examination hall. And this is where he would deliver the third of his 21 lectures series, on differential geometry. “Time to get to work,” he muttered, as he gathered his notes, stepped up to the podium, gazing upon the vast hall, capable of holding sixteen hundred people. A hall that was filling with students, scholars and experts in the field. All sorts of men, all possessing expert knowledge in some way, wearing turbans or bareheaded, and …
… there. That was him. Godfrey had described him from pictures: that was definitely him. Eric stared at the rather stout figure, the large head, hair brushed sideways and the traditional South Indian attire. He turned to a colleague and confirmed his suspicions. Yes, it was definitely him. But would he come?
His worst fears were confirmed when he met the man, later. They shook hands, and Eric was struck by the energy that seemed to envelope his new friend. That, and his brilliant eyes. “You will come, yes?” Eric asked at once. “Your letters …”
“I have already sent what I had written,” the man wrung his hands, his eyes darting here and there. “I cannot come. My work...”
“I thought you had resigned as a clerk from the Port Trust Office,” Eric cut in, with some desperation. “I thought you now received financial help …”
“My people won’t let me go,” the man’s desperation mirrored Eric’s own. “I do not know how … I have never …” he stopped. “I cannot leave,” he said helplessly.
Intriguing
It was the same after the next two lectures. Eric would persuade him; he would refuse, his eyes glittering with a sort of restless energy, gazing at him with hopelessness. Eric felt, dimly, that the man was asking him something; pleading for a solution — but he had no clear idea what this could be.
Three days later, the man was present again for a lecture and this time, he had brought with him a notebook. “My research,” he said hesitantly. “The notes I wrote down.”
Eric drew a sharp breath. Bits and pieces from this very notebook were what had sent Godfrey and a few other scholars into dizzying delight. The notebook was supposed to be a veritable treasure trove.
And the man was entrusting it to him. “Somewhere along the way,” Eric realised, “he must have started trusting my work. And as an extension, trusting me.”
Silence reigned for a long moment. Thoughts flitted through Eric’s mind at lightning speed. “Madras is not your city, is it?” He asked suddenly. “You lived somewhere else. A much smaller town. Why did you come here, then?”
“To learn. To explore,” came the prompt answer. “This city brought me friends. Peers who understand and respect my work.”
“This was where you found yourself. Now, it’s time for you to show who you are, to the outside world. You would be in London, but you had always be the pride of Madras.” He took the plunge. “I can persuade you till I’m blue in the face, but in the end, it has to be your decision. You will have to want this journey.” He paused. “You’re worried, I know. But I promise you’ll come here. Come home. You’ll return to where you found yourself.”
When the man finally took his leave, Eric discovered that he had left behind his precious notebook. A wild exultation filled him as he sent a telegram within the hour, to Godfrey Harold Hardy.
“It’s done. Srinivasa Ramanujan will come to England this April.”
Historical note: Lauded as a mathematical genius, Srinivasa Ramanujan (December 22, 1887 – April 26,1920) eventually did travel to the University of Cambridge where, with his mentor, Godfrey Harold Hardy, he revolutionised mathematics.
