“Dr. Khanna?”

“Rupali! Come in.”

“I’m sorry. You look busy. Shall I come later? Oh! You are reading the same paper. By Smith and his group.”

Prof. Paritosh Khanna laughed, something he did often in the presence of Rupali Banerjee, usually triggered by her childlike enthusiasm to know and do everything immediately. She sought instant gratification just like children. Only her candies involved complex Computer Science research! What else could explain her trying to read that paper even before it was published? It had come to Paritosh for peer-review. And it was the kind of paper whose review could not be delegated to the graduate students, not even to someone as bright as Rupali. The authors had, however, put up the paper on their website, as was a common practice among Computer Science researchers. She must have downloaded it from there.

“Let me guess,” he said, barely suppressing an amused smile, “You are stuck here.” He pointed to an equation used in modeling the use of proposition in a family of natural languages.

“Yes. How did you know?” Rupali asked, with a mix of curiosity and embarrassment.

“Because you have not yet come to Lecture 20 in Prof. Sinha’s class in Advanced Statistics.”

Rupali flushed. Paritosh tracked her  academic activities closely. Even if he was her Ph. D. Guide, this was him going out of his way. But if it was awkward, Rupali didn’t mind it. Because it also made her feel very special.

“Once you have attended that lecture, it will sound basic,” he assured her.

“Everything is basic for you,” she complained drawing another amused smile from him.

“And you are unwilling to wait for that lecture. Shouldn’t I have known? Sit down. I will explain the concept to you. But the second part of the paper may still be challenging,” he warned her.

“I get it. I am not to trouble you about this paper,” she pouted, her trademark innocent school-girl pout.

“Sit down, Rupali. You don’t have to emotionally blackmail me. I will explain it,” he said.

She grinned widely as she jumped into the visitor’s chair placed across the table from him.

After he was done explaining, and answering her myriad questions, she walked out with a visible sprint in her gait. She was excited! About understanding a statistical concept!

—

A year and a half ago, Paritosh had received an e-mail from Rupali and had replied with a single word. Her e-mail had her detailed curriculum vitae attached. She had written that she had applied to his institute for a Ph. D. and she wanted to do it under him. She had also asked him that if he liked her CV, could he check the possibility of accepting her in the Ph. D. programme without her having to write GATE. GATE was the exam most leading Indian engineering colleges forced any post-graduate or  Ph. D. aspirants to write to be eligible for admissions. She thought the exam was rather stupid and a waste of time.

And all he had written in the reply was “Why?”

Rupali had jumped with joy on receiving an instant reply from him. Then she had realized that it was a one-word reply. “Why?” ‘What the hell,’ she had cursed. She was prepared for acceptance, rejection, questions or even being ignored. But “Why?” Why did someone apply for a Ph. D. program? To do a Ph. D. of course! Impulsive as she was, she had also replied in one word, but with two question marks. “Why??” And Paritosh had laughed out loud. His momentary impulsiveness had been matched fair and square. So, in the next e-mail he had patiently explained his question to her.

The only blemish on her record was that she had not made it into one of the IITs. But her projects and her undergraduate research had more than compensated for it. He himself had met her at a Machine Learning conference in Zurich once and had been impressed with her paper presentation. She had contributed to many open source projects in the field. She would have gotten admission into any university in the US. With full financial support. Not that finances were  her problem. She came from a rich business family. Why would she want to do a Ph. D. in India? None of the bright undergraduates in Paritosh’ college ever stayed back in India for Ph. D. He himself hadn’t. Rupali was better than most of them. She had already defied all the stereotypes . Indians were not supposed to be good at research, and women were not supposed to be good at Computer Science. As an Indian woman she was good at both.

“You really don’t need a backup,” he had assured her over e-mail.

She had sent a belligerent reply. “Why are you acting as if you know what my plans are? Who told you this is a backup option for me? I have applied to Stanford and CMU as a backup. If you don’t accept me, I am, of course, not going to stay in India.”

