Change.
Little by little, I bring myself to look at the mirror. See the man there without averting my eyes. Yes, not a boy anymore, but a man, at least physically. The stubble that the razor has a hard time removing is testimony to that.
I wash my face with cold water and think of the days gone by. For the umpteenth time perhaps, but it's different now. See, the future has caught up with the past. The circle is complete. It's time for change.
I get dressed, think absentmindedly of whether I should put a jacket on. I walk out of the door, find a cold but pleasant wind shake me out of my sleep. Pull me out of my dreams. Things have changed, no, go back, rewrite. I have changed. I hold the steering of my life. There is no denying that I always did.
Yes, I hurt you, you there, if you're reading this. I said I loved you and I hurt you. I have done that so many times now it doesn't even make sense to apologise any more. The only person I should apologise to is probably myself. Yes, dude, you're not a saint. You have a little bit of the devil in you, just like everybody else.
Yes, I lied. I lied so many times and when I said I will say the truth, I lied. I lied to myself and to everyone else who mattered. I am not the great guy you imagined me to be. Look at me, I stand naked in front of you, in flesh and blood, mortal and far from invincible. I hold no power other than the power I hold over myself. There are no great deeds I boast of, no overwhelming goodness inside of me, no superhuman ability in need of respect. Just me, with all the pimples on my face and my nails dirty and my clothes in need of washing.
And yes, I hold the baton for change. I hold the key to my own future, the same as everybody else. The tiny key made of gold that will unlock the pandora's box of possibilities, only I need to have the strength to face them. I stand at the helm of my own ship, the captain of my own soul and that thought is as terrifying as it is liberating. I can make anything I want to. I can create the world I want to live in, and I have done this all this while, without knowing it. I m holding my pen writing my own destiny and I've just realised the fact, I've just realised that I'm the only person turning the inexorable wheels of my fate. Not the system, not God, not you, just me.
I'm not perfect, I'm not ideal, I'm not perfect. I'm just here. At the forefront of my destiny.
And I'm here, holding the flag for change.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Blame
She was born a bud, a single child of a long stem laden with thorns. Amongst the other flowers in the nursery she lay in wait, opening very slowly, layer by layer, to the gardener who tended to her and to the other flowers that bowed in respect. Her crimson petals glimmered in the morning dew, and around her her fragrance was carried away borne on the cool summer breeze.
As she grew she grew fond of her own beauty, of the tales they told her about her powers. She listened with astonishment of how her very existence had always been a symbol of love, of how the Gods were bathed in her petals always, and of how her nectar was the sweetest possible. She swelled with pride at the power she held, and she grew up believing that she was destined to spread good luck and love and beauty in the world.
They took her to the florist then, and then she lay in wait for her golden moment. She saw in her florist's eyes joy whenever he tended to her, and she responded to his love with love, smiling and shining, a Godess descended upon the world. She was thrilled when one summer evening she was chosen by her florist, her long stalk picked up in his careful hands, and as she crossed hands she looked into the face of the man holding her, and saw joy and hope and radiance. She swelled with pride again, and she shook her petals so the dew dropped from them, as an ode to her own beauty and to the joy she provided.
The man walked her through the street, his hand holding the rose behind the back, as if whatever was to come was a surprise for her. She waited patiently, and soon she found herself being presented before another smiling face, the man kneeling down, she herself in his hands, held up. But the smiling face in front of her stopped smiling, and lost colour.. The eyebrows knit together and the lips moved rapidly, . Then she looked back at the face of the man who was holding her and he wasn't smiling too, and suddenly she saw big drops of water, salty, fall down on her petals. She felt the man's grip on her tightening, stiffening, then letting go, so she fell helpless down on the street, amidst sounds of footpaths where there were no smiling faces. She felt scared, because she had always given joy and never any sorrow; no one had denied being overjoyed at the sight of her beauty, no one had failed to respond to her fragrance, and yet here she was soaked to death in the salty tears of a sorrow she had not known. What did I do wrong she asked, but there was no one to answer; there was no one to answer before shoes fell on her and sucked away her fragrance and pressed out her beauty, that all she had done wrong was to be born a rose.
As she grew she grew fond of her own beauty, of the tales they told her about her powers. She listened with astonishment of how her very existence had always been a symbol of love, of how the Gods were bathed in her petals always, and of how her nectar was the sweetest possible. She swelled with pride at the power she held, and she grew up believing that she was destined to spread good luck and love and beauty in the world.
