Subrahmanya Chandrasekhar, F.R.S.

Subrahmanya Chandrasekhar, F.R.S

I

Chandrasekhar is in the company of Ramanujan and Raman. He has something other than his genius and the fellowship of the Royal Society in common with them. Like Ramanujan, he was a fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge–a distinction, the sacred precincts of which are narrow. With Raman he has a closer connection; they belong to the same family. This, perhaps, is an irrelevant observation in an impersonal study of Chandrasekhar, but is of interest to the biographer, and is a matter of pride to the country. For the glamour and romance of the feudal age is not yet dead; and one gets a nostalgic sense of those days of hot patriotic pride in the contemplation of great and glorious families, like those of the Pitts and the Haldanes and the Huxleys of England, or those of the Nehrus and the Tagores and Raman-cum-Chandrasekhar of India.

Chandrasekhar’s father, Subrahmanya Ayyar, is one of the numerous sons of India whose talents are caught up in official life–the same Kabandha¹ which tried, although unsuccessfully, to swallow up his brother Sir C. V. Raman. Subrahmanya Ayyar’s relative failure was worthy of a Great Spirit, imbued with high ideas of social responsibility in the handing down of a proud inheritance. A retired Accountant-General, he is a violinist of repute, an authority on Carnatic Music responsible for a pioneering mathematical study of it, and is the author of several sketches of our social and domestic life. Chandrasekhar has a rare blending of many qualities other than intellectual; and in these we behold in him his mother–a woman who, when she was bed-ridden with a consuming disease, gave consent to sending him away from her side to sail beyond the seas, knowing well that she would die before his return. And the star of Chandrasekhar led him on, lighting clearly and brightly an unswerving path before him, as stars illumine to few among mankind.

He was born in Lahore, in the Punjab, where his father was then employed, on 19^th October 1910. But he belongs to the Cauvery-watered Tamil district of Tanjore. More specifically, he hails from the village of Mangudi, famous in the Tamil land for its stalwarts and for the unbending tenacity of purpose of its children. His primary and lower secondary education was entirely attended to by his parents. There was an atmosphere of mathematical studies at home even from the time of his grandfather. The library consisting of books like Salmon’s ‘Conic Sections’, Hardy’s Pure Mathematics’, Bocher’s ‘Algebra’, Boole’s ‘Differential Equations’, Burnside and Panton’s, ‘Theory of Equations’ contributed not a little to the formation of a early aptitude in young Chandrasekhar for mathematics While still an under graduate of eighteen at Presidency College, Madras, he undertook original investigations in Astrophysics; and his papers were published in “The Indian Journal of Physics”, “The Proceedings of “the Royal Society of London”, “The Physical Review” of America and in “The Philosophical Magazine.” He took his Master’s degree with the highest distinction, scoring record marks in the history of the University. Educational circles in Madras took notice when in 1930, a scholarship was specially offered to him to prosecute his further researches in England; and he sailed from Bombay that year, on the first of August.

Of the young days of eager, striving idealism, before he left for England, I retain a few, but vivid, memories. The first picture of those years which comes before me is our walking together along the Marina, of an evening, he with quick long strides, I keeping up with him somehow, drinking in the breeze like a horse, (I should add, a diminutive one) and receiving his few words with silent assent and admiration. Those words were few indeed–and none in the grand style–but they created around us a regaling atmosphere within that of the breezy sea shore. He loved the beach of Madras greatly. I remember how, when he had the privilege of enjoying a car-drive along the Marina with Prof. Heisenberg of Germany (a Nobel-prizeman) who at that time visited Madras, Chandrasekhar told his mother exultantly that the celebrated professor had been charmed with the beauty of the Madras beach to the point of enthusiasm. This little event occurred when Chandrasekhar was a student in the Honours Class–the date, precisely was 14th October, 1929; and like some of the little events in great men’s lives, I imagine, this personal contact with the foreign physicist had a great inspiring influence on him at that time. For the name of Heisenberg was often on Chandrasekhar’s lips. “Heisenberg” he told me once, “can be compared only with Einstein.” And again, “What a genius! And when so young, he has flashed across the scientific world with his meteor-like brilliance!” Chandrasekhar came into contact with another great foreign scientist during his College course; and that was Prof. Arnold Sommerfeld of Germany. By no means were these the first influences in Chandrasekhar’s life. For he told me once laughingly, how, as a school-boy, he used to go to the each to be alone, and there prostrate himself devoutly on the sands, with the prayer, “Oh God, may I be like Newton!” “...What days they were!” he added to me wistfully after a moment.

