I had a friend. Well, I still do have him, but something has changed. It was a different relationship. He did all of the talking. I listened to him, often for hours at length. He spoke and spoke. He had so much to say and I listened to him attentively, some times agreeing, often times disagreeing and mostly silently and deliberately contemplating the words thrown at me. At times I thought, "Thank you for saying that, I so agree". At other times I said to him, "You're talking through your hat, mister!". Once or twice I said to him, "How silly!". I wish I could ask him directly if my interpretation of what he said added up - if that was what he tried to convey. I couldn't. He didn't have answers. Only unchangeable words that he simply went on with when I chose to listen. I could make him repeat anything at will.
Now it is at an end. Now I wish he'd gone on a little longer. I'm telling myself to be happy that it happened, not sad that it ended.
I'll soon find another friend full of words that can't be changed. A friend who says the same thing to everyone but is understood differently. He'll talk to me. Lend me wisdom while I lend him my ear. And when he's done saying what he has to say, a day later, perhaps a week or at most a month later, I'll feel bad to let go. Feel bad that I'm done and all my readiness to listen is wasted on a friend who has stopped speaking. A friend who has run out of words. Then the search for the next friend begins. The long one-sided conversation with the great minds of the world.
I finished reading a book and now I'm bored. Sad that it's over and wish it was longer. Until I find another book I can't put down.
Physicist, climate scientist, armchair patriot. Interested in test cricket, Indian politics, history. Aspiring polyglot. Rarely opinionated.
Nov 13, 2016
Oct 12, 2016
Six Thousand Something
There are two kinds of achievements in the world - the kind that you can put on your CV and the kind you can't. Worked on a project and brought some bombastic result lauded by your peers and your fellow professionals? Straight on your resumé. Organised that huge conference at your workplace - gotta wanna put that in for the world to see. How about successfully conducting your son/daughter's wedding in a glitch-less, flawless, smooth manner? Watching on with pride as you're surrounded by friends, family and to be in-laws, all smiling and commending. All well within budget too. Or helping your close friend through his depression - speaking to him everyday, empathising, rationalising and advising as he sobbed on and on until he broke free and is now a man reborn? Can't say "Helped best friend through a rough patch" as an achievement on your CV can you, now!
It's tempting to say it's the achievements that don't make your CV that stay in your mind. It is aligned with the narrative of the shallow materialistic pleasure that plaster a smile over your face for a day against the true, humane pleasure of helping others or making your family smile that can summon a genuine smile to your face in the darkest of times.
Some achievements, of course, can be really satisfactory personally and can go on your CV. Pulling off the perfect performance at your play that you and your team worked so hard on. Yet, even there, the closer knit unit your team and fellow performers are, the greater the satisfaction.
There are some "achievements" that you needlessly remember and are needlessly proud of - scaling that hillock next to your picnic spot when you were 12 and coming back unscathed perhaps. Or that time when you were 6 and pulled a complex somersault perfectly.
I'll give you my narrative - adulthood is a journey of difficult realisations and rationalisations. Those people who were so nice and smiled at you - they're just waiting to rip you off. That person who offered to help you - he wants this particular favour in return. The world isn't too nice but we shouldn't forget, the world isn't too terrible either - most of the time. We often feel we have the bad end of the stick, the wrong end of the deal. There's uncertainty. All our plans seem doomed to failure. The probability of winning the Nobel Prize in Physics is so low, you'd rather buy lottery tickets every morning.
We want to be logical. We try not to get too attached emotionally to anything, lest it (it most probably will) lead to disappointment and failure. Keep your hopes low and you'll never be disappointed. At least that's what we're told - that's the narrative.
And so I found it necessary to reject this nice sounding, romantic narrative - shallow-materialistic-short lasting-not real and non materialistic-deep-soulful-true happiness-what really matters.
Narrative - What really matters is how many people's lives you touch, not your bank balance.
Rational Adult - Yeah, but it's nice to be rich as well.
Narrative - You may go all over the world and do great things, but coming back home, hugging your parents and eating home food, that's true happiness.
Rational Adult - It's alright, I really love that far-away land with all its riches, not this objectively bad, simpleton village.
Narrative -
Rational Adult -
But the RA fails to ask one question - why does it all go on despite these damming facts? We still endure, persevere and persist. And I think it's only because we've heard the narratives. And deep down, we want to believe these narratives. And the slightest indication we get that this narrative is true, we hold on to it and cherish it. Thus making the narrative come true.
And why am I having these thoughts? Because I'm back home, mainly. And the skies opened up and it rained like the old times in Bangalore. Cold and damp and somehow uplifting. And that made me irrationally happy. Reminded me of all the old things. And I tasted my mother's cooking.
Perhaps my greatest (and only?) achievement that can go on my CV is obtaining a rank in the JEE exam. And I'm not proud of the achievement because it's so hard or anything - it's because it's something I worked hard for, went through the whole cycle of believing I could do it, then realising I can't, then thinking I won't, then wondering if I would, then being sure I will, then giving up, then realising there's no point giving up, then convincing myself it's worth the effort and when the exam drew near, giving up all thought and studying for the sake of studying - and while I was not studying, I stopped thinking about studying and JEE and life after school. It somehow happened and it worked out. I did work hard though. And remained focused. And I give myself great credit for it. A grand achievement. Perhaps my greatest. So much satisfaction! My rank! Not bad by any means. A number I would cherish for ever. Six Thousand, ........ something.
That's right. One day recently, I realised I've forgotten my JEE rank. The great number is erased from my mind. I remember the exact words of friends, relatives, family, teachers at various points in my life - times when I felt a slight fluttering pride in my chest for a little thing I'd said or done. Made another smile. Remember running to our school music teacher and director of the school play and embracing him after the show I was cast in - months and months leading to that moment. It was greater because I shared the joy with so many people.
And so, here is my narrative - the same old narrative. It's about people and joy and happiness and how many lives you touch - not what you alone accomplish. At least that's how I see it. And because I see it that way, I will continue to see it that way. Or that's my theory. At least.
It's tempting to say it's the achievements that don't make your CV that stay in your mind. It is aligned with the narrative of the shallow materialistic pleasure that plaster a smile over your face for a day against the true, humane pleasure of helping others or making your family smile that can summon a genuine smile to your face in the darkest of times.
Some achievements, of course, can be really satisfactory personally and can go on your CV. Pulling off the perfect performance at your play that you and your team worked so hard on. Yet, even there, the closer knit unit your team and fellow performers are, the greater the satisfaction.
