Interwoven with Intricacies

He nearly ripped off his hair in frustration. Life seemed unfair, this cascade, this abyss. A lack of inspiration, motivation. He felt suffocated, the periodic little tremors by his wrists the only evidence to suggest life, of which his eyes betrayed none. He felt his wrists, his chest, confused that the heart still beat defiant. He thought of himself as a poet, a romantic. A patron of everything classic. A purist, wise and unflappable. Not to be overawed, not to be intimidated, not by any situation. 

He thought of it as determination, perseverance and all other high ideals of human endeavour that he still sat opposite his type-writer decades into the age of computers and digital typing, stroking his chin in apparent thought, the rough ends of his overgrown beard reminding him of his current squalor. 

And despite burning the mid-night oil for three nights on the bounce, the stimulus to write, to create something beautiful still eluded him. He sought encouragement, sought to extricate clarity from the depths of his cluttered mind, he sought freedom, he sought all that was not forthcoming. It just wasn't meant to be. Probably tomorrow, he thought. A reassessment. 

He stepped back for the hundredth time. Where had this left him, It had been a race between a letter of resignation to his boss' desk and a letter of dismissal to his desk. Three days since he won that race, he was losing the one he intended to run. 

For the past three months it was the same. The glow in his eyes when he wrote - which swayed scores of class-mates and teachers alike into proclaiming that his was a talent that would ignite the minds of the world - was long gone. He was disillusioned by his corporate life then, longing for the time and energy to write. Several hours of unethical office-desk-day-dreaming had given rise to stories, sub-stories, characters so deep and plots so interwoven with intricacies. But he had to work; work so someone else could become rich, pocket a minute fraction of that man's riches every month and then feel grateful for being given the opportunity to help that someone else becoming richer with little relative personal gain. In the smaller picture though, his pay-check was ample, fat. Almost extravagant. 

He felt this occupation choked him, restricted his brilliant mind, felt it was the reason for the lack of days of inspirational free-flowing thoughts and ideas that were so crisply, lucidly, quickly and not to mention, beautifully, converted to words which transcended paper and digital screens to forever make an imprint on the mind and in the life of any fortunate reader; days which were frequent, nearly routine throughout his teenage. 

It was puzzling to him that now, with a burgeoning bank balance to comfortably satiate his needs for at least a decade and having taken a life decision to quit all to be able to set sights only on writing to fulfill what he thought was his rightful destiny, he still couldn't put his mind to it. 

To quit so soon would be weakness. He had been through all the thoughts several times. A mental reassessment of his decision happened alarmingly frequently, as alarming as that it reassured him each time, that he took the right decision. 

So it wore on and wore on, the days, the weeks, the seasons. Layers of dust over his furniture turning to mounds, symbolic and representative of his mind. He went through all his ideas, his ingenious plots. His subtle stories. He re-read his old works, the glowing praise heaped on it. It all seemed so superficial. He was average after all. He could suddenly find no words. 

He didn't know quite when it happened. And he would never know. All life was a confusion, in the midst of answering the door-bell to receive ordered food, packed in boxes that constituted a heap in a corner of his "writing room" that he rarely left despite it being a paradise for an assortment of insects and rodents, in the midst of his shaggy hair. Springs came and went, sunlight disconcerted him. The type-writer still lay bare, the imprint of nervous, shaking fingers clear in the dust on each key. Bottles of liquor thrown everywhere, his savings considerably eaten into. It did finally happen one cold winter night. 

Two days later, the usual stench emanating from within the closed windows and from behind the drawn blinds due to leftover food seemed to be noticeably accentuated. Neighbourhood gossip about the mad, grizzly man was higher than was usual. Nobody bothered, until a sympathetic writer from across the street  called the police in. The door was forced open, the hanging corpse was discovered, the debris was cleared, the report was published, suicide due to fledgling mental health was declared, the house was sold and life went on. 