II

This native wistfulness of his nature became emphasised by his prolonged exile from his country. His mother’s death, less than a year after he left home, affected him greatly. But his mind was made of the stern stuff of discipline. One year after another, he laid them in turn at the anvil of his work. In Cambridge where he worked under Professors Fowler, Dirac and Milne, he was almost immediately recognized with the award of the “Sheep-Shanks Prize” for astrophysical research. In the vacation he ran up to the Gottingen University to work under Prof. Max Born; and shortly afterwards, left Cambridge again to Copenhagen to work under Prof. Neils Bohr. Soon we find him in Belgium, delivering a course of six lectures on “Problems of Stellar Structure” at the Leige University. again at Cambridge, which he loves, he is elected a fellow of Trinity College. Within a year–in 1934–he is called away again–this time to Leningrad and Moscow; to Leningrad where he delivers two lectures in German at the Pulkovo Observatory; to Moscow where he attends the Astronomical Conference and delivers a lecture on “The Problem of the Stellar Atmospheres”. Next year (1935) he attends on invitation the Conference of International Astronomical Union at Paris. Meanwhile the stream of his research flows to “The Proceedings of the Royal Society and to the “Monthly Notices of the Royal Astronomical Society” where his cargoes regularly appear. Now and again, in the midst of this hectic activity, the moods of his pensive mind assert themselves in a way that reminds us of a man in another sphere of work, Jawaharlal Nehru. At about this time (26th June, 1935) Chandrasekhar writes to me from Cambridge:

“It is ages since I heard from you...For the first time in months I feel home sick. I shall return surely before June next year–that is, in less than a year! How I look forward to it! I shall be different, and so will the others be. Six years! How long! You see, I can hardly imagine how things are at home. Memory fails, not because I cannot recollect, but because memory recalls what is no more. Whenever I think of home, the scene that almost always appears before me is mother lying on the easy-chair in front of the house–I do not know why I always recollect her in a red saree…All gone...”

Again he rushes to work. He is invited as a visiting lecturer to two American Universities. He crosses the Atlantic on 30th November 1935 on board the “Brittanic.” Two days before his departure from England he writes to me:

“I am going to Harvard as a visiting lecturer on Cosmic Physics…Do please write to me during your Christmas holidays, particularly as I shall appreciate letters from home, when away from my second home at Cambridge–if you understand what I mean–I love Cambridge!”

At Harvard he delivers a course of ten lectures; and from there he writes to me (on 7th January, 1936):

“Harvard is not very different from Cambridge. To people here, especially those at the Observatory, are very kind and considerate to me, and that helps me a great deal, for I miss Cambridge. One always misses something. In any case, at Cambridge–one does not miss Cambridge!”

He leaves Harvard on 7th march for the Yerkes Observatory of the Chicago University where again he delivers a course of lectures. Then he sails to England, and on board the steamer, relaxing from his work, he writes to me (on 23rd March, 1936):

“I was planning to reply to your earlier letter from the boat...As things stand, it is more than probable that I return home for some weeks during the months of July, August and September...You might know that I have more or less decided to accept an invitation from the University of Chicago to join the Yerkes Observatory as a Research Associate. It is a fairly good position, and it will be of great value to me personally to be attached to one of the really great observatories of the world. I visited Chicago and Yerkes about two weeks ago. I had a very enjoyable time at Yerkes. The Yerkes Observatory is situated on the bank of a beautiful lake–Williams Bay–and behind it are wild woods–a truly inspiring place. Dr. Struve, the Director, was very nice, and the prospects are altogether fair….So it does seem that we are to work out our lives purposes in distant countries….Perhaps I am selfish. But science has the traditions only of itself, while art is true in only so far as it weaves human forces in a network of nature–especially of one’s own country. Perhaps I am too sweeping, but I am having in my mind Turgenev and Tolstoy. To say this, however, is not to deny the international appeal of really great literature.”