That reply had made him laugh again. Even though he had met her in person only once, he remembered how animated she got when she talked. At this point, her innocent face would also have been flushed with her irritation at him. She would be an amusing sight to behold right now, he had thought.

If she wanted to stay back in India, it was no surprise that she wanted to do a Ph. D. under him. People around him had forever wondered why he came back to India. But then, it probably didn’t matter that he did. Unlike many others, his research productivity had not suffered after returning from the US. He was actively publishing in major journals in the field, getting invited to the conferences and was a well-respected researcher. He had worked as a guest faculty at several universities in the US and Europe for short-term, though he never accepted a long-term position outside India.

Despite all that, he had considered it his duty to impress upon her that staying in India was not the best option. But doing it over e-mail was difficult. He had asked her if they could talk on phone.

“Let’s talk in person. I am flying to Delhi next week. Would you be available?” she had replied.

He was happy to be available!

She had walked in wearing a jeans and a plain t-shirt. Her shoulder length hair was tied in a pony-tail. The only accessories she had on were a pair of small ear-rings and a watch. There was no visible make-up on her. She looked like any other youngster in an Indian metro. In fact more sober than most of them. Nothing in her appearance would give away even a hint of how rich a family she came from. At least not until you noticed that all the simple-looking stuff she was wearing came from expensive brands. They were not the fake ones bought off the streets in Delhi. Paritosh couldn’t fathom why he had noticed that. Perhaps because he knew her to be rich. Her face and features were feminine and innocent, and on them, her no-frills clothes, tomboyish behavior and demanding demeanor looked unnatural. As if she was putting on an act. But over last year and a half, Paritosh had dealt with her every day. She was like that only. There was no act! And now, to him, it no longer looked unnatural. She acted like a spoiled brat most of the time. But spoiled for higher things in life. Like her academic and research achievements.

“I don’t understand you, Dr. Khanna,” she was on the offensive from the very beginning in that meeting, “Just tell me this. Would you or would you not like to have me as your Ph. D. student?”

“I would like to. But I also don’t understand you, Rupali. Why would you not want to go to the US for a Ph. D.? You do understand that career-wise that will be the best thing for you.”

“And you, of all the people, are saying that? You have done most of your research from India?”

“Yes. But even I hadn’t stayed back for my Ph. D. Plus there were personal reasons.”

“I have personal reasons too,” she had retorted, rather than replied.

“Oh!” Paritosh had hesitated, “Do you mind sharing? Only if you are comfortable.”

“I don’t mind. I got inclined towards the field of Machine Learning and Computer Science research only because of you.”

“Excuse me?”

“You would not remember. You had come to our college for a tech-talk during our annual tech festival.”

“That was what? Four years ago?”

“Yes. I was in my first year. I had just joined the college.”

“I see,” This was an unexpected turn in the conversation and Paritosh was not prepared for it.

“I had gone to IIT Kharagpur next year only to hear your talk. Then, of course, the conference in Zurich–”

“I remember that. By the way, when people say ‘personal reasons’, most of the time they mean some problem, or obligation. Not this!”

“Well. If you need a personal reason of that kind, My Mom is terrified with the idea of my even stepping out of the house. Going out of the country will give her a heart-attack. Or at least she will behave like she is getting one. So, you see! Personal reasons!”

“But if I said no, you will go to Stanford or CMU, right?”

“Yes.”

“So, Rupali. It’s not a personal reason. What you are indulging in is hero-worshipping and–”

“Oh God! Doing a Ph. D. and more outside India has not changed you much, has it? You preach like Indian parents. But you know what! I can put up with that.”

Paritosh had sighed and shook his head. She was headstrong. Right or wrong, there was no changing her mind. He gave his consent. Even worked through the administrative hassles to get her exempted from writing GATE.

“What harm can writing GATE bring?” he had tried to persuade her to just go with the system, “You will easily get a record score there!”

“Is that your way of ensuring that I go to the US?” she had retorted and he had given up on trying to tame her.

—

To be continued