There’s a moment in “The Man Who Knew Infinity” where Ramanujan, played by Dev Patel, steps off the boat from colonial India and into Cambridge—alone, unfamiliar, and unwelcome. The halls are cold, the professors colder. Yet this barefoot mathematician from Tamil Nadu dares to speak in numbers that the West has not even begun to imagine. You watch him and feel it instantly—that pinch in the chest, that quiet cheer. Because how many times have we seen a brilliant mind treated as a bother?
Before he became a Google Doodle or a math legend, Ramanujan was just a young man scribbling ideas on temple floors and borrowed paper, believing in the equations that came to him in dreams. He had no degree, no funds, no prestige—only a relentless hunger to solve the puzzles dancing in his head. He failed most school subjects except math. Sound familiar? In our classrooms, too, some kids flunk English but ace robotics, or get mocked for doodling algorithms in their notebooks. Genius often looks messy before it makes sense.
Ramanujan’s journey to Cambridge started with a letter. Nine pages of hand-written theorems, mailed to a British mathematician named G.H. Hardy in 1913. At first glance, Hardy thought it was a prank. Then he read it again—and was stunned. He invited Ramanujan to England, not to save him, but to listen to him. That’s important. Many of our most brilliant Pinoys—teachers, researchers, creatives—do not need rescue. They need recognition.
Even at Cambridge, Ramanujan was never quite embraced. He worked on instinct and faith, not proofs or citations. He saw math as something divine. It was his own language, one that did not care for credentials or accent. In a country like ours, where education is still a luxury in many provinces, his story feels close. How many Ramanujans have we ignored just because they spoke in the “wrong” dialect, or studied in the “wrong” school?
His story was not smooth, nor was it magical. He battled poverty, illness, and racism. He died at 32. But before he left, he gave the world nearly 4,000 mathematical discoveries—many still being understood today. He never waited for permission to begin. He simply began. That alone should be a blueprint for every dreamer buried under bureaucracy.
In a system obsessed with diplomas and titles, Ramanujan asks: What if your passion shows up before your opportunity does? Here at home, countless minds grind in silence. Public school teachers making math fun with local materials. Young researchers building models in cramped barangay halls. Artists coding games with zero grant money. They do it anyway. They keep going. Not for claps, but because the calling is louder than the doubt.
Take a mentor from Iloilo, who teaches geometry using kamote and banana leaves. It never made headlines, but it made a difference. Or a health science student from Davao who used free tools to simulate disease spread in rural towns, only to be told her work lacked “international relevance.” These are Ramanujan stories too—proof that impact does not need English subtitles.
Modern science now backs up what Ramanujan lived. A 2016 study in Nature Communications shows that the brain does math using a different system than it uses for language. Which means our ability to grasp numbers might be older—and more natural—than words. Ramanujan, who learned math without formal schooling, was not an anomaly. He was an early clue. Genius is not rare. Opportunity is.
And here’s the part many forget—Ramanujan was not always right. Some of his work had gaps. Some lacked proof. But Hardy, his mentor, once said Ramanujan’s mistakes were more exciting than most mathematicians’ successes. That is a lesson for every student who hesitates to raise a hand or submit a wild idea. Being wrong is not failure. It is a step forward.
Hardy did not “fix” Ramanujan. He challenged him, and listened. That is what mentorship should be. Not shaping someone into a mirror of yourself, but helping them see who they already are. For our teachers, it is a reminder that our job is not all to spark genius—it is often just to protect it.
Ramanujan’s life is more than a math story. It is about persistence without applause. It is about showing up when the world has shut the door. It is about offering what little you have—whether it is a scrap of paper, or an idea scribbled on the back of a receipt—because you believe someone, someday, might need it.
Even in his final months, weak and bedridden, Ramanujan kept writing and computing. His last theorems would later help explain ideas in string theory and inspire new proof techniques. He never saw their full impact. He just kept doing the work. And maybe that is what following your passion really means—not being seen, but staying lit even when it is dark.
So to every young thinker, every shining artist, every teacher working after hours, every dreamer doubted or dismissed—remember Ramanujan. You do not need a podium to matter. You do not need permission to begin. Your ideas, though quiet now, might one day echo in places you have never seen.
All you need to do is keep going.
Doc H fondly describes himself as a “student of and for life” who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.