I give this fairly long extract from his letter for two reasons: It is the announcement from the very source, of the origin of his connection with the Yerkes Observatory of the Chicago University, where he now occupies the chair of Astronomy and Astrophysics (He received a similar invitation from the Harvard University, of which, however, he did not avail himself). Secondly, in the above extract, we find the blending of the scientific and the literary cultures, so characteristic of Chandrasekhar.

He bids good-bye to Chicago for a while. Soon he is at Cambridge, clearing up arrears, putting things in order, and packing–for home at last, for India–after six years–for just a breathing space–for just a marrying space.

III

He sailed from Genoa, on 31st July 1936, and arrived at Bombay, on 12th August. He married Sri Lalitha whom he had known as a student in the Physics Honours Class of Presidency College–she was one year his junior–on 11^th September, and left again for England with her on 17^th October.

This stay of two months in India, in itself short, divided between his travelling from one place to another–Bombay, Poona, Nagpur, Madras, Bangalore and Calcutta, being the places I can recollect–and the celebration of his marriage at Tiruchanur, appears but as an interlude between two exiles. His Destiny calls him away again to a far-off land and faithfully he follows it. On the way he stops at Cambridge, but he is bound to America. On board the “Laconia” he writes to me (on 8th December 1936): “I have had a fearfully busy month at Cambridge and I shan’t feel really happy until I finally settle at Yerkes. Meantime the voyage gives me a brief respite…..”

So to fresh fields and pastures new! (But I have reason to believe that he will not like this expression)…..In India, then in England, then in America–thus his life of enlightened, intellectual asceticism has divided itself to this moment. To dwell on his scientific work, much as I would like it, I am not competent. My kingdom is over trifles. So let me think, for a while over the short Indian interlude of 1936.

One event which certainly was not a trifle happened then. It was his marriage. Some years later–it was in the fall of 1939–I happened to meet Dr. L. A. Ramdas, Meteorologist, several times in Poona. One evening he stood looking at Chandrasekhar’s marriage photograph for some time and then turned to me with the remark, “So history has repeated itself.” “How?” I asked him, although I had understood his meaning–he was referring to the marriage of Sir C. V. Raman, and implying that both Raman and Chandrasekhar had married women of their own choice. “Very few amidst us,” he explained, “will have the courage to choose a girl for themselves. It is breaking the custom. Raman did it and Chandrasekhar did it…..”

To go to 1936, I knew that Chandrasekhar had almost decided to marry Sri Lalitha. But there was another an educated, cultured Brahmin lady, speaking a different language, who cherished the idea of marrying Chandrasekhar and was on friendly terms with his sisters. I felt sorry for her, and put in a word for her to him. I told him, “Why don’t you at least see her and then decide? After all, I think, you will appreciate her feeling, as she has been drawn to you across the barrier of language.” He paused thoughtfully for a while and then said, “No....No....Marriage is not just picking of an item from a menu card.” Still I wanted to press her claims and so I rejoined, “Yes, it is–to some extent.” He lapsed into a short silence. “Yes, I admit it,” he returned at last. “But there are various considerations. For a long time I have thought of Lalitha as my wife….and the thinking of months cannot be brushed aside.” “Yes, I know,” I replied, “You’ll decide the matter yourself. My only idea was that you shouldn’t give up Miss–without due consideration.” “Of course not,” he agreed. After a long while–we were walking on the beach road in the dark–he observed (I thought I detected some bitterness in his voice), “The relation between a man and a woman, I think, can never be as perfect as between a man and a man–such as, for example, exists between you and me. We don’t demand anything from each other and there is perfect understanding between us. But it is different in the case of a man and a woman. One always demands something from the other. The relationship is never ideal....” Here was a literary man talking–a D. H. Lawrence–a dreamer–and a scientist of the highest type–for the highest endeavors of Man are never far from each other.

I shall tarry a little longer over the Indian interlude. For once I follow him to America, I shall be lost on the fields of science, so truly foreign to me.