There are some "achievements" that you needlessly remember and are needlessly proud of - scaling that hillock next to your picnic spot when you were 12 and coming back unscathed perhaps. Or that time when you were 6 and pulled a complex somersault perfectly.
I'll give you my narrative - adulthood is a journey of difficult realisations and rationalisations. Those people who were so nice and smiled at you - they're just waiting to rip you off. That person who offered to help you - he wants this particular favour in return. The world isn't too nice but we shouldn't forget, the world isn't too terrible either - most of the time. We often feel we have the bad end of the stick, the wrong end of the deal. There's uncertainty. All our plans seem doomed to failure. The probability of winning the Nobel Prize in Physics is so low, you'd rather buy lottery tickets every morning.
We want to be logical. We try not to get too attached emotionally to anything, lest it (it most probably will) lead to disappointment and failure. Keep your hopes low and you'll never be disappointed. At least that's what we're told - that's the narrative.
And so I found it necessary to reject this nice sounding, romantic narrative - shallow-materialistic-short lasting-not real and non materialistic-deep-soulful-true happiness-what really matters.
Narrative - What really matters is how many people's lives you touch, not your bank balance.
Rational Adult - Yeah, but it's nice to be rich as well.
Narrative - You may go all over the world and do great things, but coming back home, hugging your parents and eating home food, that's true happiness.
Rational Adult - It's alright, I really love that far-away land with all its riches, not this objectively bad, simpleton village.
Narrative -
Rational Adult -
But the RA fails to ask one question - why does it all go on despite these damming facts? We still endure, persevere and persist. And I think it's only because we've heard the narratives. And deep down, we want to believe these narratives. And the slightest indication we get that this narrative is true, we hold on to it and cherish it. Thus making the narrative come true.
And why am I having these thoughts? Because I'm back home, mainly. And the skies opened up and it rained like the old times in Bangalore. Cold and damp and somehow uplifting. And that made me irrationally happy. Reminded me of all the old things. And I tasted my mother's cooking.
Perhaps my greatest (and only?) achievement that can go on my CV is obtaining a rank in the JEE exam. And I'm not proud of the achievement because it's so hard or anything - it's because it's something I worked hard for, went through the whole cycle of believing I could do it, then realising I can't, then thinking I won't, then wondering if I would, then being sure I will, then giving up, then realising there's no point giving up, then convincing myself it's worth the effort and when the exam drew near, giving up all thought and studying for the sake of studying - and while I was not studying, I stopped thinking about studying and JEE and life after school. It somehow happened and it worked out. I did work hard though. And remained focused. And I give myself great credit for it. A grand achievement. Perhaps my greatest. So much satisfaction! My rank! Not bad by any means. A number I would cherish for ever. Six Thousand, ........ something.
That's right. One day recently, I realised I've forgotten my JEE rank. The great number is erased from my mind. I remember the exact words of friends, relatives, family, teachers at various points in my life - times when I felt a slight fluttering pride in my chest for a little thing I'd said or done. Made another smile. Remember running to our school music teacher and director of the school play and embracing him after the show I was cast in - months and months leading to that moment. It was greater because I shared the joy with so many people.
And so, here is my narrative - the same old narrative. It's about people and joy and happiness and how many lives you touch - not what you alone accomplish. At least that's how I see it. And because I see it that way, I will continue to see it that way. Or that's my theory. At least.
Oct 4, 2016
Number 88
Eighty seven. 87. 87 is said to be the Australian unlucky number since it is 13 away from hundred. Whenever the score reads 87 for an Australian in any way, be it the individual score of the batsman or the team score, an Englishman in the commentary box rarely fails to give us this bit of insight into the way the universe works - 87 is the undoing of Australia. The commentator remains hopeful until the score moves on to 88 or greater and then all hope fades away as he watches Australia and other countries dominate the game of cricket while his beloved nation, the inventors and exporters of the game, fail to ever win a world cup. Sounds like football.
Eighty-seven is on my mind not because of some cricket related British mumbo-jumbo though. Nor is it because of Australia or England. 87 is my current blog-post count. And it's been stuck there for a while. But I'm not Australian. This is not when I lose my wicket. The show must go on and I'm merely 13 away from a century of posts. Twelve after this one.
88 in a bit over 7.5 years is slow writing but at least it is some writing. And 87 must be one of the longest breaks yet. Quite unique to this particular break though is my lack of guilt at not being more regular with my posts. I've hardly given any thought to this space since my last post. And today when I thought about it, I felt I simply must update my blog or I might just get struck by the Australian curse and so I bring to you this laborious post.
Over the last two months, I have been living the 21st century, urban, college campus version of the Amish life - no facebook, no WhatsApp. And perhaps that is why I didn't have as much motivation to write. The pats on the back and compliments for a blog post are surely, how much ever I try to deny it and call it writing for writing's sake and my sake, a big reason I write. And without facebook, the link to this post will not go up on my timeline and there won't be numerous "likes" and "shares" and "wows", nor will I get WhatsApp texts from mild acquaintances about how good my post was. The post will be lost away to internet obscurity. And now I write.
Life without the above mentioned, Zuckerberg owned social media (medias sounds odd since media is already the plural form of medium. Maybe mediums is the right word here?) is a self-imposed restriction for reasons that are not a whole lot more ground-breaking than "I just want to see how it will be" and "to hopefully increase my productivity". And the results have been rather underwhelming so far - it isn't the sea change and total transformation from living the life of a time-wasting, procrastinating, unproductive waste of space to a highly efficient, punctual and productive individual. A slight shift from quite productive to slightly more than quite productive. And not scrolling down a facebook feed isn't a handicap at all. It's almost a relief.
WhatsApp is a different story. Keeping in touch with certain people is harder and I'm often out of the loop when it comes to chronicles from my family group. I miss out on photos shared and other things but the gap is being bridged manage-ably with email. Again, on the whole, nothing very earth-shattering to report. It happened - I'm not on WhatsApp, Life goes on. Underwhelming.
A little curiosity about the language I wished to point out - when something is far greater than you expected, usually in the sense of an outpouring of appreciation or love, you are overwhelmed. When you expect great things that do not materialise, you are underwhelmed. When things are exactly as good or as bad as you expected and you planned for, why aren't you whelmed? Precisely whelmed, no over or under. Ha!
