How greed ruins academia in Pakistan

Pervez Hoodbhoy in Dawn:

ScreenHunter_05 Feb. 10 14.17 Pakistan's university system is breaking down, perhaps irreparably so. Thanks to the Higher Education Commission’s grand plans for a massive change, a tidal wave of money hit our public universities during the Musharraf years.

Although difficult financial times finally stemmed the flood, this enormous cash infusion served to amplify problems rather than improve teaching and research quality.

Naked greed is now destroying the moral fibre of academia. Professors across the country are clamouring to lift even minimal requirements that could assure quality education. This is happening in two critical ways. First, to benefit from three-fold increases in salaries for tenure-track positions, professors are speedily removing all barriers for their promotions. Second, they want to be able to take on more PhD students, whether these students have the requisite academic capacity or not. Having more students translates into proportionately more money in each professor’s pocket.

Nowhere is this more evident than at Quaid-i-Azam University, said to be Pakistan’s flagship public university. Barely two miles from the presidency and the prime minister’s secretariat, it was once an island of excellence in a shallow sea of mediocrity. Most other universities started lower, and their decay has gone further and faster than at QAU. Some are recognisable as universities in name only.

QAU’s departments of physics and economics were especially well known 35 years ago, which is when I joined the university. The faculty was small and not many PhD degrees were awarded in those days. Money was scarce, but standards were fairly good and approximated those at a reasonable US university. But as time passed, less care was taken in appointing new faculty members. Politics began to dominate over merit and quality slipped. That slow slippage is now turning into rapid collapse.

Last month, at a formal meeting, QAU professors voted to make life easy for themselves. The Academic Council, the key decision-making body of the university, decided that henceforth no applicant for a university teaching position, whether at the associate professor or professor level, could be required to give an open seminar or lecture as a part of the selection process. Open lectures were deemed by the council as illegal, unjust and a ploy for victimising teachers.

This is mind-boggling.

More here.

Tuesday Poem

///
The Crying Hill
Yusef Komunyaaka

Lately, I've stood between one self
& another self, trying to call across
the gone years, & my voice floats
from a tower of Babel, saying,
Yes, I need my arms around you
to anchor myself. Or, maybe I hear Ray
with the volume turned down, singing

…………“If I were a mountain jack
……………………………….I'd call my baby back.”

Or, I am hearing again that old man
facing a silent field of land mines,
circled by barbed wire, calling
his daughter's name over a loudspeaker
on his crying hill near the Golan Heights.
The sunlight glints off his eyeglasses.
She arrives like an apparition unbound
from a stone. Whenever he comes here,
he goes away with pocketsful of dirt.
He's lamenting her mother's ashes
given months ago to the Sea of Galilee
one sunset. What is she saying to him,
her head thrown back, her black hair
flowing around her? She has a bouquet
of red roses. But for a second, an eye
blink, he thought she'd been wounded.
Do the flowers mean a birth or death?
A whisper floats out of the loudspeaker.
He remembers when he was wild-hearted,
climbing these hills with his two friends,
Seth & Horus, both dead now for years.
They were kings, three laughing boys,
daring the small animals to speak.
///

African-American Civil Rights Movement (1955–1968)

From Wikipedia:

AfricanAmericans1 After the disputed election of 1876 and the end of Reconstruction, White Americans in the South resumed political control of the region under a one-party system of Democratic control. The voting rights of blacks were increasingly suppressed, racial segregation imposed, and violence against African Americans mushroomed. This period is often referred to as the “nadir of American race relations,” and while it was most intense in the South to a lesser degree it affected the entire nation. The system of overt, state-sanctioned racial discrimination and oppression that emerged out of the post-Reconstruction South and spread nation-wide became known as the “Jim Crow” system, and it remained virtually intact into the early 1950s. Systematic disenfranchisement of African Americans took place in Southern states at the turn of the century and lasted until national civil rights legislation was passed in the mid-1960s. For more than 60 years, they were not able to elect one person in the South to represent their interests. Because they could not vote, they could not sit on juries limited to voters. They had no part in the justice system or law enforcement, although in the 1880s, they had held many local offices, including that of sheriff.

