Snuffed up and snuffed out....

I was walking down the road, my usual dorky self with my "geek-pack" strapped on my shoulder with nerd written all over my disposition because I was walking to work cheerfully on what was a university holiday due to predicted inclement weather. I was waiting at the lights for a signal to be able to cross the road. This typical "stoner" car pulls over next to me. (Well if you dont know what a stoner car is, It is typically a 1972 Cadillac DeVille, in aquamarine color, with 21" alloy rims, no airconditioner and equipped with a very loud stereo reconstructed from a broken down amplifier, it also is lored to be fitted with a air-freshener that smells of a certain popular "recreational" herb.) The guy driving it was a Caucasian male, around 25 years of age, brown curly hair, blue eyes, wearing a white printed tee-shirt. (Hi there! at the FBI in case you are reading this.) He hollers out from the window "Dude, do you have some stuff on you???" I am the retard and I didnt understand what was the "stuff" that he wanted, but I thought it would be more graceful to pretend that I was hard of hearing. "Dude, do you have like some stuff?? You know... weed, gaanja, coke". I wanted to tell him, "Maybe you can try the gas station" but like all my comebacks this one was also lame and late. So all I managed to squeeze out was a weak "No", as he snaked away at a surprisingly high speed across the red lights. This was the first crazy thing. Now, of the 20 odd people on the road "Why Me???", this is the first question.

Well this question kept me preoccupied all the way up to my building. When a stolen car pulled over next to me. I knew it was stolen because it was a spanking new, totally maxed out Ford Mustang GT and the guy driving it had absolutely no control over the beast. The car tottered to a halt next to me. The guy lowers the window and asks me "Habla Espanol???" (Now you guys are convinced the car is stolen, arent you?? You racist bastards!!!) Anyways, I said "No Espanol" and clearly the guy was lost. I asked him "WHERE???" and I yelled like we all do, as if yelling it louder would magically translate it to Spanish. He replied "Houston". I was mildly surprised and I clarified "Houston???" "Houston." he replied again. We did the same thing a couple of times like it was a game that was not so much fun. But the reason why I was surprised was because, why would someone be asking for directions to Houston from the middle of the university. My guess is someone got completely lost during his get-away run. Anyways a little bit of calisthenics and dumb-charades later, I gave him directions the best I could. But I bet he is not reaching Houston tonight. This was the second crazy thing. Now, "Why would the guy think I was Hispanic?". This is the second question.

Now these 2 questions have opened out many possibilities for me.
1. What if some Columbian drug lord had a baby in Chennai and there was the famous "cradle-swap-in-the-hospital-

incident" that has been glorified and used to the fullest extent in indian cinema.
2. What if all this is a eye-wash, maybe I am the son of a Mexican drug cartel leader and I have been grown under guardians, to have a life free from all the gangs and drugs.
3. Maybe I was a drug peddler in the streets myself and then "amnesia-incident" happened. (Well the switch is supposed to be on the back of the head isnt it???)
4. What if I am actually snuffed up right now and am hallucinating.

Jeez life is scary.

Engineered to think...

I have come to realize that humans are formed of 2 subspecies, that are so different that it truly amazes me that we are still able to cross breed, namely the scientists and the engineers. If you were thinking as to whatever happened to art, business, medicine, humanities etc. BAH.. HUMBUG! Every person, even if their job is to knock doors and sell soap, eventually falls under one of the two categories. Take a look at the big picture**, there are 2 ways to lead life. One is to search for the truth. The other is to take the truth for granted and try to work out an optimal path towards it. There is a sense of neo-dwaitha about this whole thing.
Being the scientist that I am, repeated observations have led me to the conclusion that not only are the two absolutely incapable of understanding each other, but are also incapable of having a sane conversation together.