Eighty-seven is on my mind not because of some cricket related British mumbo-jumbo though. Nor is it because of Australia or England. 87 is my current blog-post count. And it's been stuck there for a while. But I'm not Australian. This is not when I lose my wicket. The show must go on and I'm merely 13 away from a century of posts. Twelve after this one.
88 in a bit over 7.5 years is slow writing but at least it is some writing. And 87 must be one of the longest breaks yet. Quite unique to this particular break though is my lack of guilt at not being more regular with my posts. I've hardly given any thought to this space since my last post. And today when I thought about it, I felt I simply must update my blog or I might just get struck by the Australian curse and so I bring to you this laborious post.
Over the last two months, I have been living the 21st century, urban, college campus version of the Amish life - no facebook, no WhatsApp. And perhaps that is why I didn't have as much motivation to write. The pats on the back and compliments for a blog post are surely, how much ever I try to deny it and call it writing for writing's sake and my sake, a big reason I write. And without facebook, the link to this post will not go up on my timeline and there won't be numerous "likes" and "shares" and "wows", nor will I get WhatsApp texts from mild acquaintances about how good my post was. The post will be lost away to internet obscurity. And now I write.
Life without the above mentioned, Zuckerberg owned social media (medias sounds odd since media is already the plural form of medium. Maybe mediums is the right word here?) is a self-imposed restriction for reasons that are not a whole lot more ground-breaking than "I just want to see how it will be" and "to hopefully increase my productivity". And the results have been rather underwhelming so far - it isn't the sea change and total transformation from living the life of a time-wasting, procrastinating, unproductive waste of space to a highly efficient, punctual and productive individual. A slight shift from quite productive to slightly more than quite productive. And not scrolling down a facebook feed isn't a handicap at all. It's almost a relief.
WhatsApp is a different story. Keeping in touch with certain people is harder and I'm often out of the loop when it comes to chronicles from my family group. I miss out on photos shared and other things but the gap is being bridged manage-ably with email. Again, on the whole, nothing very earth-shattering to report. It happened - I'm not on WhatsApp, Life goes on. Underwhelming.
A little curiosity about the language I wished to point out - when something is far greater than you expected, usually in the sense of an outpouring of appreciation or love, you are overwhelmed. When you expect great things that do not materialise, you are underwhelmed. When things are exactly as good or as bad as you expected and you planned for, why aren't you whelmed? Precisely whelmed, no over or under. Ha!
Jun 29, 2016
The Sea in the Sky
He stood at the edge of water,
Staring out at sea, the sea at night.
Like a rippling, massive black canvas far away,
The sea came to life near the shore,
A Crashing and frothing wave, a wave so white.
The black canvas mirroring the sky,
But for the undulations that roared out sporadically,
Getting louder and larger nearer the shore,
Angrily reflecting the moonlight
They crashed on shore, delighting men and women,
Then they receded silently, a still canvas again,
But they weren’t allowed to rest,
As another came crashing forward,
Then two, then three, churning and shining so bright
All of a sudden they all ceased,
The whole sea a still black canvas,
Just like the sky,
All the way to the horizon,
The sky was the sea, the sea the sky,
Now they all stopped, not a wave in sight,
Still as a statue,
He watched and gazed,
Out into the pitch black ocean,
That betrayed not a secret,
He felt a calm like no other,
A calm that lasted a few moments,
All calm until the next ripple began its flight
So he stared out at sea, the sea at night
A crashing and frothing wave, a wave so white,
Angrily reflecting the moonlight,
Then two, then three, churning and shining so bright,
Now they all stopped, not a wave in sight,
All calm until the next ripple began its flight
For those few moments it was all one
Like the black sea in the sky.
Jun 5, 2016
For His Mother
He turned his neck and spat tiredly on the grass beneath his feet. The grass was soft and comfortable but this wasn't friendly territory by any stretch of the imagination. Sweat poured down from his forehead.
The ball had gone out of play for a few moments' respite from the break-neck action. His team had trailed twice but they had kept at it with a relentlessness emblematic of all teams coached by his manager. Now the slender one goal lead garnered had to be protected. The referee signalled for the commencement of play to be delayed until the substitutions could be made.
The official held the board up. His number was on it. He was to come off in favour of a more defensively minded player. He was satisfied with the shift he had put in and was sure the manager would be too. It was he who had provided the incisive, defence-splitting pass crucial to opening up the play in the build-up to the second goal and equaliser that really turned the game in his team's favour - a pass that would count as a 'key pass' in the stats in the annals of time but he knew it was the definitive kick of the whole game. Then there was all that defensive work that he had put in too, imperative as it was for the modern attacking player to track back and mark runners.
The game flashed before his eyes as he trudged slowly and deliberately to the bench with a mind to run down the clock. The few hundred away fans rapturously sang his name and enjoyed the leisurely pace of his walk. The referee urged him to tread faster. The opposition fans jeered and booed. The opposition players protested. A couple of players squared up and the whole stadium turned into a cauldron. All standard fare that he was detached from. He walked on.
It was halfway to the bench that the subtle change in atmosphere happened. He was soaking it all in when the nature of the jeers changed. The home fans were in full voice now, singing of his past transgressions, the exact nature of the profession of the female members of his family back in his 'savage' and 'primitive' country. The elephant washer's son, they called him.
He'd heard it all before, seen it all before. Yet he found himself quickening his pace. He hardly noticed the manager's warm hug, a clear recognition of his excellent performance.
The next day, the papers and 'pundits' condemned the chants. The away club banned a handful of ticket holders for life and issued a strong statement. What did it matter though, to the little boy who'd slept that night with only his tears for company, yearning for his mother? His mother, his sweet, gentle, loving, innocent mother whom he had to fend for.
He who had played football as it was his only escape. He who had travelled across seas playing this game, working hard wherever he went. He who, after years of toil and pain, was finally spotted by a big club and given a contract. He who then worked his way into the starting line up. He who did it all chasing a dream, a dream not of fame or glory or wealth or football; but a dream to extricate his mother from their native home surrounded by the violence that killed his father when he was just a young boy in his unheard of impoverished little country, torn by war and strife. What did it matter to him?
Now he was in England, travelling the country and Europe with the squad while his mother lived in London, in the luxury he provided. He wasn't the cleanest, the kindest, the smartest or the nicest, but he did it all for her.