Several years later, the sympathetic writer smiled. A smile fueled by success, and a seemingly endless supply of brilliant stories, sub-stories, characters so deep and plots so interwoven with intricacies from a bundle of sheets, sheets of typewritten paper. 

Nothing in Particular

Ever since joining University (it's college, but there is a feel good factor about University), the number of posts on my blog has gone down alarmingly. It was always rather low, but it is now almost unacceptable.

Rather counter-intuitively, this stems not from a stagnation of ideas but from an excess of thoughts, opinions and ideas that I wish to write about and express that gets mixed up in my head until it's an unrecognisable concoction of neuronal signals that fire of rather than the clarity of my previous posts that were single-minded in their intent of expression. It is not being lost for words, it is being lost in words and not knowing which to pick out.

Hostel life is unnervingly two-paced, the absolute rush and energy of the weekdays so suddenly followed by uncontrollable and highly contagious lethargy in the air. Even work comes in waves, alternating between having nothing to do and carrying the world on your shoulders. Whether this alternation is by design or the consequence of procrastination is up for debate.

Most disconcerting of all features of hostel life though, is the sheer unpredictability. At home, all plans were put into action. If the next weekend was meant to simply goof off, I would. And if it was meant for cramming and intense working out (working out means math for us nerd-folk), cramming and working out would happen. Despite setting equally clear agendas, the translation of similar plans to action simply does not happen in a hostel. A day meant to simply sleep off the extra boredom from the seemingly deliberate line-up of consecutive boring lectures can suddenly turn into one of the most productive evenings of writing and studying. The pitch simply cannot be gauged, something like the 22-yard patch at the Feroz Shah Kotla.

As is the case right now! What I thought would be an extra hour of precious sleep has turned out to be half an hour of useless surfing and now followed by half an hour of typing this post out with frequent, nervous glances at the clock. Class starts in 9 minutes from now and if you combine 2 minutes for dressing up (yes, just two) and the 9 minute walk from hostel to class-room, I am running 2 minutes late. Or 8 minutes early for being "late beyond reason".

So life goes on, constrained in unbelievable freedom which tells you every moment how weak you really are.

7 minutes, now I simply have to go.

Posting without proof-reading.
Sorry reader.
If you exist.
Adios

Long time, no Write

So, it has been an eternity since I took up pen and paper (laptop and earphones more like) to string together a meaningful sequence of words for the sake of writing. Just writing (typing more like). And how much has happened in this eternity. I completed my first semester at my new college, enjoyed a month long break, came back to college, completed another week, went home again, came back, completed a couple more weeks and now I finally feel free of the massive writer's block of untraced origin that seemed to weigh me down all these days more than a sack of lead. A sudden clearing of the symbolic clutter in the mind, though I'm not quite sure how, lead to me actually taking the load off my overburdened buttocks to lend my hostel room a semblance of tidiness and it has also lead to my personal epitome of mental clarity and sharpness concerning vocabulary, free flowing words over pondering and pausing after every sentence inked.                                                                                        

The elusive adjectives, adverbs and the unnecessarily fancy words are back in my mind, ready to be used, like one of those wonderful packets of palak paneer. Yes, MTR provides ready-made packets of palak paneer. So let me ramble on about a happening period between this post and the previous post, which the records show was a shocking 3 months back. 

Well, my sister was here all of December. And all of December was a holiday for me. You can imagine things worked out well there. The second semester has brought exciting new challenges, an altogether higher level workload (which my merciless seniors assure me is tuppence. All taken with a pinch of salt) and new interests. 

The first weekend of the new semester saw us restless undergrads in a state of general unemployment, leading to a section of this crowd deciding to go on a trek, and a smaller section deciding to tag along. A mind-blowing first time experience found me asking for more and more and from here on, I will ensure that I accompany everyone on every trek. It's just the fun of getting out of your routine, your comfort zone, an exceptional physical exercise and a way to expel the city from your lungs. Few joys can match that lent by the trickling of beads of sweat trickling down one's cheeks just 2 hours after thinking of the best choice of last words in the cold night before the tropical sun comes out to bathe everyone in heat and raising mercury levels before one could say "quidditch". 