I remember on two evenings our early years were born again as we walked on the Marina. He was a recognised scientist, he had shot into the Indian sky like a meteor shall say, like Prof. Heisenberg in the German sky, with due apologies to both the professors, of whose work I know nothing. But I saw walking beside me, an earnest, eager student, thinking only in terms of the pursuit of knowledge, warmed immediately by the mention of any high endeavour in any sphere, persuading me, without patronizing me, to think highly of myself. Truly here is the seed of greatness, I thought. For other people are rarely warmed so; they always try to look big themselves and to make the others look small....And I reflected how the preparation of years had only brought him and me closer together in spirit. For it had made our comradeship abstract, shorn of every disfigurement of concreteness, lifting it into the ideal, lonely world of communication by letters.

Although I have mentioned the important event of his marriage I shall not forgive myself if, in the account of this interlude, L pass over a comparatively trifling incident–his visit to the widow of the late Ramanujan. He and I went together to her little lodgings in one of the dark, dingy, by-lanes of Triplicane. Later she called at his house and he introduced her to his sisters and even succeeded in making that very shy lady feel at home. He told her how the greatest professors across the seas reverenced the memory of her late husband as that of a guru, a great master. “The other scientists here,” he told her, “are worth only the dust on his feet.” He informed her that one of the professors in England was writing a book on Ramanujan and to illustrate it a good photograph of Ramanujan was necessary. All the available photographs of him were disappointing. Could she help in the matter? No, it was a pity, she had no photograph of her husband with her….However….yes….she had with her his passport, and in that there was a photograph of him. Chandrasekhar eagerly replied that he would have a look at it. She was escorted home in his father’s car. He too went with her and got the passport from her. Hurrah! The small passport photograph of Ramanujan was a find! What one beheld there was truly a rare and great spirit! But why that stamp of deep suffering–even spiritual agony–set on those mild beautiful eyes, and those almost twitching lips, pressed together as though to secure an outward calmness on the countenance?

When Chandrasekhar left India he entrusted the passport to me, asking me to take copies of the photograph to be sent to him, and then to return the passport to her. When I had carried out his instructions (keeping however one copy of the photograph for me) he wrote to me from Williams Bay (op 18th October 1937): “Your letter and also Ramanujan’s photographs. Thanks very much for sending them. I think it extremely fortunate that we arranged to have this–really the first–fairly good photograph of Ramanujan. I feel it will become the ‘official’ one as Hardy will probably publish it in his book on Ramanujan.” Years later, on 19th July 1942, he writes to his father, “I was interested to know that you have read Hardy’s ‘A Mathematician’s Apology”. I was also enthusiastic over it. Incidentally, have you seen his book on Ramanujan–a book in the Cambridge University Series–a companion to Ramanujan’s collected papers? In Hardy’s book on Ramanujan there is a frontispiece photograph of Ramanujan–a photograph which is, in a sense, my discovery–though Balakrishnan had a lot to do with it.”

The two above mentioned letters, I find, have taken me, without any warning to America.

IV

America proved a grateful and congenial home to Chandrasekhar. The high estimate in which his colleagues at the Yerkes Observatory and elsewhere in that country held him was demonstrated repeatedly by them. Rejoined the Observatory as a Research Associate in January 1937. Shortly afterwards he was promoted as an Assistant Professor of Astrophysics. Soon he was given the status of Associate Professor; and in July 1943, he was further promoted to a full professorship in the University. His papers and those of his collaborators became a regular feature of the “Astrophysical Journal.” He was recognized, in the words of an American astronomer, as “one of the leading authorities in the field of galactic dynamics”, and he became an integral part of the progress of Astronomy in America.