They took her to the florist then, and then she lay in wait for her golden moment. She saw in her florist's eyes joy whenever he tended to her, and she responded to his love with love, smiling and shining, a Godess descended upon the world. She was thrilled when one summer evening she was chosen by her florist, her long stalk picked up in his careful hands, and as she crossed hands she looked into the face of the man holding her, and saw joy and hope and radiance. She swelled with pride again, and she shook her petals so the dew dropped from them, as an ode to her own beauty and to the joy she provided.
The man walked her through the street, his hand holding the rose behind the back, as if whatever was to come was a surprise for her. She waited patiently, and soon she found herself being presented before another smiling face, the man kneeling down, she herself in his hands, held up. But the smiling face in front of her stopped smiling, and lost colour.. The eyebrows knit together and the lips moved rapidly, . Then she looked back at the face of the man who was holding her and he wasn't smiling too, and suddenly she saw big drops of water, salty, fall down on her petals. She felt the man's grip on her tightening, stiffening, then letting go, so she fell helpless down on the street, amidst sounds of footpaths where there were no smiling faces. She felt scared, because she had always given joy and never any sorrow; no one had denied being overjoyed at the sight of her beauty, no one had failed to respond to her fragrance, and yet here she was soaked to death in the salty tears of a sorrow she had not known. What did I do wrong she asked, but there was no one to answer; there was no one to answer before shoes fell on her and sucked away her fragrance and pressed out her beauty, that all she had done wrong was to be born a rose.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
4
Author's note: I found this post buried amongst several drafts that I had left untouched, deteriorating in the drawers of my blog. It's more of a diary entry of the 4 years of life in IIT looked at in retrospect, but it's...slightly weirdly written.
Four years. Full circle.
Starting with studying following a long bout of even more studying and preparedness for God knows what. Before a blink and before your mouth can whisper the words "Physics" swept into the general mayhem of Computer Science oh my God Computer Science the El Nino of this day and age. Then induction and recursion and the world becoming clear to you no wait its gone again because here come AVL trees and that weird rotation and poof you're gone. Then back again through algorithms and languages and numerical computing and image processing till I close my ears and say no no no more trying to make the little numbers move faster and yet do that same thing looking at a computer screen full of numbers to make them behave they should behave. While I wait for the rest of my life to take off and let go.
Words on a black board, words on a white board. Words on a white board in Bangalore, sitting in Microsoft feeling all free and unreal and finding "Computationalism" a word that means nothing and yet so much because it is at the end of four years of that very word gnawing at your mind. And then a blur and a whiteboard again and matrices and classmates and photographs and thoughts amiss and heartbeats racing. Then back again through time and those thoughts you must not speak now because what's buried is buried but it wasn't at that time because everyone knew it except me and because it was me they were talking about behind closed doors into innocent ears. Then race ahead because memories have a habit of erasing everything just when you want those memories back because if memories weren't erased we would all be Turing machines with infinite tapes, not feeling anything because it hurts too much to feel. And memories that want to erase those parts too, the good ones that you want to hold on to because obviously good things can't survive without the bad. Errors go and so do mistakes, we converge to a solution we don't even care about because what we found has been erased. Little waves with soft white hands.
And down and down and further down where those hidden demons of guilt and self pity coil into each other like mating snakes. And the mistakes you did and the words you said because they were not spoken but typed and I couldn't look into your eyes when I said them and you were so far away you wouldn't have heard if I had shouted. So like words on a computer screen, commands that have no meaning but will go drive the little read write heads that will erase everything. rm -rf *. And then you can go on and put new stuff in there while I am left grapling with a connection gone bad which funnily is how everything else around is, the numbers dont add up, I'm not converging to a solution and the errors are not going down fast enough and what the heck am I doing the right thing?
Right thing, right thing, right thing, right thing and suddenly who are you kidding you've been a criminal all along. Tick tick tick tick then oh my god you've been Cross all your life.
Then four years later you realise we are all wrong, and the only task now to be done is to learn to forgive yourself.
Four years. Full circle.
Starting with studying following a long bout of even more studying and preparedness for God knows what. Before a blink and before your mouth can whisper the words "Physics" swept into the general mayhem of Computer Science oh my God Computer Science the El Nino of this day and age. Then induction and recursion and the world becoming clear to you no wait its gone again because here come AVL trees and that weird rotation and poof you're gone. Then back again through algorithms and languages and numerical computing and image processing till I close my ears and say no no no more trying to make the little numbers move faster and yet do that same thing looking at a computer screen full of numbers to make them behave they should behave. While I wait for the rest of my life to take off and let go.