The new contract offer with improved wages was on his table, a testament to his rising importance to the squad at the age of just 20. All he could think of now, in this hotel room in this city was of home in London, his mother, and the next home game with 60000 men singing his name, applauding his every move, appreciating him for who he was, a footballer and a hard-worker.
The future looked bright and his mother was happy.
Loosely inspired by the story of Gabriel Paulista. Also, try this article and the video attached to it.
The ball had gone out of play for a few moments' respite from the break-neck action. His team had trailed twice but they had kept at it with a relentlessness emblematic of all teams coached by his manager. Now the slender one goal lead garnered had to be protected. The referee signalled for the commencement of play to be delayed until the substitutions could be made.
The official held the board up. His number was on it. He was to come off in favour of a more defensively minded player. He was satisfied with the shift he had put in and was sure the manager would be too. It was he who had provided the incisive, defence-splitting pass crucial to opening up the play in the build-up to the second goal and equaliser that really turned the game in his team's favour - a pass that would count as a 'key pass' in the stats in the annals of time but he knew it was the definitive kick of the whole game. Then there was all that defensive work that he had put in too, imperative as it was for the modern attacking player to track back and mark runners.
The game flashed before his eyes as he trudged slowly and deliberately to the bench with a mind to run down the clock. The few hundred away fans rapturously sang his name and enjoyed the leisurely pace of his walk. The referee urged him to tread faster. The opposition fans jeered and booed. The opposition players protested. A couple of players squared up and the whole stadium turned into a cauldron. All standard fare that he was detached from. He walked on.
It was halfway to the bench that the subtle change in atmosphere happened. He was soaking it all in when the nature of the jeers changed. The home fans were in full voice now, singing of his past transgressions, the exact nature of the profession of the female members of his family back in his 'savage' and 'primitive' country. The elephant washer's son, they called him.
He'd heard it all before, seen it all before. Yet he found himself quickening his pace. He hardly noticed the manager's warm hug, a clear recognition of his excellent performance.
The next day, the papers and 'pundits' condemned the chants. The away club banned a handful of ticket holders for life and issued a strong statement. What did it matter though, to the little boy who'd slept that night with only his tears for company, yearning for his mother? His mother, his sweet, gentle, loving, innocent mother whom he had to fend for.
He who had played football as it was his only escape. He who had travelled across seas playing this game, working hard wherever he went. He who, after years of toil and pain, was finally spotted by a big club and given a contract. He who then worked his way into the starting line up. He who did it all chasing a dream, a dream not of fame or glory or wealth or football; but a dream to extricate his mother from their native home surrounded by the violence that killed his father when he was just a young boy in his unheard of impoverished little country, torn by war and strife. What did it matter to him?
Now he was in England, travelling the country and Europe with the squad while his mother lived in London, in the luxury he provided. He wasn't the cleanest, the kindest, the smartest or the nicest, but he did it all for her.
The new contract offer with improved wages was on his table, a testament to his rising importance to the squad at the age of just 20. All he could think of now, in this hotel room in this city was of home in London, his mother, and the next home game with 60000 men singing his name, applauding his every move, appreciating him for who he was, a footballer and a hard-worker.
The future looked bright and his mother was happy.
Loosely inspired by the story of Gabriel Paulista. Also, try this article and the video attached to it.
Jun 4, 2016
Projected
It suddenly came as a realisation to be while walking up a flight of stairs that the word project has different meanings depending on the pronunciation. There's praw-ject, which is something that is undertaken over a period of time with some kind of definite end result, like a school collage on the Western Ghats or a never-ending project like the Bangalore Metro. Then there's pro-ject, which is to show something on a screen, like a projector screen. This project is also a synonym for forecasting, projected growth and the like.
Speaking of forecasting, the met department has projected good monsoon rains this time around after an unbearably hot summer that saw India record its highest temperature ever and likewise, my beloved Bengaluru city, renowned for cool, "salubrious" (I learnt that word from the wikipedia page on Bangalore) climate also recorded its highest ever temperature, touching a mind-boggling 39.2 degrees Celsius.
I know many of you (Punekars) are looking at that number and thinking - 39.2? That's hot? Well, that's simply how mellow the Bangalore summer is. There's many who say, "Oh, mumbo jumbo. It's so hot nowadays." Well, a city and its climate must pay for its awesomeness. The population explosion and all that has lead to an overall rise in temperatures recently, but where hasn't it? Which city, after all the concrete has supposedly ruined the weather, I ask, has better weather than Bangalore in the summer. Yes, Shimla, Darjeeling, Ooty, Kodaikanal, but here's two points. Those are meant to be so, they're hill stations, summer retreats. They're not burgeoning metropolises with immense potential for wealth and living. Those are weather specialists, Bangalore is so many many other things and on the side, as a bonus, excels in the weather department as well. And secondly, have you been to these places in the winter? Bangalore's winter is mellow as well. On average, I proudly maintain, and I will take a personal interest in refuting anyone who disagrees, Bangalore has India's best weather for a city proper.
So now that I'm through with going off on that tangent, let me come back to my main point - project. The reason weather is at the top of my head is because I'm currently "on a project" in Chennai, let us say a city that's not quite as famous as Bangalore for it's weather.
Look, I have nothing against the city now that Chennai Super Kings no longer exists so one doesn't have to speak to the fans of that particular franchise. It seems to be a nice place, buses and trains are cheap and timely, food is brilliant and the place I'm doing my project, my summer internship, the campus of the Indian Institute of Technology, Madras, is unbelievable. It is actually a jungle, a veritable forest, the campus having been carved out of the Guindy National Park area, or so the IIT M website claims. And who, I ask you, lies on the internet?
The vegetation is thick and green and provides an omnipresent shade that almost nearly threatens to give you the impression of good weather for a few seconds at well chosen hours just before sunrise. Then there are the deer, roaming the streets with gay abandon.
My first impression when I heard "there are deer on the IIT Madras campus" was to presume that deep in the lush greenery, among the shrubs and the grass far away from the roads and the traffic, unseen but to the sharpest eyes, one could, if one was lucky, chance upon a deer or two grazing. When I first saw a deer, casually standing next to a gate while a man was busy at work a few yards away, I thought I was one among a blessed few to spot a deer at such close range within the campus. Now, I'd put the deer to dog ratio on campus as high as 7 or 8 while I'd put the human to deer ratio at as low as 15 or 20. And I tip my hat to the revolutionary person who, at the meeting that was probably convened to decide campus matters during the founding of the institute, said to the person from the National Park who was asking what is to be done with the animals, "You take out the leopards and the tigers and these other animals. Let the deer hang around." Just like that. And here they just hang around. It's going to be disappointing to go anywhere else in the country now and not see a deer or two every few yards.