Experiment No. 244356.
Aim – To teach an engineer scientific principles.
Procedure - My friend of the other kind was working towards improving the lubrication efficiency of serum using gold nanoparticles***. Since I am a biochemist ( a sorry unsuccessful subdivision under "scientist"), engineers assume that I have absolute knowledge in anything remotely biological in nature all the way from cardiac surgery to agriculture. She had a very simple question for me. She wanted to know the chemical structure of serum. Engineers generally leave me lost for words, but this time I did have a comeback. "Rather simple question, which I will answer right after you tell me the chemical formula of coffee"****. She did not get the joke, alarm bells should have been screaming red alert in my head and this should have been the point when I should have prudently ended the conversation unless I had a sheer sense of vengeance over the few valuable strands of hair that research had been kind enough to spare. But, fate had it that, I took it my responsibility to spend 3 hours trying to beat in elementary biochemistry into her head. But proteins still decided to remain the 'body building nutrient' as the 2nd standard science book had emphatically proclaimed.
Result – I am unable to chose between disaster and failure.
Inference - A totally futile effort at teaching, precipitates the necessity to conduct further experiments.

Experiment No. 244357
Aim – To help an engineer think scientifically.
Procedure – based on the results of Expt No. 244356, I decided to instead try to solve her problem by using the scientists’ two favorite tools; logic and rationale. I was quite impressed with the level of detail she had to offer regarding her method and experimental set up. But however I asked the question that every engineer dreads, and none of them has the answer for. “What are you trying to find or prove?” Now I had no clue that this question was the play button for engineers, because every engineer ever faced with this question first tells what parameters they are measuring, and then they go about telling their entire method all over again. At this point a scientist has to understand that this can go on forever. The only way to jump out of this loop***** is when the engineer either admits that his boss is mad or that they really are not trying to find out anything at all. For me it was a “I really am not tiring to find out anything, infact I don’t care what I do, I just need to improve the efficiency.” For a scientist really this is not a helpful target, because that is where we get cranky and suggest they use some grease on the hinges. We tackle specific questions, prove specific hypothesis. Engineers try to get a positive result, but we don’t have a concept of negative result at all. An experiment either proves or disproves a fact, and we have learnt to embrace either with equal grace. Engineers do objective driven research, we do hypothesis driven research.
Result – Like an engineer would aver, “Negative result”.
Inference – Stick to scientific experiments, trying to improve or optimize anything is not your forte at any level

The two attempt above are what engineers call ‘Experiments’ and are just a standing example and warning for all scientists who plan on attempting to do anything that has to do with optimizing or improving a system (like teaching an engineer some science). We are just not made for that kind of work.

**I really am not qualified to use phrases like "the big picture", "keep me in the loop", "the wholistic point of view" because I dont have an MBA, but my limited vocabulary has left me wanting.
***At this juncture, if you dont understand that part. If you are a scientist, it is only because it is something stupid that them engineers are doing. If on the other hand if you are an engineer, it is only because a scientist is telling you this.
****False sitcom laughter from the scientists. Damn you geeks, come on!!!
*****Has no relation to the phrase “Keep me in the loop”. This is a different loop, a real loop.

Cookie's Fortune

I was having Pho at this Vietnamese restaurant last night and I tried to open the fortune cookie. When it comes to luck, I often end up having quite a few scores to settle with my stupid stars. This time yet again my reputation (and my clumsiness) preceeded me and I dropped the misfortune cookie on the floor, shattering it. The fortune read, 'You will meet someone special at a social gathering". Now this would have been a great one if I had opened it myself. But technically it was the grimy floor that opened it. Now all I can do is to hope with a heavy heart that the floor finds a good carpet at a vacuum cleaner sale. Hmph. These people who write stuff that go inside these cookies are so unimaginative. It is disappointing each time I open a cookie with great enthusiasm, only to find some cliche like "Opportunity is knocking on your front door". I always think they should put in more peppy stuff like "You will spill your desert on your dress." "The gelatinous thing in your soup is the waiter's saliva." or maybe they should give relationship advice like "Your boyfriend is too dorky for you" "Try to get lucky with the waitress" "Cheapskate, take your girlfriend to a better restaurant" . These places serve terrible food as it is, and then they top it up with a good serving of a pungent bromide in your fortune cookie. With snappy messages, they could spice up your day at the very least. The rear side of these cookies should also be put to better use. Who ever would remember the chinese word for "Sun" that they read at a restaurant, when feeling flatulent and bloated. Rather they should teach guys to hit on girls in chinese. Now that is something guys will remember. The other reason I hate fortune cookies is because I feel disappointed when I eat them. They taste like ice-cream cones, only without the ice-cream and then I feel like eating ice-cream. But then, ice-creams at Asian restaurants invariably taste like trash. All the cheer that the prophesy inside the cookie instilled in me gets neutralized by the bad taste from the artificial flavors in the ice-cream. I suggest these people serve chocolate cakes with interesting messages inscribed on them with icing. Now that would make my day!!! Hope this ones make yours.