But, now and again, moments of weary wistfulness broke in upon him. He writes to me on 22nd June 1937: “I hardly know what to write about. Here, at Williams Bay, it is quiet and there is nothing except the routine of the astronomers–the delivering of lectures, the writing of papers, the shelving of reprints, the partaking in colloquia…..sometimes the exhilaration of having found something new, sometimes the saddening effect of realising one’s own shortcomings relative to the giants, sometimes the cold indifference of deadened feelings……Still one gets out of these moods to one’s work of calculations, discussions, papers, correspondence, etc……”

And so to work, in January 1939, his first book entitled, “An Introduction to the Study of Stellar Structure” appeared as a monograph, issued by the University of Chicago Press. The only fact which is clear to me from this “Introduction” is that it contains more than five hundred pages, all dotted over with mathematical symbols, functions and equations like the sky with the stars, constellations, and the Milky Way; but to the interior of these, which I dare say must be exciting to the astronomers, I find myself a stranger. But again, no, not, so, very completely–for I am able to perceive that his own contributions to the subject have been incorporated in the book. He writes to me (on 30th July 1938) “I am seeing my book through the press. It is the first substantial thing I have done.” And so “the uneventful life of the astronomer,” as he describes it in one of his letters to me, proceeds, one should say, at a fast pace. He is invited to take part in the opening of the Macdonald Observatory at Texas in May 1939 and in the symposium on Galactic Structure. And again there is a far-flung invitation to him from Paris to attend the International Astronomical Conference to be held from 17th to 20th July 1939. On board the “S. S. Champlain” he writes to me (on 17thJune 1939):

“First, however, to explain my co-ordinates: The time co-ordinate is already noted on page 1. As for the space co-ordinate–I am in mid-Atlantic en-route to England. The official object of my visit is to attend a conference in Paris in the middle of July. My real object, however, is to get away from work–to be on a vacation! I am leaving my wife behind at Yerkes. Parenthetically I may add that our finances would not have permitted our travelling together–indeed would not have permitted my travelling either, but for the generosity of a French Foundation who have persuaded themselves into the belief that my presence at the conference is worth £ 600.”

The strenuousness of his intellectual life at Yerkes is described to me in the same letter by way of an apology for his delay in replying to me:

“An atmosphere of urgency–urgency to prepare two long lectures a week on a topic I am learning myself; urgency to write an over-grown investigation on Stellar Dynamics (a paper which incidentally is the longest I have written so far–it will cover 150 pages of the ‘Astrophysical Journal’); urgency to look into the doctorate thesis of two students who are not very bright; urgency to prepare conventionalized papers to two symposia; and finally urgency to look after and entertain a guest (my long-standing friend and teacher, Prof. Milne)–you will admit, this is hardly conducive to write a letter of understanding.”

So runs to uneventful life of this astronomer, broken now and again by trips to other places–there again to deliver lectures. He is invited as a visiting professor to the Institute for Advanced Study School of Mathematics, Princeton, New Jersey to lecture on Stellar Dynamics for three months in 1941. This affords him not a little excitement. He writes to his father (on 3rd October 1941):

“It (the Institute) is a terrifying place. To be in the same institute as Enstein, Weyl, Paulie and others is a privilege, but terrifying all the same.”

in Yerkes, he sits down at what is, no doubt, his second “substantial thing”. I refer to his book, “Principles of Stellar Dynamics”, published by the University of Chicago Press in June, 1942. Reviewing this book, an American astronomer writes: “In the new volume he (Chandrasekhar) has blended his own researches and those of others in a well-rounded book, which should, for many years to come, be “must” reading for every prospective student of galactic structure and dynamics...This book should exert a profound influence on the future developments in the field of galactic dynamics. I can recommend its study unreservedly to newcomers in the field and to those who already have a passing acquaintance with its problems. The experts can profit from reading it. If I were stranded in a far off prison-camp where I would be allowed one book, I would ask for Chandrasekhar’s volume. I am sure that per ounce of paper it would provide the most stimulation for continued research in theoretical astronomy.”

A month after the publication of this treatise comes a fresh recognition from his second home. He is awarded the Sc.D. degree of Cambridge (in July 1942). It is the harbinger of his fellowship of the Royal Society. But at this happy moment he feels sad. He writes to his father (on 3rdJuly 1942):

“Life has played strangely with me. All those whom I have loved and love have lived far apart, and my feelings have remained strangely unreciprocated, even as all your feelings for me needs must appear unreciprocated. Living apart, so long, so far away as I do, memory and imagination alone give me contact with life–the life of love and understanding….What have I done with life? I have sacrificed it for Science–so it seems. And now with the War on, the sacrifice does not seem worth-while.”