The deer were not the only creatures left behind; monkeys can be found in good numbers on the campus. And I'm not talking of those monkeys who got into the hostel by scoring well in the JEE - I'm talking about the monkeys that got into the hostel because they can climb trees. On my first day, I was just climbing up the stairs of the hostel to find my new room when one a little monkey flashed past me. More strikingly, a nondescript trip to the toilet nearest to my study-desk found me in the same room as at least 8 monkeys who clambered out of the window upon seeing me enter. I cursed as I closed all the taps they'd opened.
Ok, where was I to begin with? Weather! Spoilt as I have been by Bangalore weather throughout my life, I immediately realised that this is to be the longest, hottest summer of my life. Mid-March to the end of April in Pune in a state that was firmly in the grips of a heat-wave, (a much much cooler) May in Bangalore and now June and July in Chennai for this project. Projected to be very hot during my project.
Now about my project. I'm studying something in cosmology, the study of the universe at the very largest scales. It's interesting that my interest in this subject was piqued by an introductory course in the same subject which to date remains the worst course I've taken. It was ill-organised, the syllabus was incoherent and the exams were scarcely believable and in the midst of all the hand-wringing and scrambling a mark here or two, the content of the course left some kind of imprint on me. Now if things progress as I hope they will, I see myself working on this subject for the majority of my life - on the foundation of a terribly conducted course.
I wasn't wholly sure of the subject to begin with. On my second day, I asked my advisor, a professor in the Department of Physics at IIT Madras (obviously) a string of perhaps three to four questions in his office. He spluttered for a mili-second, looked around, smiled resignedly as he decided to take it from the beginning and said, "Sit down, let me tell you a few things about the universe." The line was kind of epochal - anything that follows from that line, however lacking in substance and meaning by itself, will be seen as deep and insightful when it follows that line. Sit down. Let me tell you something about the universe. Here's the thing about the universe - it's a potato.
And as he told me the things about the universe, things a little more subtle than it being a potato, I knew that I wasn't in the wrong place, if not the right place. And so my project goes on.
Speaking of forecasting, the met department has projected good monsoon rains this time around after an unbearably hot summer that saw India record its highest temperature ever and likewise, my beloved Bengaluru city, renowned for cool, "salubrious" (I learnt that word from the wikipedia page on Bangalore) climate also recorded its highest ever temperature, touching a mind-boggling 39.2 degrees Celsius.
I know many of you (Punekars) are looking at that number and thinking - 39.2? That's hot? Well, that's simply how mellow the Bangalore summer is. There's many who say, "Oh, mumbo jumbo. It's so hot nowadays." Well, a city and its climate must pay for its awesomeness. The population explosion and all that has lead to an overall rise in temperatures recently, but where hasn't it? Which city, after all the concrete has supposedly ruined the weather, I ask, has better weather than Bangalore in the summer. Yes, Shimla, Darjeeling, Ooty, Kodaikanal, but here's two points. Those are meant to be so, they're hill stations, summer retreats. They're not burgeoning metropolises with immense potential for wealth and living. Those are weather specialists, Bangalore is so many many other things and on the side, as a bonus, excels in the weather department as well. And secondly, have you been to these places in the winter? Bangalore's winter is mellow as well. On average, I proudly maintain, and I will take a personal interest in refuting anyone who disagrees, Bangalore has India's best weather for a city proper.
So now that I'm through with going off on that tangent, let me come back to my main point - project. The reason weather is at the top of my head is because I'm currently "on a project" in Chennai, let us say a city that's not quite as famous as Bangalore for it's weather.
Look, I have nothing against the city now that Chennai Super Kings no longer exists so one doesn't have to speak to the fans of that particular franchise. It seems to be a nice place, buses and trains are cheap and timely, food is brilliant and the place I'm doing my project, my summer internship, the campus of the Indian Institute of Technology, Madras, is unbelievable. It is actually a jungle, a veritable forest, the campus having been carved out of the Guindy National Park area, or so the IIT M website claims. And who, I ask you, lies on the internet?
The vegetation is thick and green and provides an omnipresent shade that almost nearly threatens to give you the impression of good weather for a few seconds at well chosen hours just before sunrise. Then there are the deer, roaming the streets with gay abandon.
My first impression when I heard "there are deer on the IIT Madras campus" was to presume that deep in the lush greenery, among the shrubs and the grass far away from the roads and the traffic, unseen but to the sharpest eyes, one could, if one was lucky, chance upon a deer or two grazing. When I first saw a deer, casually standing next to a gate while a man was busy at work a few yards away, I thought I was one among a blessed few to spot a deer at such close range within the campus. Now, I'd put the deer to dog ratio on campus as high as 7 or 8 while I'd put the human to deer ratio at as low as 15 or 20. And I tip my hat to the revolutionary person who, at the meeting that was probably convened to decide campus matters during the founding of the institute, said to the person from the National Park who was asking what is to be done with the animals, "You take out the leopards and the tigers and these other animals. Let the deer hang around." Just like that. And here they just hang around. It's going to be disappointing to go anywhere else in the country now and not see a deer or two every few yards.
The deer were not the only creatures left behind; monkeys can be found in good numbers on the campus. And I'm not talking of those monkeys who got into the hostel by scoring well in the JEE - I'm talking about the monkeys that got into the hostel because they can climb trees. On my first day, I was just climbing up the stairs of the hostel to find my new room when one a little monkey flashed past me. More strikingly, a nondescript trip to the toilet nearest to my study-desk found me in the same room as at least 8 monkeys who clambered out of the window upon seeing me enter. I cursed as I closed all the taps they'd opened.
Ok, where was I to begin with? Weather! Spoilt as I have been by Bangalore weather throughout my life, I immediately realised that this is to be the longest, hottest summer of my life. Mid-March to the end of April in Pune in a state that was firmly in the grips of a heat-wave, (a much much cooler) May in Bangalore and now June and July in Chennai for this project. Projected to be very hot during my project.
Now about my project. I'm studying something in cosmology, the study of the universe at the very largest scales. It's interesting that my interest in this subject was piqued by an introductory course in the same subject which to date remains the worst course I've taken. It was ill-organised, the syllabus was incoherent and the exams were scarcely believable and in the midst of all the hand-wringing and scrambling a mark here or two, the content of the course left some kind of imprint on me. Now if things progress as I hope they will, I see myself working on this subject for the majority of my life - on the foundation of a terribly conducted course.
