It's that time of the Year

There is no need to get flustered, dearhearts, because Flaffy hasn't disappeared. Flaffy has just temporarily gone on a Real Life Binge (where she picked up this ridiculous habit of referring to herself as Flaffy). The thing about this whole Real Life deal is that it has consequences. Because there's all these Real People and they have Real Feelings. It isn't like being here. Where anything goes, because when it comes down to it, you can always cut and run. If you think someone's getting too close, or crowding you or rushing in where angels fear to tread you needn't reply to their comments/messages/e-mails. You can just pretend they don't exist and voila they will disappear. At least they will, eventually. If they're not really psycho stalkers. And as y'all know this blog never attracts psycho stalkers. Ever!

Maybe that's the difference between the internet and real life. The internet's so much more convenient. It has built-in safeguards. And sometimes those safeguards themselves can make you do stupid things, say stupid things or be stupid things but still at the end of it, those safeguards will still be there (unless you're abysmally stupid and take it off line). I don't know (have you noticed how so many of my posts are about me explaining how i don't know the answer to almost every question in the universe? seems to me to be a recurring theme). I don't think that the internet's helpful in bettering social skills, it's a lukewarm medium of communication and at best a means of sporadically keeping in touch with people you don't really care about with as little investment of time and energy as possible. But I do think it's a lovely place to pretend that life has no consequences. Just when you need a break. Like the Bahamas.

Since it's that time of the year when we talk vacation, I thought I should put this out there. An advance Christmas thing. Hope it helps (especially all of you who get exactly two days off for Christmas unlike some of us who get a month off - just saying).

Perspectives VII

She listened to her oldest friend rant about home. And her mum. And how hard it was to go out with her boyfriend without her mum knowing. She listened to her talk about curfews. About wearing dupattas when she went out to avoid the cat-calling lunatics that are called men in Madras. She empathized with her. Sympathizing in memory of not-so-long-ago. They ranted together for a while. It was an old rhythm and they settled into it comfortably enough. Like worn-in denim. But for one startled second she felt out of sync. We're in the 21st century!! You can tell your mum about your boyfriend!! Girls are allowed to talk to boys these days. Heck, girls do a helluva lot more. She wanted to yell it down the telephone line. Just for one second. She caught herself up guiltily. And continued empathizing.

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They discussed Tapas bars in the city over dinner. They dissected the best place for martinis. And the worst places. They laughed at how she'd had three martinis at one of the godawfullest bars simply cos they were there and someone else was buying. And how it had made her sick. So sick she couldn't even eat the olives (which everyone knows are the best bits of a martini). They talked about how Olive Garden had the worst sangrias (too much juice), and how Mi Luna had the best (lots of wine). They both knew where the best mimosas could be had for a late brunch. And suddenly she had a disconnect. Since when had she become the person who knew which bar was the best to buy a bottle of tequila from if people wanted to take the party home. Then, he brought up mojitos and she was kneedeep in conversation again.

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That night just before she fell asleep she had a thought. A wandering, bewildered, stray one. Maybe somewhere in all of this, this hectic recent life, this moving from one country to another to another, somewhere inside of all these sometimes contradictory selves, she'd lost temporarily misplaced herself. Just maybe.

Update: I just found R.W's Love Supreme on my iPod. Who *am* I?? No, really.

Song-people

I have a theory. No, no, don't roll your eyes at me. This is *not* about philosophy or religion. Promise.

I was going to give this long intro with like this amazing analogy and some remarkably subtle word play. Y'know a clever paragraph which would just open your eyes to my amazing intelligence as well as my incredible scope of general knowledge. But I (as usual) underestimated the power of laziness (and also how exhausting moving house can be; there! I have a legit excuse). So: songs are people. That's it. That's my theory. And what's more, I have an exemplary line of defense. (This btw is the new style of this blog. Cut and dried, which is a phrase I always wanted to use but never ever managed to fit into a sentence properly. Also cos it's really hard to get a context where you can say cut and dried and I'm kinda unsure as to whether it's cut and dried or cut and dry or cut and right, and one doesn't want to say one of it and have everyone else stare in incomprehension and so forth. Something tells me I'm losing my c. and d. style already. *sigh*)

Take it Easy : Obviously he's like the chilled out guy whom every girl in high school had a crush on. The one who had at least 3 girlfriends at any point in time. The one with the fast, noisy bike, which every girl wanted a ride on. Without the black leather jacket, the smoking and the sleazy hagged face (that comes later, no?). Ok, maybe with the leather jacket after all.