As the Bible so aptly puts it, "For His anger endureth but a moment, and in His favour is life; weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning". 

I haven't read the bible, but this particular line is extolled in its virtues by the namesake book, "Joy cometh in the morning", by P.G Wodehouse, a part of the excellent "Jeeves" series. 

I continue quizzing, continue being passionate about anything physics, continue studying and continue living this life of which I couldn't ask for more. Busy, happening, sporadically strenuous but always enjoyable. 

Hope you are living the same. 

Perturbation Theory

Perturbation theory comprises mathematical methods to find approximate solutions to problems in mechanics. Even though the only maths involved is the application of the three equations of motion and the Newton's Second Law statement (f=ma), it is impossible, in most real cases to find the exact solution to a problem in dynamics.

Case in point, the Coriolis force. Due to the earth's rotation, a body experiences a force that is proportional to velocity in a direction perpendicular to it's velocity. Consider a body freely falling at the equator from a reasonable vertical height, say a kilometre. Even with the usual, almost unreal simplification of assuming that air resistance is absent, it is impossible to find the exact position of the body, theoretically, when it reaches the ground. Here's why.

The Coriolis force acts on the body towards east, increasing linearly with the velocity. Now, the Coriolis force slightly changes the direction and magnitude of velocity, which again changes the Coriolis force, which again changes velocity. This goes on back and forth infinitely, and simply cannot be solved without an approximation.

We take care of the big force, the gravity. Then consider Coriolis force once only, assuming the effect of the force itself doesn't cause more perturbation. We find the deflection to be very small, and using this fact justify the neglect of the next order application of Coriolis force.
Ha!

Sounds like life doesn't it. You consider all the big factors. The ones that have the largest consequence. Try some smaller things. To a level. Justify avoiding other small tasks. Hobbies. So many things we can do but of little consequence. Do we have to do them?

The facts of the matter is the small factors, at least in mechanics, don't amplify, or consolidate the large factors. Instead, they perturb it. Actually come in the way of what would otherwise be smooth, neat, and mathematically elegant motion. With all associated mathematics straight-forward and explicit.

Life differs there though. The small things clear our minds. Refresh us. Allow us to elegantly perform the tasks higher on the priority list.

And those are two things I've learnt after joining university and beginning my life in hostel.

Not all analogies make sense. Not all analogies are true. There is no poetic brilliance in comparing anything to anything. The way my lectures assume you can draw analogies between large lorries trying to pass each other with electron clouds sterically hindering each other. Not everything goes, even in the liberal world of poetry and/or teaching.

Second, the small things are extremely crucial. The creative aspect is essential for clarity in thought. Without physical activity, something to transiently distract you from the burden you carry, sustained effort is nearly impossible.

Writing this blog gives me immense pleasure. And helps me study as well.

Win-win, no perturbations.

Anti-Gallileo

I don't believe Copernicus and Galileo and Newton and every common man alive today. Church for the win. Heck, the Sun goes around the Earth. I see it everyday. When it comes close, its summer, when its far, its winter. The Earth is the centre. And I snort in derision when you tell me the Earth rotates around its own axis. I am right here, sitting still, not feeling dizzy.

Recently, my University (yes, I'm in university now) took us to the IUCAA, Pune, an Astronomy centre, for a lecture on the Sun (which goes around the earth), preceded as well as succeeded by a visit to the "Foucault Pendulum". To see first hand, how the pendulum shifts as the earth rotates. Confused?
Look this up.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Foucault_pendulum

In essence, the Foucault Pendulum is simply a long pendulum which is, by some mechanism, made to oscillate without any damping. The Principle is that the plane of oscillation of the pendulum doesn't change even as the earth rotates, thus creating the illusion that the pendulum has changed its orientation of rotation but in fact it is the Earth under the pendulum that has rotated.

Scandalous! Absolutely PREPOSTEROUS!