Am I ask????

The gravely soporific nature of my protein chemistry class is only rivalled by the instructor's brutal ability to butcher a language, which due to severe mutilation can barely be recognized as English. Until then, I was greatly convinced of the supremacy of a certain proprietor of a private engineering institution at his ability to make Wren and Martin turn in their graves. But along came our protagonist to just give them that extra turn.
Every educational institution in our country seems to have a subterranean secret Department of Linguistic Molestation. However, there is a great deal of myth and lore that fogs up real facts. Many people patriotically and vehemently lay claim over certain "Quotable quotes" which have been supposedly coined by pioneers in Linguistic Molestation from their institutions. In fact, many of these quotes have become so cliched that one has come to realize that the "Miss under standing" never stood there in the first place. In order to secure the interests and to document the efforts of our protagonist I would like to share some valuable excerpts from my active, passive and stuporous interactions with him during my course of study.
Our instructor is very aware that each student has their own distinct learning pattern, so a typical class involves many activities on the part of the students. Some students learn better when they read, so they read "Playboy". Some are visual learners, and they like to make doodles of the instructor in action. Some are aural, hence the walkmans. The kinesthetic learners involve in many activities like shooting rockets, having pen-fights. I personally write poetry.
One day when I was writing something along the lines of "Up your ass Up your ass... Nobody ever listens to your class" my rapt inattention was broken by a spark of brilliance on the part of my instructor. He had just asked one "sleeping bai" to "Face the wash and come". What ensued I guess was a ferocious battle between sleeping bai and the water faucet. I think the sleeping bai prevailed because he came back to class after a few minutes his face dripping with water and his breath smelling of Pan Parag. "Horrible water closet monster... Thou art toast!!". The sleeping bai has only the instructor to thank for inspiring such valiance in him, who in all modesty and simplicity casually continued his highly arcane talk about "Actually, that type of thing is a structure is going to resemblance that".
His clasrooms were always a disciplined environment. "Some of you, all of you, most of you.." always had to "Take it as a serious..and hope they are awareness of him" else "No matter what he will not give it as a present". Which means that you will have to pay for it. He "wants this kind of business only" other wise "you wont get sign for next week" .
He has a distinct teaching style. He veils his material in a fine cloud of mystery. He tickles our fantasies and imagination. Like this great speculation that he is also doing research in time travel. He once shared some of his concepts with us. A certain "green fellow" was told "Don't talk while I am marking in the present" I imagined if he was also marking attendance in the past and future also. I also wondered why our instructor demands us to write assignments without ever bothering to collect them. I believe that he would travel to the past and collect them later. I hope, sometime in the future he comes back to the past and does his job of teaching us something worthwhile. This also explains the time when he asked us "Why so many less absentees?" when to the contrary more than half the class was empty. Maybe these students in the future will come back and attend the class.
If only teaching was a one man show. He also expected his students to deliver the goods when put to the task. Yet another "Enna pa" was asked "Who this book? Tell Pa, who is this book?" Posed by such a difficult question, Enna pa was rather dumbfounded. After stifling a nearly insurmountable feeling of nausea, fear and possibly giggles too, Enna pa delivers. "Yes sir, I am this book". It certainly was a day to remember for Enna pa, in an instant he had become the hero, the talk to the town and he had lived up to the reputation of his instructor who was now the butt of all jokes.
It was definitely the most fruitful experience being his pupil. I, often called by him as the "What man", still live by his golden advice "Be contact with yourself" and then "You will be the king of yourself". But one nagging question still prevails "Am I ask all this? Am I ask?"