Wild World : The nice ex. The one who was perfect. The one whom all your gfs envied. The one who thought you were perfect. Who always said the right thing. Who always adjusted his mood to yours. The one whom you dumped, cos let's face it, perfect is boring (besides being awfully intimidating)! But everytime you hear about him from someone else, or when you hear a song that reminds you of him, or turn the TV on and see the re-run of a movie you saw with him, you have to smile.

Sleep : The hot desi guy. Very hard to find. So that when you *do* meet him, you almost can't believe your eyes. No way! you're thinking. The delicious guy who knows how to shake a martini just so, and uses phrases like "social constipation", with that slightest of desi accents. The guy whom you can imagine slipping into.. ummm.. anything with.

Two Steps Behind : The psycho ex. We all know this one. The one who seemed so caring. Who thought about you all the time. Sent you those cute texts the minute you left him saying he missed you. The one who'd let you go out with your gfs on a girl's night out, but would call you every now and then to check on you (that gets old really fast). The one who was so sensitive it was actually sinister. The one it's almost impossible to get outta your head. The one who's always *sigh* two steps behind.

The Great Beyond: Me, 2005.

Wonderwall: The guy with the charming laidback attitude to life. With those irresistible dimples when he smiles. The curly hair that looks like it's never combed. The guy you want to take charge of. Straighten out his life. The one with all the talent that can't be just left to rot. The one with the little boy good looks. The one who gives clueless a good name.

Something about the Way You Look Tonight (I wanted to get the Ella version for it but Youtube seems to draw up a blank :( ) : The Goodbye Again Ingrid Bergman. Seemingly happy and sophisticated but hurt and vulnerable inside. The woman of the world type person. I'm secretly awed by such people. Make me breathless.
(sorry about the shocking typo-it can't even be called a typo- but blame it on the shocking effect of pop culture :)..still couldn't get Ella, but managed a PC, which isn't bad; also realized that I'd written this wrong this morning and came online just to change it-I think I might be addicted to this blog cos I'm *not* obsessive compulsive!!!)

Photographs : The guy who used to smoke in school, just for a gag (I know, I thought about the gag-fag wordplay thing and then decided against it, you'll be happy to know). There were rumors that he did drugs. The immensely popular guy. When his uncle died, some kids in school said *meaningful* things about it. But you never believed any of 'em. Cos he *seemed* like such a nice guy. Always a smile for you. And a word. That made you feel so special. And happy. And made you smile yourself. The one whose now five times bigger, jobless and broke but when you see him at high school reunions and he smiles at you you can still see a little of that charm somewhere wayyyyyyyyy back in his eyes.

Iris : Six words. Your mother warned you about him.

Why Does it Always Rain on Me : Me, now.

See? See, what I mean? They're all people!!! Gimme any song and I'll give you a person (that's a promise, not a threat; even though it remarkably resembles one).

As a bonus, a fun exercise (to see how many of the stellar principles I used in these examples you've actually imbibed). Guess the personality of this one.

(I also have a killer corollary that albums are families - y'know complete with mum-dad-sis-bro-annoying aunt-balding uncle analogies. But that requires more examplification and zere is no time, peoples *looks under the bed frantically for time, that little idiot*.)

Gosh, I'm so glad that I've finally got a theory that I *know* noone will argue with me about (*gulp* Something tells me I shouldn't have said that. Fine, fine! Bring it on *faces the firing squad with grim anticipation*).

Note: To someone who's been asking me for more songs, click on the links :). They're all beauts and I have 'em only on iTunes. Even The Way You Look Tonight (even if you roll your eyes and say "That old song").

Update: Over at the 55s, we've started some Song-55s. Check them out.