Characteristics:

  • Racial segregation. By law, public facilities and government services such as education were divided into separate and unequal “white” and “colored” domains.
  • Disenfranchisement. When White American Democrats regained power, they passed laws that made voter registration more complicated. Black voters were forced off the voting rolls, and the number of African-Americans elected to office decreased. From 1890 to 1908, Southern states of the former Confederacy created constitutions with provisions that disfranchised most African Americans and, in many cases, poor White Americans.
  • Exploitation. Increased economic oppression of blacks, Latinos, and Asians, denial of economic opportunities, and widespread employment discrimination.
  • Violence. Individual, police, organizational, and mass racial violence against blacks (and Latinos in the Southwest and Asians in California).

More here.

Darwin, Ahead of His Time, Is Still Influential

Nicholas Wade in The New York Times:

Darwin-190 Darwin’s theory of evolution has become the bedrock of modern biology. But for most of the theory’s existence since 1859, even biologists have ignored or vigorously opposed it, in whole or in part. It is a testament to Darwin’s extraordinary insight that it took almost a century for biologists to understand the essential correctness of his views. Biologists quickly accepted the idea of evolution, but for decades they rejected natural selection, the mechanism Darwin proposed for the evolutionary process. Until the mid-20th century they largely ignored sexual selection, a special aspect of natural selection that Darwin proposed to account for male ornaments like the peacock’s tail.

And biologists are still arguing about group-level selection, the idea that natural selection can operate at the level of groups as well as on individuals. Darwin proposed group selection — or something like it; scholars differ as to what he meant — to account for castes in ant societies and morality in people. How did Darwin come to be so in advance of his time? Why were biologists so slow to understand that Darwin had provided the correct answer on so many central issues? Historians of science have noted several distinctive features of Darwin’s approach to science that, besides genius, help account for his insights. They also point to several nonscientific criteria that stood as mental blocks in the way of biologists’ accepting Darwin’s ideas.

More here.

The Two Languages of Academic Freedom

Stanley Fish in the New York Times:

Stanley_fish Last week we came to the section on academic freedom in my course on the law of higher education and I posed this hypothetical to the students: Suppose you were a member of a law firm or a mid-level executive in a corporation and you skipped meetings or came late, blew off assignments or altered them according to your whims, abused your colleagues and were habitually rude to clients. What would happen to you?

The chorus of answers cascaded immediately: “I’d be fired.” Now, I continued, imagine the same scenario and the same set of behaviors, but this time you’re a tenured professor in a North American university. What then?

I answered this one myself: “You’d be celebrated as a brave nonconformist, a tilter against orthodoxies, a pedagogical visionary and an exemplar of academic freedom.”

My assessment of the way in which some academics contrive to turn serial irresponsibility into a form of heroism under the banner of academic freedom has now been at once confirmed and challenged by events at the University of Ottawa, where the administration announced on Feb. 6 that it has “recommended to the Board of Governors the dismissal with cause of Professor Denis Rancourt from his faculty position.” Earlier, Rancourt, a tenured professor of physics, had been suspended from teaching and banned from campus. When he defied the ban he was taken away in handcuffs and charged with trespassing.

More here.

Waltzing With Ariel

Tony Karon in Rootless Cosmopolitan:

ScreenHunter_04 Feb. 10 09.56 Whereas Ariel Sharon saw the need to humor the Americans by indulging the rituals of Bush’s two-state vision, Netanyahu never bothered. In fact, it was Netanyahu’s rejection of Sharon’s tactical move to evacuate Gaza in order to tighten Israel’s grip on the West Bank that led to the Likud split that created the Kadima Party. Netanyahu isn’t stupid — even though right now there’s a good chance that he’d be able to build a ruling coalition only with blatantly rejectionist parties, he’ll make space for Kadima and Labor, hoping that he can stir the Pollyannaish hopes in Washington that their presence signals a “willingness” to make a peace agreement. Not that Netanyahu has any intention of doing so. Nor did Olmert, or Sharon.

Ariel Sharon campaigned furiously against Oslo, urging the settlers to “grab more hills” and making clear his own intention to stop the process. Sharon’s problem with Camp David was not that Arafat rejected what Barak’s “generous offer” (which even Barak’s chief negotiator, Shlomo Ben-Ami, later said he, too, would have rejected if he’d been Palestinian); it was that the offer had been made at all. That was why Sharon marched up the Temple Mount and onto the sanctuary around the Al-Aqsa mosque with a security detail of some 200 men, in the event that triggered the protests that mushroomed into the Second Intifada. And as soon as the fires were raging, Sharon triumphantly declared, “The Oslo Agreement is finished. It is null and void.”

