Sexual dimorphism

The header above is a phrase I have come across recently. This little note is surely an attempt to show off my newly-acquired knowledge, but I guess you will enjoy if you read on, particularly if you are interested in evolution of life forms.

The adjective “dimorphic” means “representing two distinct forms”. Sexual dimorphism means the differences in size, strength, and behaviour patterns between the two sexes of the same species. For example, among wild mammals, males are often bigger and more aggressive than females. Females, on the other hand, take care of their infants. Among birds, males not only have attractive plumes and colours, usually, they are the ones that sing! The male deer has antlers, a cumbersome attachment, but it adds to his visual appeal, besides being useful during fights with other males.

Males and females are different because the struggle for reproductive success takes each of them along different evolutionary trajectories. Male birds / mammals have to win sexual contests with other males. To put it simply, they must impress females, a situation you come across in college campuses and elsewhere.

Interestingly, sexual dimorphism is much less pronounced among domesticated animals because they don’t have the same evolutionary pressures as wild animals! Their survival (and usually, suffering) is ensured by their human masters. Among humans, in the so-called civilized societies, physical strength has taken a back seat in personal contacts. Even if a man has a contest with another to win the favours of a woman, they don’t try to beat each other to pulp. Usually!

Sexual dimorphism is therefore less pronounced among humans. According to an estimate, in the US, 10% of men have less weight than the average weight of a woman. Men don’t need a bigger body or stronger muscles to impress women these days. Instead, they try to enrol in IITs.

However, certain forms of dimorphism, like bright colours for birds and antlers for deer should be a disadvantage for their survival. These make them more visible and easier targets for predators. But the paradox is resolved if you consider that the reproductive success of an animal is often more important than his/her life span. For example, a wild male pheasant lives half as long as a female. (Nature is perhaps not as partial to males as it might seem at the first glance!) A male pheasant’s reproductive success depends not on how long he lives, but on how many females he can mate with. Bright plumage improves his chances. On the other hand, among insects, females are often bigger than males as they need volume to produce a large number of eggs.

I got interested in the topic while reading some books. Of these, one I read at a stretch over the last two days: a beautiful Bangla novel around the evolutionary success of migratory birds in particular and birds in general. The book has been written by a relatively unknown author, Debashis Moitra, who besides writing, teaches civil engineering. Humans are no less intriguing than birds, it seems.

More about the book later. Please watch this space!

20 March 2022

Picture of male and female orioles from Marin Independent Journal, e-edition

 

A postcard from the countryside: Homecoming

The tecoma, which had hardly any flowers when we left last month, is flowering, although the yellow bloom is yet to reach the fullness of spring. The same thing can be said about the pink bougainvillea. (Alas! I needed three attempts to get the spelling right!) The hibiscuses, which flower in all times, didn’t disappoint us either. The tiny beds of spinach and fenugreek too are doing well. And a few aubergines are ready to be plucked. On the whole, it was a happy homecoming: the spring is in the air.

The following day was perhaps the International Caterpillars' Day. In the morning, I saw more caterpillars together than what I had seen in the rest of my life. There were hundreds of them on the courtyard and on the roads near our house. Seemingly homeless, they were moving aimlessly in every direction. Was there a political strife in their habitation? Were they migrating? 

Our domestic help Gomathi Amma is exceedingly smart. Although we don’t have a common language, she understands everything we tell her and shapes out her ideas effectively in her limited Hindi and English vocabulary. She came as soon as she knew we had come. 

Gomathi Amma (who is some other Amma actually) is one of the countless women of our country who are treated harshly by life. Mother of a grown-up son and a daughter, she is a widow. But the passing of the abusive husband hasn’t given her freedom. Her father calls the shots in her life. Gomathi Amma supplements her income as a domestic help by tending her father’s 50 goats. She is naturally free-spirited. She is never absent, but comes to work anytime between 10 AM and 4 PM when she wishes. Her employer (my far better half) has accepted the arrangement because Gomathi Amma is great at work. 