The Shower-God's Revelations (or Epiphany #2)

Luck is abundant, universal and constantly happening to every single individual on this planet (including plants, and other creatures like yeast that lie along the borderline of the living), it's the adjective that requires hard work, preparation or the lack thereof, and has to be contributed by the luck-ee.

What a bummer! You just can't beat the system!!

Of Supercilious Arrogant Existentialists

He (inconsequentially): So, if you could be anything in the world that you wanted to be -

She (interring a decent pause): Ahaan?

He (rolling his eyes): D-uh! What would you be?

She (flippantly): I dunno. Maybe an astronaut.

He (with knowing condescension): Over-hyped profession. It just looks all gadgety and cool. Betcha it's totally uncomfortable under that space suit thingamajig. And you probably won't even get to go to space. Besides they seem to let psycho bitches become astronauts these days.

She (after some consideration): Hmm. I suppose it would be interesting to be an author.

He: Hehe (rudely). What? One of those chaps with long hair and inky fingers? The ones who never have anything to say but take a prodigious amount of space saying it? And take themselves oh-so-seriously. Might be quite appropriate actually, considering.

She (irritably): What dya mean might be appropriate? And anyway, I wouldn't be a chap! Maybe an actress then. You can't accuse me of wanting long hair and inky fingers that way.

He (smirking): Ahh. Of course. Fame and riches. Lots of people fall into that trap. Me, I've never needed that sort of validation from millions of people who don't even know me, jerking off in front of my picture. Such a silly sort of profession. No disrespect, of course. I'm sure for vulgar blondes with a weakness for diamonds it's quite the thing.

She (venturingly): Gardener?

He (dismissively): Bah!

She (quickly): Teacher.

He (quicker): Tsk.

She (lightning quickly): Scientist.

He (still quicker): Phooey.

She (despairingly): Social activist.

He (in between snarky sniggers): With a big red bindi? And cotton saris. Heheheh. You're going to save the world?

She (bitterly): Well, it's better than sitting around on a rather big backside, asking people stupid questions and laughing at all their answers.

He (reproachfully): The backside comment hurt. And it's not better! At least I'm not actively harming anything. That's the only thing you can do with one of your so-called "careers". Harm people. Or animals. Or things.

She (witheringly): Oh! So Einstein had a so-called "career" that harmed people?? Picasso??? Monet?? Shakespeare??

He (triumphantly): Course. None of them did anything worthwhile. Relativity? It's not even a theory. Mumbo jumbo that doesn't change anything. The world doesn't change it's fabric just because we give a name to the fabric. And weird shapes and blurred colors are nothing to crow about. Besides encouraging young twerps without a jot of talent to waste time and paint, while mercilessly killing millions of trees. Don't even get me started on mooning heros and crooning sheep. Think about all the men who never had a chance with the girls once they (the girls, that is) got a crack at Shakespeare. After 'I'll follow you and make a heaven out of hell, and I'll die by your hand which I love so well.' who wants 'Umm..so..err..how about it..mumble..tonight..'? Damnable behavior if you ask me.

She (baffled): Crooning sheep?

He (hastily): I thought we decided to not get started on it! The point is-

She (incredulously): There is one?

He (perseveringly): The point is that there is no way any individual life can actually matter in the grand scheme of things. Say there's a big river that's going somewhere. And every now and then there's a boulder in it's path or a mountain. The river has to either move around it or drill through it, right? But it doesn't matter which way it ends up choosing. To the river. The boulder might erode and become a mere bump, the ground over which the river moves might become fertile and green, life might flourish there. But it makes no difference to the river. Pointless is what it all is.

She (argumentatively): -

He (pre-emptively dismissing): I know what you're going to say. That it *does* make a difference. That maybe the river will move around the mountain and in the process tumble into a deep hole and become an underground spring. Or the river might be stopped by the mountain and become a lake.

She (futilely): No, I wasn't going to say that.

He (waving a careless hand): That's what you ought to have said. Of course I can counter it by saying that whether the river becomes a spring or a lake matters this much(snaps fingers). Whichever way you look at it things will happen. Maybe not the same things. In the same way. To the same cross-section of the world. But things will happen nevertheless. The river is a spring today, an ocean tomorrow or a dried up river bed the next. It doesn't matter. If I ceased to exist today, this second. It wouldn't matter to anyone.