I wasn't wholly sure of the subject to begin with. On my second day, I asked my advisor, a professor in the Department of Physics at IIT Madras (obviously) a string of perhaps three to four questions in his office. He spluttered for a mili-second, looked around, smiled resignedly as he decided to take it from the beginning and said, "Sit down, let me tell you a few things about the universe." The line was kind of epochal - anything that follows from that line, however lacking in substance and meaning by itself, will be seen as deep and insightful when it follows that line. Sit down. Let me tell you something about the universe. Here's the thing about the universe - it's a potato.
And as he told me the things about the universe, things a little more subtle than it being a potato, I knew that I wasn't in the wrong place, if not the right place. And so my project goes on.
May 1, 2016
Set
Doddanna watched as the sun slowly disappeared behind the hillock, then looked up to the sky as had been his habit for the past month. The mud streets of his village were slowly filling up with people. It was finally cool enough for them to step out of their relatively cooler houses though the temperatures still hovered around the mid and late-thirties.
What did numbers mean to them though! All they were grateful for was the shade of the hillock. Every evening, this little hillock gave the village an extra twenty or so minutes in the shade. A nearby village not so fortunately placed was even hotter, they had heard. Not that it mattered.
Now they could perform their daily activities under the erratic street-lights.
New street-lights and electric lines had been installed recently, by either some state agency sporting a hand symbol or a distant one from Delhi sporting a lotus. It made no difference – the current was not dependable and they needed water now, not light. No lotuses bloomed here. The last lake had run dry months ago and the local wells, several dug on the beds of the dried lakes, were all that provided water.
The sun sank further and Doddanna was glad. His little coffee and vada shop saw most customers this time of the day. The coffee was limited though. The decoction was made with what water he could get after the rationed water was used for his family’s drinking and washing purposes.
He knew the statistics well. Some weeks ago, some important looking people had come in cars with little red lights on top of them and done a little counting before pronouncing the obvious – the wells won’t last. 27 days with rationing was how long it would last. The folks with the TV had told them good rains were to be expected this year. But the rains were still 33 days away, give or take a couple. Usually take.
Without much formal education, Doddanna was a scholar in native literature. He’d pored over pages and pages of religious and spiritual texts over a life-time of waiting for coffee thirsty people. His gurus and sadhus had told him of how humans were above all other animals for the one reason – the ability to look at the big picture. Instant gratification was secondary to long-term gains for this great species, they said. Doddanna wondered.
What if the villagers were given a day of free usage of all the wells? The landlord and the priest did that anyway – they were for mysterious reasons exempt from the ration.
Would the natives swarm all over the wells with every bucket they could lay their hands on or would they, all these people who knew how bad the situation was and the consequences – the elders had seen at least 5 droughts – see the bigger picture and ration the water amongst themselves? Was the promise of bountiful water in the near future a bigger reward than one day of sufficient water? He thought he knew the answer and smiled inwardly.
Everyone thought they did, but they all had different answers. The well would last about a week if they were given a free run, he estimated.
The sun setting was an interesting time. It provided respite from the crippling heat, a good 12 hours of respite. The next day would be the same, the rush for the wells, the quarreling, the accusations, the haul back, the crest-fallen weeping of the one lady (always lady) who in her earnestness spills one or both of the two buckets of water she was allowed, the clamour for the landlord to be stopped as his servants filled bucket after bucket of water and simply disappeared.
The rains had failed for three years now. The first year, the TV folk had said clearly there was to be lesser rainfall. And their words proved right. It did rain a bit though, and it was enough to get by until the next year, when good rains were promised. The monsoon started off with a boom before suddenly, the rains stopped. Even the TV folk were clueless on how it happened – in other states it had rained well.
The prediction for the previous year had been unequivocal – there shall be no rain. And everyone knew what less rain meant the next summer – scorching temperatures. People had been prepared for this moment but until it happened, the gravity was underestimated. Doddanna himself had been rationing the using of his personal well for nearly three months now but it too was almost dry. When there was enough water for about three days, he decided to start using the village well and revert to his own well when that ran out too. It was not a master-plan but it was all he could do.
Now with the new bulletin promising copious rains, the men had already taken to readying their fields. Doddanna himself felt it was wiser to wait for the rains and then begin the toil rather than risk all the labour in the pulsing heat to go to waste in case the rains failed.
The spirit was something else in those men who put their hearts ahead of their heads though. They worked with their little pittance of water, for both field and themselves, and completely thrusting their lives into the hands of the merciless rain-gods.
Doddanna was a godly man, and if the scriptures had taught him anything, it was to trust yourself rather than the gods. The gods, in his books, were mere account keepers and overseers, not the meddlers that most people believed them to be. All the prayers and all the sacrifices would not convince this god to give rain to one particular village only – you took your course while god took his. If he existed. God was a bigger picture man, in the image of the dominant species of the world he watched over.
The sun had set completely. The day that the wells ran out was one day closer. And the day that the heavens opened up was also one day closer. Doddanna hoped that the latter happened before the former but right now, all everyone was thinking about was the 11 hours of respite from the heat left.
What did numbers mean to them though! All they were grateful for was the shade of the hillock. Every evening, this little hillock gave the village an extra twenty or so minutes in the shade. A nearby village not so fortunately placed was even hotter, they had heard. Not that it mattered.
Now they could perform their daily activities under the erratic street-lights.
New street-lights and electric lines had been installed recently, by either some state agency sporting a hand symbol or a distant one from Delhi sporting a lotus. It made no difference – the current was not dependable and they needed water now, not light. No lotuses bloomed here. The last lake had run dry months ago and the local wells, several dug on the beds of the dried lakes, were all that provided water.
The sun sank further and Doddanna was glad. His little coffee and vada shop saw most customers this time of the day. The coffee was limited though. The decoction was made with what water he could get after the rationed water was used for his family’s drinking and washing purposes.
He knew the statistics well. Some weeks ago, some important looking people had come in cars with little red lights on top of them and done a little counting before pronouncing the obvious – the wells won’t last. 27 days with rationing was how long it would last. The folks with the TV had told them good rains were to be expected this year. But the rains were still 33 days away, give or take a couple. Usually take.