Her son works in a factory and the daughter is married in Bengaluru to a man almost twice her age. The son doesn’t give Gomathi Amma any trouble, but the son-in-law does. The daughter is illtreated and beaten up. She wants to return home but cannot. Her mother is reconciled, but her grandfather won’t allow it. The old man, a factory worker and goat farmer, thinks it would be dishonourable for the family. (Indeed, there’s no dishonour in getting beaten by one’s own husband!) 

For Gomathi Amma, the new year didn’t begin on a happy note. Her son had an accident early in the morning of January 1. Karthik was going to a temple near Hosur with a friend. They were on a motorbike, with Karthik riding pillion. At four o’ clock when it was pitch dark, they crashed head-on with a bike from the other side at a sharp bend on the road. The biker on the other vehicle died on the spot. Karthik’s friend, who had a helmet but hadn’t strapped it up, was badly injured in the head. His helmet had flown some distance away upon the impact. Karthik, who had never had a helmet in life, had stitches on his face and a broken jaw. Gomathi Amma said Karthik had had “plastic surgery” and “clamps” have been fitted to fix his lower jaw. The words I have put within inverted commas, she said in English. For the jaw, she demonstrated it with her own. He cannot eat anything solid; it will take some time before he can. 

Gomathi Amma has already spent a lakh and thirty thousand on Kathik’s treatment. She borrowed most of it on interest, at 4% per month. (I have seen this everywhere, if the rate of interest is usurious, it is always given in months. The poor doesn’t think it is 48%.) But before leaving, she said, ‘I am not worried about my son. He will recover anyway. But I do not know what will happen to my daughter.’ 

I felt angry about Gomathi Amma’s son-in-law and son. Perhaps more about her son. How can he be so irresponsible that he doesn’t have a helmet although he has a bike? But later, on more tranquil reflection, the thought came to my mind: is Karthik really to blame? 

Or should we blame the complete lack of education that the country offers to her underprivileged, even in Tamil Nadu, the best managed state in India? Or, should we blame the state of the economy which has made motorbikes affordable but basic awareness impossible to achieve? What are our priorities, why are schools closed when shopping malls are open during the third wave of the pandemic?

08 January 2022

The Naked Emperor

Nirendranath Chakraborti’s Naked Emperor is a significant Bangla poem of our time. It’s also the name of a collection of poems by Nirendranath. Here is my humble attempt to translate it.

The Naked Emperor 

Everyone sees that the emperor is naked, 

But they’re all clapping

And shouting, ‘Super! Super!’

Some of them are scared;

For some, it’s a force of habit;

Some have given their brain away as security;

Some perhaps live on charity, 

Some are beggars for benefits, 

Applicants for favours, or charlatans.

Some have been reasoning, the cloth a monarch wears

Has to be exceedingly fine.

Although it can’t be seen, it must be there, 

At least, it can be.

Everyone knows the story.

But the story doesn’t talk about

Just a bunch of people who are stupid, 

Or are cowards from head to toe, 

Or are scheming glad-handers. 

There was also a child in the story.

A truthful, brave, ordinary child.

The emperor has come off the page of a fairy tale

On to the open street of reality

Once again, people are clapping nonstop

The crowd of panegyrists grows.

But I don’t see the child 

Anywhere among them.

Where is she? Has anyone spirited her away

To a far-off mountain cavern?

Or has she drifted into sleep 

While playing with pebbles-soil-grass

Beside a stream or in the 

Shade of a lonely tree on a grassland?

Go! Fetch her, however difficult it might be.

Let her come here and stand without fear

In front of this naked emperor once. 

Let her raise her voice above the din, 

And ask, ‘Emperor! Where are your clothes?’

Translated on 12 December, 2021

*

উলঙ্গ রাজা

নীরেন্দ্রনাথ চক্রবর্তী

সবাই দেখছে যে, রাজা উলঙ্গ, তবুও

সবাই হাততালি দিচ্ছে।

সবাই চেঁচিয়ে বলছে; শাবাশ, শাবাশ!