His third monograph, “Stochastic Problems in Physics and Astronomy” appeared in the “Review of Modern Physics”, published by the American Physical Society in January 1943. An Indian reviewer observes of this work, that “it establishes links between the problems of Stellar Astronomy and those arising in colloid chemistry and is a remarkable effort in scientific synthesis.”

In December 1942, the New York Academy of Sciences crowned his work, “New Methods in Stellar Dynamics” by the award of the Cressy Morrison Prize. This last work affords us an instance of the artist’s conscience of Chandrasekhar which guides him in his scientific writings. He states in the preface, dated July 1943, “Since the original version of this paper was submitted to the New York Academy of Sciences in September 1942, the subject has advanced along several directions. The author is therefore greatly indebted to the Council of the Academy for permission to drastically revise and recast the entire article.”

V

The Indian meteor is trailing in the American sky. The people at home, one supposes, do not have the telescopic vision to see its brilliance, although they vaguely realize its existence. The local celebrities in diverse fields fill their view. But–to vary the metaphor–Chandrasekhar leans out of the distant bars of America and gazes at India sorrowfully and lovingly. The spirit of loneliness has descended upon the exile–that most mellow of all spirits. He writes to me on 28th May 1942:

“I can hardly write coherently...But there is one thing definite that I have wanted to know, persistently, increasingly, since the War came to India this year. How does it affect you–your hopes and feelings–your attitude–your life? How are our friends? and relatives? Is there courage and optimism or fear and defeatism? You see, one pays a terrible price for living in strange, foreign lands. You cease to be yourself and you vainly try to be anything else. At home nowhere, a stranger everywhere. A strange intoxication comes over you. You live as in a dream, you work as in a dream, you become inhuman. You live in proportion to your ability to share, and in your inability to share you lose contact with life...I do not know if I make myself clear. The fact that I am an Indian gives me a strange feeling; and I feel all the more strange for being in America. This is a frank confession of my abnormal, unearthly feeling. For one thing I hunger; what are the things which affect you and all those whom I love in this crisis of our times? As an artist, you must sense the throbbing pulse of our times. Would that you could communicate with me…”

The above extract, with its utter sincerity and piercing poignancy, reminds us of some of the passages in Jawaharlal Nehru’s Autobiography and, further, reveals a clear, scientific mind analyzing a psychological state.

Again, nine months later, on 2nd March 1943, he writes to me, while accepting the dedication of a book of mine to him:

“I wish I knew how to thank you or tell you how much this means to me...At a time like the present, when our country is going through the birth-pangs of a new era, it is only sensitive artists like you who can feel the pulse of the new life germinating, and inaugurate the renaissance in the new country which India will be tomorrow.”

A Turgenev might have written this, elucidating his conception of Art. Chandrasekhar continues:

“When will that free India be, when you and I can strive after our ideals, proud of our independence, proud of our leaders, and creating in our midst the heritage of tomorrow? I cannot help feeling that out of all this suffering and frustration, out of all the multitude of injuries inflicted on us, we shall all gain a new stature with a newly won confidence, courage and self-respect. And if we can have this faith, a faith which has nourished our greatest men, why can’t we find inspiration in our very misfortunes and strive after what surely will be the pride of future generations?

Chandrasekhar is not only a scientist. He is a poet by temperament. A man of great intellectual and cultural stature, confined by the bent of his genius to his scientific mission, he feels the subjection of our country acutely. That is the tragedy of India. And his stay in foreign lands has mellowed his spirit. Against this ground one can understand his liking, among other authors, for Chekhov and Turgenev. Some passages in his letters and some of his remarks in his conversation are of the wistful Chekhov mood. He knows Tolstoy to be a giant among literary men–‘Anna Karenina’ is one of his favorites–but Turgenev also claims his devotion. Naturally because we are under subjection, and Turgenev, with his pictures of patriotic Russia, thrills us. Chandrasekhar admires Turgenev for making the Russian nation, with the various movements and currents swaying it, live in his novels. Chandrasekhar told me once–and who will not agree with him?–that just now we in India are in need of such novelists. This literary culture gives Chandrasekhar a unique place among our scientists. Indeed–with due apologies to the astrophysicist–if the planets had danced in a slightly different fashion at the time of his birth, we may have had in Chandrasekhar a great man of letters, gathering into himself and making eloquent the unspoken voice of the India of today.