She (heartfelt-ly): It would to me.

He (disregardingly): The point is noone makes a difference and things happen regardless. It's like Russian Roulette, except the outcome doesn't matter really. Ergo, it doesn't matter one whit what you think you want to become. Or would become if you could. In the context of the world, you're a blip that noone can even hear.

She (unimpressed-ly): That was a point?

She (grudgingly after pause induced by excruciating inner struggle): So, if you could be anything in the world you wanted to be?

He (superior-ly): Ahaan?

She (sighing): Yeah, yeah funny. What would you be?

He : Scared. Maybe depressed. Probably both.

Disclaimer: Any resemblance to real world supercilious arrogant existentialists is unintended, non-existent and solely in the mind of said s.a. existentialist. Any resemblance to any other He Said-She Saids denied vehemently. It happened by itself!

Inter alia

Go forth and Procreate: Reason # .55

You can buy a new car with all that lovely dough you get from tax returns *sigh*. People with kids can be so annoying sometimes!

Epiphany #1

The problem isn't that there aren't any answers, the problem is in that there *are*.

(I'm still not sure if this is an epiphany or crap, but it seemed ridiculous to title it Crap #1, though I know not as ridiculous as some of the other things these pages have seen :D).

So, I was measuring stuff out (cos that's what the scummiest of the scum does* in a lab) and distributing it among various measuring cylinders all day today. That sort of activity fatally gives you time to think, and eventually your mind comes up with these dazzling flashes of intuition (or whatever the heck it is). And I figure that the whole bloody thing** is just a result of not being able to accept the answer. (It's like when a guy asks you out, and you politely say No, but Thanks, which he then interprets to mean I really truly absobluminitely wanna go out with you but I'm such a shy retarded half-wit that I can't bring myself to say Yes. And then he hounds you.) That's the problem with the world. And that's why we need god. Cos otherwise what's the answer to the question why?

*Is scum a collective noun? Should the verb be do?

**'thing' meaning all those awful 3 in the morning questions like 'What is the meaning of all of this?' and 'Why am I here?' (though that one is often caused simply by a combination of alcohol and high spirits, and can quite easily be answered by conscious bystanders) and 'If I disappeared tomorrow would it make a difference to any freaking person in the world?' (also all too often most easily answered).

Update: See the strip right on top? That is what I'm talking about. XKCD rocks!