Despite being educated in a "Helio-Centric Model" of the Solar System since I can remember, my mind still sniffs something devious at work when I see the pendulum changing its orientation. (Oops, the pendulum staying there and earth going round).

Of course, I'm a practical man. I'm studying pure science, I had better believe that the Earth goes around the Sun. I still feel there's something dark at play. Some witch-craft. Somebody's propaganda.

If the idea that the pendulum stays there and the whole building and the floor moves after a lecture of an hour and a half is so very indigestible to my mind, I can't imagine what the men of the time must have felt when Galileo and Copernicus propounded that the Sun is the centre. You almost sympathise with the desire of the people to burn them alive. For corrupting the minds of the public.

It is indeed to their credit, that not only did they dare to think what they saw was false and misleading, which is itself a result of great insight and probably unparalleled genius, but they actually had the bloody guts to tell the people what they felt. The balls to go public with their views. They were probably unaware of the sensitivity of what they were saying. Unaware that the truth could injure all those who believed their eyes.

Today, nearly half a millennium later, when humanity is daring to go to other planets regularly, when there exist massive machines worth billions and billions simply to help us discover what is inside the nucleus, when theories that claim to explain everything, every single thing are being devised, we still are repelled by the idea of believing something our eyes don't tell us.

They saw it then.

Opportunistic Beginning

Opportunism is, in my constantly changing opinion, the most important trait in a person. It is not the fastest, the smartest or the brightest who make it furthest and highest, but the most opportunistic.

Optimism is simply hoping for the best, finding hope in the direst of situation. It's good, but over-rated. At the end of the day, nothing happens in the mind apart from the mere ground-work. Creating constructive activity out of a plan gone wrong is far better than telling yourself that it isn't quite that bad after all. Which, in turn, is better than ruing over it, followed by a prediction that the rest of your life will contain several similar instances of failed plans which you inferred from the fact that your life till now has been so. Well, so has most of ours.

So, it is on a quite boastful note that I tell you, my (sparse) readership that I wasn't supposed to be free right now. My college literary club called for the third meeting of the year, the first two of which I had missed. The email was curt, crisp, and requested us to bring a pen and paper.

After wandering the corridors with a pen, paper and tired hands, I revisited the email to find that the date mentioned was that of yesterday. Oh Drat!

The perennial opportunist that I am though, I thought I will use the time to finally write an extensive post  about my first month at a new college, a residential college.

Hostel life is new and strange to me. Strengthening my initial claim about the mind having a small role to play is the fact that it did take me quite a time to adjust despite my nearly two-year long preparation (mental) for living in a hostel.

To be fair to myself, like I always am, I've done a fair job so far. Signing up for several clubs, attending class diligently, tackling my first bout of illness away from home without breaking down, finding new friends, eating the mess meals without causing them to defy gravity, improving the fluency of my Hindi, attending cricket practice (which I've pragmatically decided to quit), reading books and in the midst of this, studying as well as having fun. Phew! Now I'm finally updating my blog.

The first week when I arrived here, it was like a splash of cold water on the face. Startling but rejuvenating, It was a blaze. Like life had suddenly decided to become vivid. A sea of new people, a crowd of boys and girls just like me, a campus that was like a world within a world, a city within a world. And for me, a life within a life. 

It will be for another 4 years at least, barring spectacular events, good and bad.

And now, nearly a month into the new academic year, my new life, what was exciting and fascinating has now become mundane, monotonous. Well not quite everything. I refer simply to the hostel life, living on my own. Keeping track of my clothes in the everlasting cycle of wearing, washing and drying. Adjusting the timing of my bathing and morning pilgrimages so as to least inconvenience others as well as myself. It's a fine balancing act.

And you end up picking up unique skill sets. I, for one, have learnt how to eat keeping taste buds inactive. When a sense organ constantly lends negative feedback, it learns to shut down gradually at the right time. As my tongue does when it sees the same mess food on the plate.

I can wake up half an hour before class and magically end up in class on time, dressed completely, stomach full. A super-power I've acquired in this month.