VI

But the stars have contrived to make him study them. The astronomer’s “uneventful life” follows its smooth course and its smooth deviations. He attends the first National Conference on Physics held in Puebla, on the invitation of the Government of Mexico. The paper which he reads there on “Dynamical Friction” is perhaps his first which is given great publicity by the “Science Service” of America. His most popular summing of his own researches is his address, “Galactic Evidences for the Time Scale of the Universe”, given before the Philosophical Society of Washington on 4th December 1943, and printed later in the journal “Science” in the issue of 18th February 1944.

The brilliance of the meteor is suddenly made visible for a moment to India. In March 1944, comes a message from Reuter that Chandrasekhar is elected to the Royal Society of London. Unassumingly he takes his place alongside his “friend and teacher,” Prof. Milne of England and his uncle, Prof. Raman of India, still respectfully saluting Prof. Neils Bohr of Copenhagen whom he venerates as the greatest scientist-philosopher of Europe, and a little embarrassed, I fancy, to find himself the recipient of the sam-signal recognition (for an Indian) as Ramanujan whom he considers to be a genius without peer, with the exception of Einstein. Strange to say, he shortly afterwards complains in a letter that he is “fairly settling down to middle-aged idleness”–because he is reading Tolstoy’s War and Peace and “some novels of Virginia Woolf!” Notwithstanding this self.accusation, we find him writing to his father on 19th March 1945:

“It is of the utmost importance for me that the two books on which I am now working, “Stellar Atmospheres” for the University of Chicago Press, and “Statistical Dynamics” for the Oxford University Press, should be completed without interruption.”

Fortunate is the man to whom life is a perpetual pursuit.

It would be pleasant for me to make this sketch of Chandrasekhar complete by a brief technical or popular exposition of his contribution to astrophysics, but it is beyond my understanding. To be ignorant of his scientific work, however, does not rob me of my instinctive awareness of his greatness. One knows Genius when one stands in its presence. It is, in this respect, like beauty, whether it is acclaimed or not. And Chandrasekhar’s genius is acclaimed by the whole scientific world.

And thus the even tenor of his life at the Yerkes Observatory continues today. We, from India salute him and send him our perennial greetings. Writing of him, I am reminded of the even tenor of the life of that “happiest of poets,” Wordsworth; and I am tempted to suggest that Chandrasekhar is the happiest of Indian scientists. America has offered him both advantages and disadvantages. He is saved from social obligations and domestic compromises, but he is bereft alike of the compensations of home; he is in a foreign country but he is spared the ignoble politics which unfortunately entwine and poison every activity in the motherland, even in the ‘highest’ spheres, where one should least expect it.

Chandrasekhar is an internationalist in spirit, if ever there was one. We make a distinction between Gandhi and Nehru saying that Gandhi is a nationalist and Nehru an internationalist. This distinction, in the last analysis, is unprofitable. The one’s nationalism is as fruitful and idealistic as the other’s internationalism. Indeed the pioneers, from the very circumstance of their being pioneers, are nationalistic. A similar difference we perceive between Raman and Chandrasekhar. Chandrasekhar writes to his father on 19th February 1943:

“I was glad to read C. V. R’s (C. V. Raman’s) Convocation address. I was in general agreement with his depreciation of the craze for foreign degrees, but I think he is overlooking the obvious when he says that those who have benefitted by going abroad would have “done infinitely better” by staying at home. I wonder how he can explain Ramanujan. After four years at Cambridge, and with Hardy, he (R) lived to become the greatest name in Mathematics of this century. Anyone who has even a passing acquaintance with R’s life will accede that he would have died unknown and unwept, if he had continued the last precious five years of his life in India. Again, in a different plane, I can assert that I could not have done “infinitely better” had I continued in India–I am sure to have done much worse. However, with his larger thesis, that it is up to us Indians to improve our universities and centres of education in India, I entirely agree. And, for my part, I hope that one day I shall contribute my small measure to this development. But this is looking too far ahead.…”

¹ Monster in the Ramayana.