কারও মনে সংস্কার, কারও ভয়;

কেউ-বা নিজের বুদ্ধি অন্য মানুষের কাছে বন্ধক দিয়েছে;

কেউ-বা পরান্নভোজী, কেউ

কৃপাপ্রার্থী, উমেদার, প্রবঞ্চক;

কেউ ভাবছে, রাজবস্ত্র সত্যিই অতীব সূক্ষ্ম , চোখে

পড়ছে না যদিও, তবু আছে,

অন্তত থাকাটা কিছু অসম্ভব নয়।

গল্পটা সবাই জানে।

কিন্তু সেই গল্পের ভিতরে

শুধুই প্রশস্তিবাক্য-উচ্চারক কিছু

আপাদমস্তক ভিতু, ফন্দিবাজ অথবা নির্বোধ

স্তাবক ছিল না।

একটি শিশুও ছিল।

সত্যবাদী, সরল, সাহসী একটি শিশু।

নেমেছে গল্পের রাজা বাস্তবের প্রকাশ্য রাস্তায়।

আবার হাততালি উঠছে মুহুর্মুহু;

জমে উঠছে

স্তাবকবৃন্দের ভিড়।

কিন্তু সেই শিশুটিকে আমি

ভিড়ের ভিতরে আজ কোথাও দেখছি না।

শিশুটি কোথায় গেল? কেউ কি কোথাও তাকে কোনো

পাহাড়ের গোপন গুহায়

লুকিয়ে রেখেছে?

নাকি সে পাথর-ঘাস-মাটি নিয়ে খেলতে খেলতে

ঘুমিয়ে পড়েছে

কোনো দূর

নির্জন নদীর ধারে, কিংবা কোনো প্রান্তরের গাছের ছায়ায়?

যাও, তাকে যেমন করেই হোক

খুঁজে আনো।

সে এসে একবার এই উলঙ্গ রাজার সামনে

নির্ভয়ে দাঁড়াক।

সে এসে একবার এই হাততালির ঊর্ধ্বে গলা তুলে

জিজ্ঞাসা করুক:

রাজা, তোর কাপড় কোথায়?

 

An evening in Amsterdam

 

As our flight from Dublin approached Amsterdam, the sun was setting. In the diffused twilight under a cloudy sky, we saw the Dutch coastline dotted with windmills. There is poetry in the architecture of the traditional windmills, their enormous light blades fixed on robust structures. Shortly, as the aircraft descended further, the intricate network of semi-circular canals which makes Amsterdam such a unique city rose before our rivetted eyes.

When we had been booking a room for our stay in Amsterdam, I’d found a conveniently priced hotel with decent rooms. Most alluringly, it was located at the border of the red-light district in Amsterdam. But my wife had rejected it out of hand. I wish she hadn’t. In that case, we wouldn’t have been nearly lost in a new city. (It can be safely argued it couldn't have been difficult to find the biggest brothel in Europe.) In a moment, I am going to narrate our adventures that evening. But before that, we had to overcome a lesser problem. 

As our departure from Bengaluru had been delayed, we’d missed our connecting flight at Abu Dhabi. When Etihad Airlines rerouted us through Dublin, we were happy at the prospect of getting a glimpse of the beautiful country of Ireland. However, sitting in the airport transit lounge in Dublin, we were able to see just a flat barren patch of land and a highway in the distance. It could have been anywhere. 

At Schiphol airport in Amsterdam, we waited as passengers collected their luggage and left one after the other, until the last bag came out on the baggage carousel. But unfortunately, it wasn’t ours. When we informed the KLM helpdesk, they were able to locate our missing suitcases within minutes, but to our dismay, the luggage was still in Abu Dhabi. The matronly KLM personnel who were womanning the helpdesk quickly brought out two faux leather pouches with combs, toothbrushes etc., and promised to send the suitcases to our hotel within 48 hours. They also said we could buy a change of clothes, which the airlines would reimburse within a limit. 