More here.

Under the sealed sky: Drones

By Maniza Naqvi

Warrior_01sThe first time I saw an unmanned drone aircraft was in Karachi when I sat directly under one trying to compose myself into a pose of cool collectedness despite the heat. That day in June 1998 I had gone to get my photograph taken professionally for the promotion of my first novel Mass Transit. As I seem to recall—there were several of them hanging from the ceiling all over the photographer’s house. These oversized toy gliders–above my head—rocked gently in the artificial breeze created by the air conditioning unit. I asked if assembling toy gliders were his hobby—. I was told they were neither. In fact they were remote control flying cameras. “They take pictures for the military” My picture taker told me. “Pictures over the Arabian sea—Pictures in Tharparkar near the border with Rajasthan—he grinned and continued peering at me through the lens of his camera. “Those pictures are taken with a very special type of a lens. Taking photographs of people like you, now that’s the hobby”. “Say no more” said I.

The sun seared the air to sweltering outside—but air conditioning inside, kept the photographer’s studio mildly cool. He was a civil aviation engineer. He did photo essays and fashion layouts for news magazines in the country as he had said as a hobby. While I arranged myself on the chair, brushed my hair and applied some lipstick, he adjusted the lighting and the backdrop. The power went out just as we were getting started. No matter—it would only be gone for half hour at the most. The room was getting hot. The pure cotton shift that I had on was beginning to cling—beads of sweat were beginning to trickle down my arms. So while we waited he pulled up the blinds on the windows and opened the shutters to let in air and the hot light from outside and asked me if I’d like something cool to drink or tea. I opted for a coke with ice. Ice would be so good. He left the room. The sea breeze caused the drones above my head to sway, various parts, probably the wings made a creaking sound. I looked up nervously—hoping that the strings holding them up were strong enough. When he returned with the drinks I fished out one of the ice cubes from my glass and rubbed it up and down my arm.

Read more »

Lying Around — Part II

Everybody wants to go to heaven
But nobody wants to die
Everyone wants to hear the truth
But they all want to tell lies.

Having tried the readers patience in the first part of this essay with the task of defining what it is to lie, I propose to examine some of the moral issues raised by lying. For my purposes it will be sufficient to define a lie as a false statement made by a speaker who believes it to be false with the intent to get the hearer to believe the statement. This will not handle all cases but my view is that one starts with a problem one wants to think about and then adopts a definition which is relevant and helpful to the problem.

I will also assume that the statement is made in a context where it is understood by speaker and hearer that one should not say what one believes to be false. So I am assuming that the speaker is not an actor on stage, does not wink when he makes his statement, is not playing poker, not trying to conceal the surprise party for his wife, and so forth.

The logic of lying is easy: 1) never lie or 2) always lie or 3) sometimes lie. To my knowledge nobody has ever argued for policy 2. For one reason it doesn't seem possible to carry it out. There are puzzles that begin: A missionary arrives on an island where there are two tribes; one always lies and the other always tell the truth. I always wonder how the members of the first tribe learned their language. So the only possibilities are 1 and 3.

The strange thing about the view that one should never lie is so many of us pay lip service to its truth while almost nobody adheres to it. I do not believe it to be true and this is consistent with believing that almost all lies are either unnecessary or wrong or useless. Having just experienced eight years of a regime which regarded the truth as something to be either concealed, manipulated or forgotten, need not lead us to embrace a thesis that replaces this attitude with one that could lead us to participate in evil (not lying when the Gestapo asks whether there are any Jews in the house) or bring injury to others out of proportion to the harm done by lying (telling your child that her first attempt at a portrait is terrible).

Let us start with the great philosopher who seems to defend the absolutist view about lying–Kant. In his little essay, “On a Supposed Right to Tell lies from Benevolent Motives,” Kant says, “To be truthful (honest) in all declarations is therefore a sacred unconditional command of reason, and not to be limited by any expediency.” And the French philosopher Constant draws out what he sees as an implication of Kant's theory “that to tell a falsehood to a murderer who asked us whether our friend, of whom he was in pursuit, had not taken refuge in our house, would be a crime.” Much ink and some blood has been spilled on figuring out 1) what Kant meant and 2) could it possibly be correct.

