MATHEMATICS, EGO & ME

MATHEMATICS, EGO & ME 

 It was 2006, six years after I had given up my job and was content teaching at my own institute.

I was aware that people thought I was haughty, carrying an intolerably irritating superiority complex. I, however, dismissed it as their covetousness.

One day, a good friend of mine from Pune called me. He informed me that a certain Mr. Apte, also from Pune, was conducting a Personality Development workshop in Faridabad.

“Mr. Apte is a celebrated motivational speaker and trainer,” he insisted, urging me to attend. I gave all sorts of excuses—my busy schedule, my parents’ health, and other flimsy pretexts.

Although May is comparatively relaxed for teachers, I didn’t want to go. I believed my personality needed no rectification. Finally, my friend said he was coming to Delhi to attend it and that I must accompany him. To oblige him, I reluctantly agreed.

It was a three-day workshop at a motel in Faridabad. The fee was three thousand eight hundred rupees, which I painfully parted with—only for the sake of my friend.

During the introductions, it became evident that among the eighty participants, I had the most humble social status. There were Chief Medical Officers from renowned hospitals, ACPs of Haryana and Delhi Police, CEOs, and senior government officers.

The ghost of superiority within me stepped back and waited, curious as to why such refined gentlemen had gathered there.
The post-lunch session on the very first day, however, turned out to be the moment that changed my life.

Mr. Apte drew a large square on the board and divided it with four vertical and four horizontal lines, creating smaller squares. He asked us to count how many squares were in total. Some found 16, others 17, some 20, and a few 24.

My answer was 30—the highest anyone had quoted.
Mr. Apte came to me and asked if I was sure. My ego answered for me:
“Yes, sir. Pretty sure. I’m a Mathematics teacher. This is routine work for me.”

“Oh, I see,” said Mr. Apte. “Still, I suggest you recount.”

“No, sir, I can’t be wrong. I spend ten hours a day with this subject,” I replied, smugly.

Mr. Apte smirked and called me to the podium.
“Mr. Sharma, we’ll return to the squares later. First, let’s have a fun exercise. Gentlemen,” he addressed the others, “I’ve chosen him because he is a Mathematics teacher.”

He took an A4-sized sheet of paper, held it from two opposite corners, and asked me to tear it with a punch. As I punched, he withdrew his lower hand, foiling my attempt. He asked me to try again—and once more withdrew just in time. A third attempt failed too. I stood there, exasperated and exhausted.

“No, sir, it will not tear if you keep doing this,” I said when he asked me to try again.

Smiling, he looked at me. “And you realized that only after three blows?”

I sheepishly met his eyes, pretending shame.

He continued, “Each blow was harder than the last—enough to knock me down if I had been in the way. Actually, Mr. Sharma, you realized the truth after the first attempt. But your ego stopped you from admitting failure so early. You hoped I wouldn’t trick you again.”

I wanted to run away from the hall. But he wasn’t finished.

“And now, about the squares—you counted 30. But I can prove there are more, even though mathematics is not my routine job. Count all the squares including the outer outline, and then count them excluding the outline. That doubles the number you found.”

Placing his hand on my shoulder, he concluded,
“Mr. Sharma, there will always be more to learn. Improvement has no finishing line.”

Years after that incident, I still try to keep my ego in check. I strive to be a better teacher and a better human being.
Thank you, Mr. Apte, for the invaluable lesson.

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