Srinivasa Ramanujan inspired by Goddess Lakshmi

From a very young age, during primary school where he learned to write like all children, whether rich or poor, Ramanujan filled his exercise books with everything that captured his attention. He was amazed by the almost magical ability of his mind to transcribe his impressions. He also noticed that this fervor for recording everything set him apart from other schoolchildren. When an older classmate lent him a book—an exceptional event at the time for someone of his social standing (around 1895)—he memorized it entirely, much like the Brahmins of old, and effortlessly applied its lessons, astonishing his teachers. He was quickly recognized for his talent in tackling complex mathematical problems. Admitted to college at an unusually young age, he continued to fill his notebooks with theorems, whose complexity soon exceeded the understanding of his professors.

Thanks to their support, he secured a modest job as an accounting assistant at the University of Madras, as he did not possess the credentials to teach. This, however, gave him the opportunity to continue writing. He then produced an article on Bernoulli numbers that, to put it mildly, caused a sensation. Imagine this: a man of humble means, uninterested in education or academic degrees apart from mathematics, with no mentor or guide, firmly believing that his dreams were inspired by the goddess Lakshmi, the consort of Vishnu, published his first paper in 1911 in the Journal of the Indian Mathematical Society. It’s nothing short of extraordinary. One can be born with a talent for music, dance, or drawing, but how can such innate aptitude exist for intellectual pursuits? This raises questions for proponents of determinism, as we have been taught that only education can elevate thought.

Success and recognition, however, did nothing to alleviate the miserable conditions in which he and his wife continued to live. Believing that he could expect nothing from the intellectual circles where he had more than proven his abilities, and viewing his situation as desperate, he wrote a letter, enclosed drafts of his calculations, and sent it to a mathematician of international renown in England: Godfrey Hardy.

One morning, as he assessed the pile of letters that accumulated daily on his desk, his attention was drawn to the exotic stamps adorning an envelope. Seated in his chair, pipe in hand, he opened it and skimmed through it absentmindedly. His sharp mind quickly noticed that some of the theorems on prime numbers were incorrect. He dismissed it as neither the result of serious, methodical work nor of sound reasoning, but rather as a case of plagiarism—a common issue in this field. Once the tobacco in his pipe had burned away, the letter met the same fate as most of the correspondence he received daily: the trash. He then rose to attend to his professional duties.

Throughout the day, however, the jumble of numbers and formulas scribbled on those pages haunted him, though he could not say why. That evening, back at his desk, he decided to get to the bottom of it. Retrieving the letter from the wastebasket, he settled into his chair and resolved to reexamine what he had initially dismissed as the ramblings of an obsessive mind. His trained eye had indeed spotted some unusual theorems, but their combinations did not follow the logic of conventional proofs.

Despite the convoluted methodology, several theorems turned out to be entirely unknown entities. The Indian man who had sent him this work could not have copied them from any article; their originality and presentation were truly unique. Examining them with an open mind, their craftsmanship became unmistakable. As he reread the document carefully, he was left speechless. "This letter," he thought, "is undoubtedly the most remarkable I have ever received. Its author is a first-rate mathematician, a man of exceptional originality and brilliance."

Unable to believe his eyes, so extraordinary did it seem, he turned to his close friend, the mathematician John Littlewood, a Fellow of the Royal Society and supervisor to many prominent future scientists, to ask for his opinion. The next day, Littlewood burst into his office, his eyes wild and the demeanor of a man who hadn’t slept all night. Without hesitation, he announced the discovery of a genius. Never had he seen anything like it!

When Bertrand Russell met them the very next day, he wrote the following observation: "I found Hardy and Littlewood in a state of feverish excitement, convinced they had discovered a second Newton —an Indian clerk in Madras earning £20 a year."

I’ve given you a glimpse of what divine science can look like when perceived through a human vessel—a phenomenon long forgotten in our societies steeped in scientific materialism. Now, it’s your turn to futher discover this extraordinary figure. There are several documentaries on the subject. Don’t let this opportunity slip away if you want to catch the train steadily making its way toward a new paradigm. "The times, they are a-changin’," as Bob Dylan once sang. ■

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