Read more »

The Humanists: Wim Wenders’ Paris, Texas (1984)

Paris30

by Colin Marshall

Many reviews of Paris, Texas open by describing of the condition and provenance of Travis, its wayward middle-aged protagonist. Though this isn't a review per se, I will uphold the proud tradition nonetheless: Travis shambles into the film from a barren, near-surrealistic desert landscape, allegedly on his way back an extended impromptu stay in Mexico. He's also a scruffy disaster, masked by a scraggly beard and battered baseball cap, walking on, more so than in, a pair of boots that no longer merit the name. He appears to understand little. He says even less.

Such a setup could be taken in hundreds of different tiresome directions. The story of a enigmatic outsider, perhaps, uninitiated in entrenched human mores, who, by way of his noble naïveté, inadvertently strips the ludicrous facade from the cesspool of hypocrisy and parochialism we have short-sightedly come to call civilization? How about a gimmicky yarn revolving around a taciturn Man With a Past, a tale whose teller manipulatively keeps the audience on an artificial drip-feed of detail, delaying as long as possible the exposure of this figure's preposterous, baroque backstory to the harsh light of day? Maybe a lazy odyssey of the bizarre, where the fellow continues to shamble silently through an interminable series of haphazard, dissociated words and images, leading viewers into an interpretational wild goose chase?

From the moment Travis breaks his isolation and crosses into some semblance of a built environment, the possible disastrous creative choices blossom, almost eclipsing from view the possible successful ones. By some miracle combination of calculated cinematic risk-taking and sheer bravado, Wenders and his collaborator, the redoubtable playwright Sam Shepard, pull the film through unscathed. Given that the final product contains both a precocious child actor and no fewer than two interstate road trips, Shepard and Wenders' indisputable victory over cliché looks even less probable, but it shines right there onscreen nonetheless.

Read more »

From Antonio Gamoneda’s ‘Arden las Pérdidas’

Alan Page

This is my second installment of translations of Antonio Gamoneda's poetry. The following are selections from Arden las Pérdidas (The Losses Burn) [2003]. Next month I will post an essay on repetition and dislocation in Gamoneda's poetry.

As with the last set of poems, each poem between ——-'s is originally supposed to be printed on an individual page. They are something between individual poems and segments of a sequence.

———————-

The light boils under my eyelids.

Out of a nightingale engrossed by ash, out of its black, sonorous innards, comes a tempest. Weeping descends to the ancient cells, I can sense the living whips

and the animals’ motionless gaze, its frigid needle in my heart.

All is presage. Light is the marrow of shadow: the insects will die in the candles of dawn. This is how

the meanings burn in me.

———————

I am cold under an arc that splits off existence from light,

that splits off all I have forgotten

from the last light.

———————

There is a splinter of light in the appearance of eternity, we have licked translucent membranes almost lovingly, there is nothing but winter on the motionless branches and all the signs are empty.

We are alone between two negations like bones left to dogs that will never come.

Day is about to enter the calcinated room. The black suture has been useless.

One pleasure remains: we burn

in incomprehensible words.

——————–

Read more »

Obituaries: A Sunrise Seminar in the Little Chain of Being

Michael Blim

At six o’clock, if our neighbor Billy had set his alarm the night before, the daily Chicago Tribune would arrive on our doorstep, and after a quick snap of its binding rubber band, it was laid out on the kitchen table for morning inspection. My father was hawking oil to auto dealers in those days, and was out of the house by half past. A quick glance at the headlines while he drank down two cups of black coffee was all the time he had. My mother black coffee in hand went straight for the crossword puzzle. Despite having to put her army of academic learners in the field by seven-thirty, she got a head start on what would be her little literary companion in a day otherwise marked by dirty laundry and an uncooperative Swiss steak.

My Nana was the convener of another set of inquiries. You could say she conducted inquests in camera into the death and survival of all those and their kin who passed through the morning’s obituaries. By working methodically through the Tribune accounts of the deceased that had caught the editor’s eye, as well as by careful scrutiny of the death notices placed for a fee by the next of kin, my Nana could chart the changes in the human geography around her.

For us, following the Cubs was a sacred duty, and the sports pages offered the material for daily reflections. More sacred still among us were the dead, and it was in their service that my Nana would assemble her daily inquiries and bring together the several lay jurors among her grandchildren to whom she could submit her true bills. Not for nothing I grew up calling the obituary pages the Irish sports pages.