Without much formal education, Doddanna was a scholar in native literature. He’d pored over pages and pages of religious and spiritual texts over a life-time of waiting for coffee thirsty people. His gurus and sadhus had told him of how humans were above all other animals for the one reason – the ability to look at the big picture. Instant gratification was secondary to long-term gains for this great species, they said. Doddanna wondered.
What if the villagers were given a day of free usage of all the wells? The landlord and the priest did that anyway – they were for mysterious reasons exempt from the ration.
Would the natives swarm all over the wells with every bucket they could lay their hands on or would they, all these people who knew how bad the situation was and the consequences – the elders had seen at least 5 droughts – see the bigger picture and ration the water amongst themselves? Was the promise of bountiful water in the near future a bigger reward than one day of sufficient water? He thought he knew the answer and smiled inwardly.
Everyone thought they did, but they all had different answers. The well would last about a week if they were given a free run, he estimated.
The sun setting was an interesting time. It provided respite from the crippling heat, a good 12 hours of respite. The next day would be the same, the rush for the wells, the quarreling, the accusations, the haul back, the crest-fallen weeping of the one lady (always lady) who in her earnestness spills one or both of the two buckets of water she was allowed, the clamour for the landlord to be stopped as his servants filled bucket after bucket of water and simply disappeared.
The rains had failed for three years now. The first year, the TV folk had said clearly there was to be lesser rainfall. And their words proved right. It did rain a bit though, and it was enough to get by until the next year, when good rains were promised. The monsoon started off with a boom before suddenly, the rains stopped. Even the TV folk were clueless on how it happened – in other states it had rained well.
The prediction for the previous year had been unequivocal – there shall be no rain. And everyone knew what less rain meant the next summer – scorching temperatures. People had been prepared for this moment but until it happened, the gravity was underestimated. Doddanna himself had been rationing the using of his personal well for nearly three months now but it too was almost dry. When there was enough water for about three days, he decided to start using the village well and revert to his own well when that ran out too. It was not a master-plan but it was all he could do.
Now with the new bulletin promising copious rains, the men had already taken to readying their fields. Doddanna himself felt it was wiser to wait for the rains and then begin the toil rather than risk all the labour in the pulsing heat to go to waste in case the rains failed.
The spirit was something else in those men who put their hearts ahead of their heads though. They worked with their little pittance of water, for both field and themselves, and completely thrusting their lives into the hands of the merciless rain-gods.
Doddanna was a godly man, and if the scriptures had taught him anything, it was to trust yourself rather than the gods. The gods, in his books, were mere account keepers and overseers, not the meddlers that most people believed them to be. All the prayers and all the sacrifices would not convince this god to give rain to one particular village only – you took your course while god took his. If he existed. God was a bigger picture man, in the image of the dominant species of the world he watched over.
The sun had set completely. The day that the wells ran out was one day closer. And the day that the heavens opened up was also one day closer. Doddanna hoped that the latter happened before the former but right now, all everyone was thinking about was the 11 hours of respite from the heat left.
Jan 1, 2016
New in 2015
Welcome to 2016. I wish everyone a happy, prosperous, healthy 366 days.
New Year's day is really an arbitrary day. The calendar essentially keeps track of the seasons which are an effect of the tilting of the earth's rotational axis and its revolution around the sun. So one revolution gives us one year. The starting point and ending point could have been chosen anywhere and for historical reasons, it eventually came to celebrated on 1st January.
This exclusive insight into time-keeping which I'm sure all of you had no clue about and could never have dreamt of figuring out all on your own comes to me from the book I'm currently reading called Gallileo's Pendulum. It's a book about the history of time-keeping and makes for a very interesting read on something we take for granted everyday - reasonably accurate clocks.
Anyway, I hope this arbitrary period of 366 days is joyous. The last arbitrary period of 365 days, arbitrarily numbered 2015, was a time in which, as usual, life ebbed and flowed. Here are some of the new things I started doing or following in the past year.
BENGALURU FC
In May 2015, I went for only my second ever professional football game. It was special this time because the home team was the team based in my city, namma ooru. Bengaluru. The club is rather predictably named Bengaluru Football Club.
I'd heard a lot about the atmosphere and the passion of the supporters but to experience first hand was altogether a different, well, experience. My friend insisted for some reason that I buy the "West Block" stand ticket for 300 rupees rather than the other, cheaper tickets that were available. It puzzled me but I listened to him and bought the more expensive ticket and I can tell you, it was worth every paisa and more. As I sauntered into the stadium, I heard the synchronised tapping of chairs with the cry of "Westwood's Blue Army". From then on, it was chant after chant, song after song in support of BFC as we (I already saw we after watching them for 2 games) plundered 3 goals to win 3-0.
Simply to be there and with every little movement, little swing of the foot by a player to feel collectively the same emotion as a few thousand others is a special experience. We all screamed our joy at the first goal. We all were booed the referees decisions. We all sang the same songs in sync. And we all came out with a sore throat.
Football, or sport for that matter, has little practical value. A few thousand play, a few million watch. People run around trying to kick a ball into a certain area bounded by the frame of the goal. It's totally arbitrary and random but the players are paid millions. They're serenaded, they're vilified. It's a big deal. Because it brings people together. It creates an environment where many people want the same thing. They believe in the same things. And that is very powerful. It's like a religion.
The next game I attended was more magical. The league stood as such - should BFC beat their opponents they would win the league. Draw or lose and their opponents won it. The head-to-head league had panned out in such a way that the last encounter was like a knockout game. Couldn't have been scripted.
Upwards of 25000 people had packed into the stadium, most of them sporting blue in support of the home team. The weather forecast said thunderstorm and the Gods duly obliged. It poured throughout. Lightning flashed across the sky regularly. The thunder mingled with the roar of the crowd every time the players went anywhere near the opposition half, never mind the goal. And when the ball went into the goal, it was pandemonium. The loudest roar yet and then for the rest of the game, anxiety. If we conceded, it was all in vain.
And concede we did. After holding out for almost 85 minutes, the Bengaluru defence was breached and Mohun Bagan had scored with 5 minutes to go what was surely the deciding goal.
The stunned silence was betrayed only by the minority of away fans packed into a corner having their little party. Shirts were being flailed. People were hugging each other. Then it started.
At first, it was only a thought that turned to a whisper that soon grew into a yet louder roar. BFC, BFC, BFC. Louder than the roar for our own goal, urging the players on for a final flourish. One last salvo. BFC BFC.