Of Science and Depression

A topic that I feel is amazingly underrepresented in modern psychology. Poets and artists have the luxury of creative depression. They can languish. They can complain about the unfeeling world. They can be neglected and ignored. They can be misunderstood or not understood at all. They can glamorously cut their ears off. The can go into a decline and die gloriously in penury on the streets. Monuments will be built for them. Their art will be feted. Their tortured souls extolled. But scientists! It's a whole, different story, and a very sad one.
Can you imagine Einstein having torments of agony trying to explain relativity to uncaring citizens? If he explained the theory to a grad student, and the grad student (poor chappie) had no clue what the great physicist was talking about, the said g.p would 1. be totally oblivious that the grad student had not understood it (mainly because grad students early in their career, as toddlers even, learn the art of nodding and looking alertly attentive - its an art form really) 2. assume that the grad student has no clue what gravity is in the first place, never mind a grand unifying theory and therefore be truly unperturbed by the grad student's lack of comprehension (in fact Albie might have had a fainting fit if the grad student had immediately understood the magnificence of the theory and asked pertinent questions) 3. not only ignore all signs of incomprehension on part of g.s but also reel out a series of experiments that have to be completed by the end of the week, to be included in a grant proprosal, to be written up and submitted on his desk by day after tomorrow.
It is indeed the sad lot of us scientists that we have to stuggle on with eternal cheer and optimism, explaining theories that people actually care about and which make a difference to the world at large. Not for us the incomprehensible squiggles on a large white canvas that will then be misinterpreted continuously for the next eight centuries by pompous art critics (in fact any incomprehensible squiggle will be called into question by the Thesis Committee and investigated to an inch of its life *sigh*). Nor the communion with stars in the bareness of space enclosed by four walls (mainly because it is of course logically impossible to commune with stars in the presence or absence of bare space), the blinding life-changing truths revealed by the inner soul and accepted as gospel (cos of course the blinding epiphany has to be subjected to *some* sort of experimentation -preferably in triplicate- before any conclusion can be safely reached, let's not even get into the number of reviewers who have to pass it before it can come close to publication), or even the comfort of estrangement from kith, kin and the world at large (for one, any Indian family would be unbearably proud of having a child who's a scientist-which of course is why there are no geeks in India- and for another, there are always other grad students grubbing for free food, snotty PIs shadowing your every move, warring post-docs each wanting a share of the pie, I mean it's a whole different world inside a lab, believe me! And a very crowded one, full of opinionated, arrogant, extremely intelligent people). Since all the respectable avenues for depression and a cheerless existence have thereby been removed from the average scientist's grasp, there is no choice but to be happy.
Imagine this scenario. A bunch of cancer cells arrive in the lab, the cells are plated, diluted and squinted at under the microscope. Now, if you were a poet or an artist, it would have been the work of a moment to picture the exceptionally brilliant, popular, 18 year old cheerleader who is right at this instant lying pallid and comatose on a hospital bed, waiting to hear news that could well be a death knell, depending on strangers to decide if she will live or die. This could lead to the creation of an epic poem, a masterpiece on the uncertainty of life etc etc. But since (for all events and purposes) you're a grad student, the conversation you'll have will be along these lines:
Grad Student 1: Wonder which patient these cells came from. Life can be so uncertain. One moment you're alive and the next minute you're dying of some genetic mutation that you might or might not have inherited from you great grand mother on your father's side. It makes you thi-
Grad Student 2 (with great excitement): Dya see that knob like thing on the left hand side corner of the field. Doesn't that look like aneuploidy? Man!! These chromosomes are so screwed up!! This is just perfect!! It completely proves our hypothesis.
Grad Student 1 (galvanised into action and elbowing GS1 out of the way): OMG! You could be right!!! But wait, though there's a knob-like thing there, look at the right hand side corner where you will see.......

See, what odds we have to struggle against? This whole week I've been struggling to stay depressed, but I've realised that inspite of the complete lack of sun over the past week, the cheerless grey skies, the incessant rain, the lack of any results from my various experiments, the having to work overtime, the fact that I didn't get some news about something that I was hoping to get news about, inspite of all this, I cannot keep up the depression. Science is a killer that way. I give up!

Update: I know that someone's going to point out that Einstein had what could be considered as a nervous breakdown during his career, so I counter that by saying it was complicated by a bilious stomach!! How can you romanitcize a nervous breakdown when it's accompanied by a stomachache????!!!!

How to Move a Mountain (In one Easy Step)

The answer lies in a five letter word with f in it (faith in case you were wondering ). But before I fascinate all of you with the story of What Happened at 3 A.M This Morning, let me just add that I have not given up my ambitions of adding seriosity to this blog (in fact as proof of that, this post is gonna be...yeah u guessed it.. serious). But before writing the feminism-finance-geopolitical situation post, I got waylaid by this post that came pouring into my brain when I woke up for the second time last night at 3 A.M (and yeah I know that's this morning and not last night, and yeah it is the story of What Happened at 3 A.M This Morning that I mentioned earlier). This I apprehend is an example of How Life Happens and also How Time and Tide Wait for No Man (or Woman), and if I was a different sort of blogger I could stun all of you by providing sage wisdom on all of that. But I'm not (Thank God For That..and dont you love Capitalizing Words?). So without Further Ado, That Which Happened at 3 A.M This Morning...ta da (those are Drum Rolls FYI)......