Hostel life is slowly yet steadily shaping me. I can see it, but I cannot stop it. The wonderful environment buzzing with like-minded souls has a mesmerising effect, the first time I have ever been a part of an institute of such a large scale. I'd love to go through the first month all over again.

It makes you selfish, highly competitive, opens your eyes to cultures of your country that you never knew. Above all, it makes you opportunistic.

Right now, it makes me glad that I ventured out of my comfort zone, away from my beloved Bangalore.

Conversation with a loved one

M is Me
LO is my loved one.

M: Hi

LO: Hi. Ssup?

M: Nm. I love you

LO: I love you too

M: I really miss you since I left

LO: Hmmm, I didn't know you had left

M: But you said you love me. And you didn't even realise?

LO: Many people love me like you. I love many people like you.

M: Haven't you realised I'm gone even once for the past 2 weeks?

LO: Now that you mention it, I remember faintly that you haven't been near me for some time.

M: How does it feel?

LO: Doesn't make a real difference to me to be honest. I just miss you cycling around me, or just looking at me, silently admiring my beauty.

M: Ha! So you do remember me!

LO: Yes, it's coming back.

M: How you doing?

LO: Still the same. I'm not as beautiful as before, not as friendly and inviting. I still am me though, and that is something.

M: That sounds quite arrogant.

LO: It's an arrogance that comes with experience.

M: Anything new?

LO: Haha, are you seriously asking me this question? There's something new to me everyday. But it's all still the same. I don't change drastically. Looks like you're the one forgetting me.

M: No, I think of you everyday.

LO: I'll take your word for it. I can see you're changing. Pune is making you different.

M: Yes, every place has it's characteristic. And I'm alone, not sheltered by you.

LO: It's the people who leave me who say I change. It's the people who come into my life that make me change. Yet, I'm the same, the people change. Ironic isn't it?

M: This philosophy you give me goes over my head. You always surprise me and confuse me. But everyone still loves you.

LO: Yes, I've taught many people many things, often the hard way. But it's the reason I exist. I make others better so they can live better with me.

M: I really miss your influence.

LO: What's your name again?

M: Ha! You claim you love me and you don't even know my name. It's Lokahith.

LO: You'd know if you were in my place. People living with me abuse me, curse me all the time. But the instant I'm not there, they're all cribbing. They want me back. You're not like that I know. You loved me throughout. So I just liked to watch you go around. We never really had an introduction.

M: Thank You! That's the greatest compliment. Of everyone, I miss you the most.

LO: So how is this Pune? Already taken my place in your heart?

M: Never. I really miss you. I can't live without you. At every opportunity I'll be zooming back to you. You have defined me, led me, and made me. All the while I never knew that. I just thought you were beautiful. But leaving you has given me a new perspective.

LO: That's nice to hear.

M: I'm coming in October, back to you. Back to Bangalore City.

Perceptions of Pune

After a two year long grind to end my school life, I can emerge from this period of life with a lot to reflect on. Good, bad and ugly.

And I'm fortunate to be able to say, the good slightly overshadows the ugly and the bad in my profile.
At the top of the good chart are two stand-out moments. The 2nd prize in the all India essay competition, which has been extensively discussed earlier on this blog, and clearing the IITJEE in it's new avatar, JEE Advanced.

By virtue of which I sit right now on my comfortable bed in my new hostel, in a new city (Pune) and in a new institute (Indian Institute of Science, Education and Research, Pune), pursuing a BS-MS integrated five year course.

A new innings of my life that I am intently looking forward to and for the few days that I have experienced it, one that I am thoroughly enjoying. And while the larger part of the city is still one large mystery to me, I am so certain that it has exciting avenues, simply lying in wait for me to discover and enjoy.

My perception of the little I have seen is "Comfortable" and the perception of that which I haven't seen could be described as "tantalizing". On the whole, if the experience turns out to be "enjoyable" and "challenging", I will have got what I bargained for.

Kindly join me in wishing myself a great Pune experience.