Nana was capable of conducting her inquests alone if we were forced to go to school, for she had something of a standing jury in her sister, my mother, and my aunt – all of whom she would see in person or contact by phone every day with the her findings and suggested judgments. Face-to-face kitchen-table meetings were run around preparing and drinking tea. Nothing special, mind you: just Lipton’s in a pot with milk and sugar served on the side.

When I read those obituary pages with my Nana, no world could have seemed bigger and more inviting – even if whole lives were compressed typically into less than 200 words per deceased.

What choice words! Birthplace, age, residence, family relations, marriage relations, education, religious affiliation, as well as race if you knew how to read it.

Read more »

John Lennon Monsters in the Uncanny Valley

Uncanny valley IWriters at this site have discussed the “Uncanny Valley” before. Put simply, it's that point along the curve from “clearly artificial” to “almost lifelike” at which most people get … well, creeped out.

While the term is new (a Japanese roboticist coined it in 1970), the idea may be as old as myth: Ugly things – things that look very different from us – are repulsive. But so are things that look almost like us – or things that could be us, but aren't.

Isn't that why vampires fascinate us? “I thought she or he was safe, trustworthy, one of us … until I saw no reflection in the mirror …”

No reflection in the mirror = no confirmation of humanity, either theirs or ours. If they don't cast a reflection than they don't reflect us.

So a monster that's human-like is scary for different reasons than an obviously grotesque one. In the dark that face seemed almost human. But when I turned on the light …

Anybody want to insert a Joan Rivers joke here? Go right ahead. Plastic surgery falls into the Uncanny Valley sometimes. We allowed ourselves to adjust as famous people gradually began reconstructing themselves more and more.

Imagine if someone with a heavily reconstructed face – Michael Jackson, let's say – were sent back in time 100 years. It wouldn't be a joke. People would run away in horror.

Monster: From the root of the Latin monere, to warn – as of something terrible or portentous.” That's what the Encyclopedia Britannica says.

Actroid“Monster … not one with the blowing clover or the falling rain.” That's what Ralph Waldo Emerson says.

So let's call Uncanny Valley monstrosity a warning: That thing you thought might be human … isn't.

And what does John Lennon have to do with all of this? Surprisingly, nobody's built any animatronic Beatles yet. I have seen Beatles cover bands in about five different countries, including Japan, Portugal, and India. Moptops, collarless suits, bobbing heads … the whole deal. But, while the late Mr. Lennon has escaped robotic reproduction (which could leave him looking like the overly humanized “actroid” on the right), he lives on in at least two back roads of the Uncanny Valley.

Read more »

The Wrath of Khan

Dr. A. Q. Khan has been set free by the Islamabad High Court in Pakistan after five years of house arrest following a publicly broadcast apology to the nation by Khan for his nuclear proliferation activities. Under international pressure, the government of Pakistan is considering appealing his release. This is a November 2005 article about Khan's activities by William Langewiesche in The Atlantic:

ScreenHunter_03 Feb. 09 10.23Rawalpindi is a city of two million residents on the northern plains of the Punjab, in Pakistan. It is a teeming place, choked with smoke and overcrowded with people just barely getting by. A large number of them live hand to mouth on the equivalent of a few hundred dollars a year. Much of their drinking water comes from a lake in the peaceful countryside north of town. The lake is surrounded by tree-lined pastures and patches of sparse forest. The navy of Pakistan has a sailing club there, on a promontory with a cinder-block shack, a dock, and one small sloop in the water—a Laser 16 with dirty sails, which sees little use. Though fishermen and picnickers sometimes appear in the afternoons or evenings, the lakefront on both sides of the promontory is pristine and undeveloped. The emptiness is by design: though the land around the lake is privately owned, zoning laws strictly forbid construction there, in order to protect Rawalpindi's citizens from the contamination that would otherwise result. This seems only right. If Pakistan can do nothing else for its people, it can at least prevent the rich from draining their sewage into the water of the poor.

But Pakistan is a country corrupted to its core, and some years ago a large weekend house was built in blatant disregard of the law, about a mile from the navy's sailing club, clearly in sight on the lake's far shore. When ordinary people build illegal houses in Pakistan, the government's response is unambiguous and swift: backed by soldiers or the police, bulldozers come in and knock the structures down. But the builder of this house was none other than Dr. Abdul Quadeer Khan, the metallurgist who after a stint in Europe had returned to Pakistan in the mid-1970s with stolen designs, and over the years had provided the country—single-handedly, it was widely believed—with an arsenal of nuclear weapons.