Once upon a time there was a girl (who is me btw), who loved that her brain worked best in the wee hours when sunlight was yet to creep into the sky, let alone her room, and there were shadows on her walls, and the slightest noise started off a trend of thought that left her with the answer to How To Move a Mountain (and other suchlike Erudite Questions). Tis a pity though that these thoughts wouldn't stay in her head till the morning. Anyway getting on with the story at hand (more a parable actually, or do I mean fable?). One night, she woke up at 3 in the morning, with a start (it seemed appropriate). There were burglars in the house. Two of them. A man and a woman. All in black. Those catsuit type things, y'know? Masks and all. They came in through the balcony door. She heard it slide open and the rattle of the shutters as they slithered into the living room. The man had a coil of rope around his shoulder. Probably how he managed to climb up in the first place. Her lap top!!! It was on the red rug in the middle of the floor. Staring at them. Screaming to be stolen. What would she do if they took it? How would she go online? And chat? And mail? And blog? Should she dash out at them, yelling like a banshee? Would a pink pajama clad tiny banshee impress anyone enough to scare them away? She quickly scanned her brain to remember all the tips given in the million forwards she had received, which were supposed to help her in just such a situation as this. No help. She could remember how to get help if she was attacked in her car, or a parking lot, or a dark alley, but not in her apartment. She cursed her brain cells. She strained to listen for further creeping from the living room. Would they get a midnight snack (sheremembered reading somewhere that most burglars check your fridge for a snack)? What if they came into the bedroom? Should she crawl under the bed? Or make a dash for her phone and call 911 or something.

By this time she was exhausted (thinking did this to her sometimes, unused muscles and suchlike). So she snuggled deeper into the covers (it was a cold night), and thought some Deep and Most Profound Thoughts on the Power of Belief (if we consider belief to be a delusion, an imagined something that appears absolutely amazingly convincingly real even in the face of no evidence or facts to support it; I could make a snarky comment about the God Hypothesis right now but I won't, restraint is the key one feels). And as she dropped off to sleep, she discovered the answer to the question, How to Move a Mountain. It was most satisfactory and she decided that she had to share the Truth with all her blog readers. It was, in fact her last thought as she went back to sleep. So this morning when she sat down to write this post, she decided that the fact that she couldn't remember the answer to the Most Profound Question of How to Move a Mountain should not stand in the way of her imparting wisdom to all and sundry (especially with the newly acquired seriosity of this blog). So she hoped that if she was destined to achieve only one thing in her life, it was this: to know (and to spread the word) that waking up in the middle of the night and imagining burglars in your house can be a Profound Experience even if you don't have Anything to show for it.

Cautionary Note: You didn't expect it to make sense, didja?

The More you Have...

The more you get, I think! The people who are loved, who have a happy life, a normal life, a safe life, who think the world's their oyster (to paraphrase Shakespeare), they're the ones who're easier to love. So they get more love. Their lives get happier, normal-er, safer. And the ones who don't get love to begin with, end up NEVER getting any, cos its so hard to love them! Talk about vicious cycles.

And Still More on Dawkins

Promise, no more than a sentence on this. He claims that if we removed the concept of God but RETAINED the heritage involved with national culture, and diversity we'll be fine. Does anyone else see the fundamental laughability in that?
(OK fine, twas two sentences but not too bad, right?)

The Fickle Finger of Science

A long time ago, I read an article that has since held me in its thrall. Apparently there is a phenomenon called Sleep Debt. It causes all your hours of amnesiac wakefulness to accumulate until you have a hoard of sleeplessness waiting to pounce on you and lay you low (with exhaustion I presume). The dreadful spectre of all this sleep debt stacking up in the bank frightened me into trying to sleep as often as possible (and you all thought I was lazy, hah! Now you know and I hope you feel sorry!!). And I even added a corollary to the Theory of Sleep Debt, my Theory of Karmic Sleep Debt. It involved karma, and reincarnation, and eternal sleep. Its complicated. So, imagine my disappointment to read in Wiki that this theory has been disproved completely! And apparently the sleep debt can only accumulate over 20 hours and no further! All those wasted hours when I was sleeping *sigh*.

Book Update: More on Dawkins

I know I'm going on and on but its only cos I'm knee deep in this book and its confusing me!
Dawkins thinks: Religion is pretty evil as a force of division, i.e. it divides people and hence, causes wars, bloodshed, violence, so on and so forth.
I think: The flipside is that religion provides a sense of identity doesn't it? And is as strong a cohesive force as it is a divisive force. And honestly I don't see universal cohesion in the presence/absence of religion. Also, as a point of interest neither of the biggest wars in modern history has been directly because of religion! Does that say something?