As old as I am told.....

Despite my desperate cosmetic efforts to stay young atleast at heart, I am steadily being beached to the shores of what is called the "older generation". I have started losing grasp (in both senses of the word) over what the people ashore call the "younger generation". It is difficult being stranded midway and the throw-rope that connects me with the newer generation is getting frayed rather quickly. I think I am bolting towards senility.
I realized that when I was hanging out at my regular bar, a very laidback and calm place. I happened to stumble upon one of my students who took great pride in the fact that she came to that place only to use the restroom, because the other happening places were filled with the youngsters like her who can hold neither their liquor nor the excretory repercussion that follows. I was asked why I was here playing pool here among people who seemed to be drinking off their pension, when I should rather be convulsing wildly to loud hip-hop songs versed about unconventional sex and drugs. I tried to thwart further conversation about the topic with the usual “I am too old for all that” reply. Bt instead of accepting my answer at face value, she decided to probe further and asked me how old I was, especially since she felt that I didn’t look very old. I told her I was twenty two and her face skewed to an expression that was a blend of surprise, exasperation and 4 shots of tequila, as she told me that she was twenty six herself. It felt awkward to be chronologically younger than a person whom you regard as a kid. People seem to be stuck in a redundant loop after adolescence. Their growth seems to slow down to a slogged progression. I on the other hand, I think I should start looking out for a good deal to buy a pair of dentures on amazon.com. I think suffer from some mental form of “juvenile geriatricism”, where one simply feels too old.
I am also increasingly convinced that I should stop trying to relate to kids. It only gets worse every time I try. I committed one such grave mistake recently, when a 9th grade student fired up a conversation with me on one of the networking websites. I thought I would be nice for a change and humor the kid for a while. The kid, from dear old motherland, showed great interest in the accessibility of internet in the USA. He asked me if there was wireless internet access on the roads. (God this is the United States for crying out load, not Utopia!!!). Just as I had typed him a reply telling him that this generally was not the case, I had another message waiting patiently to throw me off my chair. It read “I was told you could sit on the road and watch porn.” Among other things, he actually was mighty perverted for a 9th grader. I really wondered what would become of him when his hormones swung into full action. I would never understand, why he would want to watch porn, sitting on the road. There are too many things I fail to understand. Soulja boy, Guitar Hero and low-hip undie-fundie pants (and thongbirds for girls) among others. I am only glad I am too old to understand all that.

“My” Milk!!!