More here.

flannery

Flannery_oconnor_as_a_child

Even then, it was obvious she was a genius,” said Miss Katherine Scott, Flannery O’Connor’s freshman-composition teacher, speaking to a reporter many years later about her most famous student—“warped, but a genius all the same.” The teacher no doubt focused on the warped part when the seventeen-year-old Catholic girl with the spectacles and the searing wit took her writing class at Milledgeville’s Georgia State College for Women in the summer of 1942; and it was the warped part she noticed some ten years later, when she read O’Connor’s first book, Wise Blood, and flung it across the room. “I thought to myself that character who dies in the last chapter could have done the world a great favor by dying in the first chapter instead,” she told the same reporter. This was the sort of understanding and encouragement that surrounded Mary Flannery O’Connor from her earliest years in Savannah to her death at the age of thirty-nine in the Milledgeville area. But we should not be entirely sorry about that. Familial and social disapproval evidently spurred this writer on, enabling her to form a pearl around each painful speck of grit. That O’Connor’s pearls are among the most luminous and valuable we have in all of American literature does not detract in any way from their strangeness and hardness. Indeed, their value lies precisely in that hardness, that strangeness. However many times you read “A Good Man Is Hard to Find,” “The Life You Save May Be Your Own,” “The Artificial Nigger,” and “Good Country People,” you will not be able to figure out the source of their enormous power; in fact, they will become increasingly mysterious to you as the years go by.

more from Bookforum here.

the morality behind darwin

155_essay_desmond

Shackled legs, thumbscrews used to crush the fingers of errant female slaves, a six-year-old boy horse-whipped for handing out water in a dirty glass: these sound like scenes from a modern horror story, but all were seen by the young Charles Darwin on his travels with the Beagle around the slave-owning continent of South America. You will find no mention of them in the proudly reasoned, scientific pages of On the Origin of Species. Glance at Darwin’s journals, private notebooks and family background, however, and you will find a man immersed in the rhetoric and fervent belief of the anti-slavery movement. Was the public man of science influenced by these private passions? In the light of painstaking archival investigations into Darwin’s letters, papers and notes, I believe the answer is a firm “yes.” Although he never admitted publicly to so political a motivation, anti-slavery sentiment was the handmaiden of Charles Darwin’s great intellectual achievement—the theory of evolution. The standard tale of a disinterested gentleman-naturalist’s journey of discovery will no longer wash. Rather, to understand both the man in his times and the true radicalism of his theory, we must look to the political and moral considerations that shaped his thought.

more from Prospect Magazine here.

Slumdog Millionaire

Michael Wood reviews Slumdog Millionaire in the LRB:

The show [Who Wants to Be a Millionaire], in other words, provides the narrative structure of the film, but also something more: an atmosphere of chance and suspense, where the sheer tackiness of the trademark mode of presentation gives us a kind of parody of destiny. The vaguely threatening sci-fi music, the eerie lighting, the repeated questions, the long pauses, the parade of the four possible answers, and in this case the acting of Anil Kapoor as a wonderfully creepy Indian version of Chris Tarrant – it all looks like bad media magic. The film implicates us too by giving us right at the beginning a version of the show’s four answers, in this case to the question of how Jamal can get so many responses right: A. He knows; B. He’s cheating; C. He’s lucky; D. It is written. In a very fine joke on its own status the movie explicitly settles on D, and goes straight into the rousing musical credits.

The uncertainty and embarrassment of the film’s direction have to do with the sheer misery it dives into and flies over. In the early sections, everything happens too fast and is too brightly lit: it feels like tourism in poverty, and perhaps reflects a tension between Danny Boyle and Loveleen Tandan, his Indian co-director. I have to say, though, that if I were protesting about the film, as certain groups in India are, it would not be about pictures of poverty or the word slumdog but about the images of torture in a Bombay police station, where Jamal is badly beaten up and given vicious electric shocks just because he knows things above his notional class. The war on error, perhaps.

What leads the film out of its uncertainty and embarrassment is both the sheer intricacy of the plot and its flashbacks, the ingenuity of the connections between Jamal’s life and his quiz questions, and the interesting and awkward story hiding behind the appearances of conventional romance.