I felt goosebumps rise on my skin as I joined in the chorus. We had to win the league. We couldn't let our players down. We would yell our lungs out to spur them on.
It was not to be. It was the away fans who were roaring at the final whistle while the Bengalureans were left matching the mood of the weather. Damp, sour. My saddest and my greatest football experience ever.
LUDOVICO EINAUDI
I'm not very musical person. I like music; everyone does. But I can't quite tell Elvis Presley from Bob Marley from Jimmy Hendrix. My taste has no coherence. It's a song from here, a splash of songs from there, a classical piece here, some pop music there.
The other day, I was watching a football video and the background music caught my attention. It was brilliant. I went through the comments to find out who the artist is and I found this Italian composer, Ludovico Einaudi. And not a day has been spent since where I don't plug into some piece or other of his.
Now I'm not sure what genre it is. Or what style. I just know it's solely instrumental, the guy in question play the piano and every time I listen, I question how I've endured my existence so far, pleasant though it's been overall, without having this music to go back to at all times. How did I get through school and all those competitive exams and all those issues and everything without this music ringing in my ears. I don't know. Henceforth, I can take on anything as Ludovico's got my back.
KANNADA
Something that's been written about in this blog before, I sat down and self-learnt the Kannada script. Now, I can read as well as speak my mother tongue. It was a matter of shame when, in my own home city, the boards and banners in my own language, were unintelligible to me. I'm proud to have set that right.
That's about it actually. These are the length and breadth of my new enterprises in 2015. Hopefully it will be much greater in 2016.
New Year's day is really an arbitrary day. The calendar essentially keeps track of the seasons which are an effect of the tilting of the earth's rotational axis and its revolution around the sun. So one revolution gives us one year. The starting point and ending point could have been chosen anywhere and for historical reasons, it eventually came to celebrated on 1st January.
This exclusive insight into time-keeping which I'm sure all of you had no clue about and could never have dreamt of figuring out all on your own comes to me from the book I'm currently reading called Gallileo's Pendulum. It's a book about the history of time-keeping and makes for a very interesting read on something we take for granted everyday - reasonably accurate clocks.
Anyway, I hope this arbitrary period of 366 days is joyous. The last arbitrary period of 365 days, arbitrarily numbered 2015, was a time in which, as usual, life ebbed and flowed. Here are some of the new things I started doing or following in the past year.
BENGALURU FC
In May 2015, I went for only my second ever professional football game. It was special this time because the home team was the team based in my city, namma ooru. Bengaluru. The club is rather predictably named Bengaluru Football Club.
I'd heard a lot about the atmosphere and the passion of the supporters but to experience first hand was altogether a different, well, experience. My friend insisted for some reason that I buy the "West Block" stand ticket for 300 rupees rather than the other, cheaper tickets that were available. It puzzled me but I listened to him and bought the more expensive ticket and I can tell you, it was worth every paisa and more. As I sauntered into the stadium, I heard the synchronised tapping of chairs with the cry of "Westwood's Blue Army". From then on, it was chant after chant, song after song in support of BFC as we (I already saw we after watching them for 2 games) plundered 3 goals to win 3-0.
Simply to be there and with every little movement, little swing of the foot by a player to feel collectively the same emotion as a few thousand others is a special experience. We all screamed our joy at the first goal. We all were booed the referees decisions. We all sang the same songs in sync. And we all came out with a sore throat.
Football, or sport for that matter, has little practical value. A few thousand play, a few million watch. People run around trying to kick a ball into a certain area bounded by the frame of the goal. It's totally arbitrary and random but the players are paid millions. They're serenaded, they're vilified. It's a big deal. Because it brings people together. It creates an environment where many people want the same thing. They believe in the same things. And that is very powerful. It's like a religion.
The next game I attended was more magical. The league stood as such - should BFC beat their opponents they would win the league. Draw or lose and their opponents won it. The head-to-head league had panned out in such a way that the last encounter was like a knockout game. Couldn't have been scripted.
Upwards of 25000 people had packed into the stadium, most of them sporting blue in support of the home team. The weather forecast said thunderstorm and the Gods duly obliged. It poured throughout. Lightning flashed across the sky regularly. The thunder mingled with the roar of the crowd every time the players went anywhere near the opposition half, never mind the goal. And when the ball went into the goal, it was pandemonium. The loudest roar yet and then for the rest of the game, anxiety. If we conceded, it was all in vain.
And concede we did. After holding out for almost 85 minutes, the Bengaluru defence was breached and Mohun Bagan had scored with 5 minutes to go what was surely the deciding goal.
The stunned silence was betrayed only by the minority of away fans packed into a corner having their little party. Shirts were being flailed. People were hugging each other. Then it started.
At first, it was only a thought that turned to a whisper that soon grew into a yet louder roar. BFC, BFC, BFC. Louder than the roar for our own goal, urging the players on for a final flourish. One last salvo. BFC BFC.
I felt goosebumps rise on my skin as I joined in the chorus. We had to win the league. We couldn't let our players down. We would yell our lungs out to spur them on.
It was not to be. It was the away fans who were roaring at the final whistle while the Bengalureans were left matching the mood of the weather. Damp, sour. My saddest and my greatest football experience ever.
LUDOVICO EINAUDI
I'm not very musical person. I like music; everyone does. But I can't quite tell Elvis Presley from Bob Marley from Jimmy Hendrix. My taste has no coherence. It's a song from here, a splash of songs from there, a classical piece here, some pop music there.
The other day, I was watching a football video and the background music caught my attention. It was brilliant. I went through the comments to find out who the artist is and I found this Italian composer, Ludovico Einaudi. And not a day has been spent since where I don't plug into some piece or other of his.
Now I'm not sure what genre it is. Or what style. I just know it's solely instrumental, the guy in question play the piano and every time I listen, I question how I've endured my existence so far, pleasant though it's been overall, without having this music to go back to at all times. How did I get through school and all those competitive exams and all those issues and everything without this music ringing in my ears. I don't know. Henceforth, I can take on anything as Ludovico's got my back.
KANNADA
Something that's been written about in this blog before, I sat down and self-learnt the Kannada script. Now, I can read as well as speak my mother tongue. It was a matter of shame when, in my own home city, the boards and banners in my own language, were unintelligible to me. I'm proud to have set that right.
That's about it actually. These are the length and breadth of my new enterprises in 2015. Hopefully it will be much greater in 2016.
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