Unlike many canines that I know, I am not habited to marking my territory with my excrement. My upbringing in a very cozy home and hostel life to a large extent have blurred out my sense of personal space and belonging. More importantly they have instilled the tendency to share comfortably and the ability to co-exist with other humans without wanting to bite their head off everyday. So it was a cultural shock for me when I moved to the US. It took a while to get used to the fact that the people here have strong definitions of their intimate zones and are not very ready in sharing. But the cultural electrocution however was ultimately provided by an Indian household nevertheless.
I was very happy with the food that was served that day except for the initial “P” that had been inscribed with a sharpie on the hardboiled egg that was on my plate. “It is only on the shell.” was the unabashed reply to my questioning glance. “The initials are to mark out my eggs” she added. “Well, we label our stuff in the fridge” she said nonchalantly when the questioning glance refused to wane. To my dismay, she was not even joking. Every egg in the fridge had individually labeled with one of 4 different initials. Milk bottles had been marked, with level indicators to ensure no one was cheating. “Well, that is “My” milk” (But of course with the M in capitals) she offered me a glass to drink, and coming from a girl’s mouth, it sounded funny in more than just one way.
The rest of the kitchen was no better. One tray in the refrigerator was teeming with groceries, whereas another, had a lonely yoghurt can crying for company. But then things could not be moved to that tray because that was her “My” tray, and it was forbidden territory. Crossing the line of control would cause unimaginable political turmoil. There was already great tension due to the infiltration of a “Your” chewing gum wrapper from one tier into an open vessel of 3 day old “My” dhal that was harboring a harmonious mat of “definitely not my” fungi in the tier below. Space was a big constraint; each person was allowed only a quart of “My” milk and a quart of “My” juice each and gallons were out of the question. Everything was there in quadruplicate, “My X 4” cutlery, utensils, food, spices, condiments and even “My” salt. SALT!!!
The rest of the house was not spared from the reeking of their territorial pissings either. Speakers were banned. “My” Laptops and computers were run exclusively in muted mode. The “I also paid for it, and hence have equal rights over it” television had degenerated to become vestigial. Each of the two “My by two” bedrooms was equally divided into 2 “My” parts by a nonexistent line. Each half harbored a “My” microenvironment characteristic of its resident. It amazing how half a “My by two” room can be clean, and the other half be dirty at the same time. The “Mine if clean” Clothes and towels could not be left hanging in the “My by four” bathrooms and the “MY and I will kill you if you touch it” shampoos and cosmetics, as a matter of preference, were never left in the bathroom either. For no reason at all, people never lived in the “our” living room. There was no rule against this, but they simply preferred not to.
My “our” household, to the contrast was a free for all. The stuff in the “our” fridge was open for all roommates, friends, friends-of-friends, relatives, neighbors and I am pretty sure the homeless bum on the road often dug in for a bite too. I was very upset when this equilibrium was shattered one day when a can of “My” milk had stealthily encroached into my fridge. The aroma and taste of the “I can give you a sip if you want” coffee I was drinking were sucked out instantaneously when I was informed that I had used “My” milk instead of my milk.
I could do nothing but stare with utter dismay when what started of as a small isolated hut of “My” milk, gained fortification and grew into a huge ugly slum filled with all kinds of “My” stuff, rooting themselves steadily in my fridge. Not only were new “My” stuff establishing themselves in the fridge but also things that were “our” crockery earlier were gradually deserting my cause and converting into “My” crockery. I was beginning to learn the biggest lesson in my life, a complete understanding of the concept of “My” milk.
There are 2 different things namely, my milk and “My” milk. My milk can be consumed by me, us and “ME”. But “My” milk can be consumed only by “ME”. My milk can be in my house, our house or “My” house. But “My” milk can only be in “My” house. Any inadvertent consumption of “My” milk by me, immediately pushes “Me” into the brink of starvation and puts “Me” in a life and death situation. This subsequently puts me in a would-love-it-if-you-drop-dead situation. On the other hand, my milk can be freely consumed by “Me” because sharing is a virtue that is expected of me, but certainly not expected of “Me”. In essence, my to a certain extent translates to “our” but “My” can only translate to “My”. The difference between my milk and "our" milk is only a matter of perspective.
Furthermore, “My” milk comes in “My” milk bottles. But however once the “My” milk is consumed, the “My” bottles immediately change allegiance and become “Its not my” or “I don’t know who’s” bottles. Also in case growth of any unidentified bacterial species occurs in the “My” milk, it immediately baptizes it and changes it to “I swear its not my” milk. On the other hand if any such unfortunate disaster occurs to my milk, it suddenly becomes “YOUR” milk. There have also been isolated observations of “My” milk converting to “Your” milk under similar conditions.
I really am beginning to hate this “My” game with all my “My” blood and “My” guts. If I don’t share, it is because I am cheap, but if “I” don’t share, “I” am only being fair. “My” milk has simply walked into my “MY” life and turned sour, as does milk.
When I wrote this article I wondered what if “I” read this article. But then I don’t really care and that’s just “:M.E:”.

Ambigram - Ravi

Like a stone