I’ve just finished reading ‘An Indian Clerk’ by David Leavitt, which is a fictionalised account of the life of Ramanujan, during the first part of the last century. He was a self-taught mathematician from India who only came to prominence after he sent some of his work to Hardy, the most eminent mathematician in Britain at the time, based at Cambridge. Hardy saw that although the way Ramanujan worked was unorthodox, he had an extraordinary feel for mathematics, and arranged for him to come and work at Cambridge.
Not many people outside the field can understand either Ramanujan’s or Hardy’s contributions to mathematics. What is more widely known is the story of the taxi number.
I first heard this story when I was a child, and my grandfather used to tell it to me;
‘Ramanujan was ill, and being cared for in a nursing home in Putney [incidentally just five minutes walk from my grandparents’ flat] and Hardy came to visit him. It was clear that Ramanujan was dying, but nobody knew why.
‘Hardy didn’t know what to say to him about his illness. Instead, he remarked that the number of the taxi which he had just travelled in was 1729, which he thought was a very boring number.
“Oh no, Hardy,” said Ramanujan. “It’s a very interesting number. It’s the smallest number which can be expressed as the sum of two cubes in two different ways.”
(1729=13+123=93+103 )
And my grandfather and I would shake our heads and smile in awe at Ramanujan’s ability to analyse numbers and expose their inner workings.
My grandfather liked telling me this story and I liked listening to him. Only after he died did I realise that the story connected us in the same way that the original incident connected Hardy and Ramanujan. My grandfather’s failing memory meant that he found it difficult to take part in our family’s conversations about our daily lives. In telling the story he found a way of relating to my life, and articulating something we shared; a love of mathematics and science. And the retelling of the story over and over again, which could be seen as a symptom of dementia, could also be seen as a way of reinforcing that connection, of trying to make it as strong as possible.
Storytelling in families can be so powerful as a way of defining relationships and identities. Can it have a downside?
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1 year ago
I love this story, thank you... and the book sounds great. Must get hold of it. Is that the same David Leavitt who edits the fantastic Subtropics magazine in florida? Interesting point about storytelling in families, we didn't have that much of it. I'm thinking about whether I remember anything. My grandmother was always trying to tell everyone her stories about her childhood and no-one wanted to hear, because once she started she might not stop for hours and she went off on so many tangents... that's a downside, I guess!
ReplyDeleteI remember this so well, but what I never thought about, and you brought out so well, is how his retelling the story was a way of reinforcing the connection between you and him. Very touching.
ReplyDeleteI remember that story, too, now that you recount it. I think it delighted your grandfather so much, and I love your interpretation of how he saw it as a way of connecting with you when he no longer had the faculties to participate in a more intellectual way. He had other stories, as well, which he liked to retell, and it makes me wonder whether I have a similar stash of meaningful stories when I reach that point. I'm not sure I do. Also, in regards to Tania's comment above, it makes me realize that it's so easy to get inpatient with our friends and loved ones as they get older and perhaps can no longer communicate in the same way that we may not realize what their efforts signify. I remember when your grandmother was quite elderly (but still with most of her faculties) and shared with me at length one day a number of stories about men she'd known before her husband, and I was annoyed that she didn't want to know what was going on in my life at the time (I was just in England for a few days). I think she wanted to be sure that I knew her story while she could still tell it.
ReplyDeleteA lovely story, Pippa. Thanks.
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