The worst lecture I ever gave was to a kindergarten class in Princeton. I had just arrived from India as a visiting scholar at the Institute for Advanced Study and the principal of my son’s elementary school invited me to speak on India — its culture, its geography and “of course some economics”, he added politely. Aware that kindergarteners suffer from acute attention deficit disorder, I decided to capture their interest at the start with an arresting account of how to save oneself in the event of a bear attack in an Indian forest. My teacher had told me when I myself was in KG that the trick was to lie on the ground motionless, holding one’s breath and pretending to be dead. Bears have little interest in corpses; so they would sniff and then walk away. The children listened riveted.
Seizing the opportunity, I moved to more serious topics, beginning with India’s large population. But before I could say “million”, a little hand went up. Could I please tell him how he should save himself in an Indian forest if he were attacked by a tiger. Not wanting to scare a little mind with the truth — “there is no chance in hell”, I said that he should aim for the animal’s eyes. Once he had gouged them out (the presumption being the tiger will sit quietly like a customer on a barber’s stool), the tiger would not know where to bite and the boy could simply walk away. They all laughed at how easy it was.
I realised I was making it a bit too interesting because no sooner had I finished on the topic of the tiger than I was asked about the art of escaping from a snake attack. And then we were on to the rhino, the elephant, the lion, an elephant and a snake together and other imaginative coalitions. The teachers and the principal watched me in bewilderment devoting a full 45 minutes to the art of fending off attacks in the Indian wild, no doubt wondering what kind of economics research I did and also why anyone ever died in an Indian forest.
My second-worst lecture was at a school for the poor, a few miles outside Kolkata. I had just finished my PhD from London and returned to India. My mother, with her unwavering urge to help less-fortunate children and equally absolute belief in my abilities, persuaded the school’s principal, whom she had met somewhere once, that he should invite me to speak so that I could inspire the children to go on to higher education and contribute to the world. The principal was reluctant, but my mother is strong willed.
{{/usCountry}}My second-worst lecture was at a school for the poor, a few miles outside Kolkata. I had just finished my PhD from London and returned to India. My mother, with her unwavering urge to help less-fortunate children and equally absolute belief in my abilities, persuaded the school’s principal, whom she had met somewhere once, that he should invite me to speak so that I could inspire the children to go on to higher education and contribute to the world. The principal was reluctant, but my mother is strong willed.
{{/usCountry}}My mother came on that occasion and over tea in the principal’s office told him how brilliant and famous I was; he nodded in courteous agreement. We then went to the classroom, a cavernous hall with some fifty rowdy children in their early teens. The atmosphere was that of a correctional facility. The principal began by saying how they were lucky to have me speak to them, that I was dedicated to spreading education in India, that I was an economist committed to change. He went on and on, describing me more than once as “this famous economist.” I did puzzle about the length and content of the introduction but did not realise that the poor man was prevaricating while waiting for that light-bulb moment. It never came. He eventually had no choice; he turned to me and asked, “Excuse me, what is your name?”
The children were poor but not unintelligent. The class broke out in a roar; I was destroyed and gave an incoherent lecture.
My mother is now about to turn 90. So many years on, she continues to be an optimist — for India, for the world. She also remains steadfast in her belief that I am doing good work. Her only sign of age is the occasional tripping up on words, such as confusing between ‘economist’ and ‘communist’. On a recent visit to Kolkata, I told her that I would soon be on my way to Delhi for an international conference of economists, exaggerating its importance a little to make her feel happy. She listened with great interest and, as soon as I stepped out of the room, I heard her phone a favourite cousin of hers and tell her, that I was headed to Delhi to participate in a conference, where “leading communists from all over the world were gathering to discuss how to make the world a better place”.
(Kaushik Basu is C. Marks Professor and Director, Center for Analytic Economics, Cornell University)