As we got through immigration, I fixed the international SIM we had been carrying in my phone. It worked perfectly: we called our son and daughter, and checked the direction to the hotel we had been booked in. A metro rail station is located within Schiphol airport. We utilised the freedom offered by the absence of baggage by boarding a train to Amsterdam Central. Our hotel was just four kilometres away from the Central station, which the Dutch spell as Centraal. 

We had hoped to buy some clothes near the railway station, but the airline was destined to save a few euros. It was the Easter Thursday, the long weekend had begun, and all the stores had been shut. To complicate matters, my new SIM card went to sleep when we needed it most. So, we knew the address of our hotel (117 Saarphatistraat), but had no idea how to get there. We were in an unfamiliar city in an evening of overcast sky. 

In front of the railway station, there were five or six tramlines, where empty, almost surrealistic trams were coming in and going away every minute, seemingly without a purpose. Two Indian students we met on the street checked Google Map on their phone and said we could take the metro to Weesperplein (Whisper plains?), which was just three stations away. The station was at the crossing of the streets Weesperplein and Saarphatistraat, in which was our hotel located, you might recall. (The Dutch, it seemed, are fond of double vowels and unfond of short names.) Our hotel would be a short walk from the metro station. 

At Weesperplein, we were the only people to get off the train. As we climbed up the stairs, we were greeted by two absolutely empty wide streets and howling winds. Some cars went past, but there was no one on the streets, not a soul. Every shutter was down and every door, closed. Europe is far away from summer in mid April. Gusts of cold wind pierced the light jacket I was wearing. My wife didn’t have even that little protection.

We were at the crossing of two major roads, but there were no road signs; we couldn’t figure out which of the two streets was Saarphatistraat. After spending 24 sleepless hours on three aircraft and at three airports, we were not too keen to walk more than what was necessary. Which road should we take? As we were thinking of tossing a coin, a tall well-built elderly gentleman emerged from the metro station swinging a large cloth bag which looked like what we use in Indian bazaars. He was exceedingly helpful. Although he didn’t know which of the streets we should take, he volunteered to telephone our hotel and find out where exactly it was. He called up the hotel and had a long conversation in Dutch. 

After disconnecting, he said, ‘Sorry, I don’t understand a word of what she says!’ 

Our jaws fell. He was speaking Dutch in the capital of the Netherlands! Was there actually a hotel or had we been conned? (A friend of mine had once found a warehouse at the address of a hotel he had booked in Beijing.) Either way, there was no question of detaining the good Samaritan any longer. He left. 

After walking about 100 metres, he shouted something to us excitedly in Dutch. In a few moments, we understood why he was excited. He was calling out, ‘Saarphatistraat, Saarphatistraat!,’ pointing his index finger at a road sign hidden behind a tree. 

Therefore, one problem was solved. We knew which street we had to take, but we still didn’t know which way to go: up or down. Somewhat strangely, there were no door numbers. We started walking in a direction and came across a few passersby. They spoke English, but every one of them was a tourist who had come to the city to spend their Easter weekend. We kept walking and asking the same question: 'Sir/Madam, could you tell us which way 117 Saarphatistraat is?' 

It started raining, first drizzles, and then a proper light shower, with a concomitant steep fall in temperature. We were looking at an uncertain night in freezing cold. Finally, I buttonholed a man who was carrying a large phone and requested him to check the address of our hotel. Google showed the path in dots; we had been walking away from our destination.

It didn’t take much longer to find the building numbered 117, where there was indeed a small hotel with nobody except the receptionist in the lobby. When we—decently drenched—were checking in, the penny dropped. We understood why the Dutch gentleman couldn’t follow a word of what the receptionist had said. 

She was a young Chinese student working part time in a hotel owned by a Chinese family. She spoke decent English with some effort, but she had just arrived in the Netherlands. Was she a precursor to a future Chinese Empire will stretch across the globe?

From the bowl of welcome candies kept on the reception desk, I grabbed a handful and said, ‘Please forgive me for taking so many. This is going to be our dinner.’

Krishnagiri / 28 August 2021