Words on a black board, words on a white board. Words on a white board in Bangalore, sitting in Microsoft feeling all free and unreal and finding "Computationalism" a word that means nothing and yet so much because it is at the end of four years of that very word gnawing at your mind. And then a blur and a whiteboard again and matrices and classmates and photographs and thoughts amiss and heartbeats racing. Then back again through time and those thoughts you must not speak now because what's buried is buried but it wasn't at that time because everyone knew it except me and because it was me they were talking about behind closed doors into innocent ears. Then race ahead because memories have a habit of erasing everything just when you want those memories back because if memories weren't erased we would all be Turing machines with infinite tapes, not feeling anything because it hurts too much to feel. And memories that want to erase those parts too, the good ones that you want to hold on to because obviously good things can't survive without the bad. Errors go and so do mistakes, we converge to a solution we don't even care about because what we found has been erased. Little waves with soft white hands.
And down and down and further down where those hidden demons of guilt and self pity coil into each other like mating snakes. And the mistakes you did and the words you said because they were not spoken but typed and I couldn't look into your eyes when I said them and you were so far away you wouldn't have heard if I had shouted. So like words on a computer screen, commands that have no meaning but will go drive the little read write heads that will erase everything. rm -rf *. And then you can go on and put new stuff in there while I am left grapling with a connection gone bad which funnily is how everything else around is, the numbers dont add up, I'm not converging to a solution and the errors are not going down fast enough and what the heck am I doing the right thing?
Right thing, right thing, right thing, right thing and suddenly who are you kidding you've been a criminal all along. Tick tick tick tick then oh my god you've been Cross all your life.
Then four years later you realise we are all wrong, and the only task now to be done is to learn to forgive yourself.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Will you teach me to dream this once?
Will you teach me to dream this once?
I knew how to, long ago
Sitting often, by the window
I wondered and thought and wished so
I never knew then that sometimes the night
Must go without its moonlight
Or sometimes the sun would come to the day
But leave it all a starving gray
I didn’t know then that roses too
Wither away like the others do
I didn’t know then that I would too
When so many dreams didn’t come true
Will you stay with me a little while?
Will you be there on those nights
When it’s all darkness and no moonlight?
Will you listen to me when I have stories to tell
Or when there’s nothing to say and its silent as hell?
Will, when it gets too real
When things start coming, crashing, down,
Will you help me put the bricks back
Will you help me once again off the ground?
These wings you give are all very well
The skies are blue and there’s lots to tell
But will you be there if the garden’s no more
And dreams have turned into nightmares sore?
I knew how to, long ago
Sitting often, by the window
I wondered and thought and wished so
I never knew then that sometimes the night
Must go without its moonlight
Or sometimes the sun would come to the day
But leave it all a starving gray
I didn’t know then that roses too
Wither away like the others do
I didn’t know then that I would too
When so many dreams didn’t come true
Will you stay with me a little while?
Will you be there on those nights
When it’s all darkness and no moonlight?
Will you listen to me when I have stories to tell
Or when there’s nothing to say and its silent as hell?
Will, when it gets too real
When things start coming, crashing, down,
Will you help me put the bricks back
Will you help me once again off the ground?
These wings you give are all very well
The skies are blue and there’s lots to tell
But will you be there if the garden’s no more
And dreams have turned into nightmares sore?
Writing again!
Just wrote a story. You can get it here: The Gift. Its my first foray into fantasy, so I hope you'll be a little lenient with criticism :P. Will blog again soon....
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Life is beautiful
Phew...what a journey it has been.
When I look back at the past two or three years of my life, and especially at the last few months, life has been a whirlwind. I have been working almost non-stop for the past year, and in the meanwhile my fascination with my work has deteriorated into disappointment, sometimes even disillusionment. In the backdrop of all this I have made the decision of going for a Ph.D, and at the same time been assailed by doubts as to whether this was the right choice. And somewhere down the line I have had a remarkably bittersweet experience with relationships.
Then suddenly, this other day, in the midst of all this chaos, I decided to take a day off. Off, not as in run off to a movie, or catch a hasty train to a hill station. Off, as in the idle, time-is-eternal off: grab a novel, sit down where the only company you have is yourself, and watch time fly slowly by.
It was afternoon, and the sun was out, strong, but not scorching. In front of our hostel is a small garden of sorts (a herbal garden supposedly), and strewn about are a couple of benches and swings. I sat on a swing, behind which towered a tree. The sun shone through the leaves, and made beautiful patterns of light and shadow on the book I was reading. Every now and then a cool gust of wind blew, brushing through the leaves and the blades of grass so that they rustled. In front of me a small ladybird toiled its way through the grass.
But it was the pace of time then that struck me most. Time did not exist here. Time was a concept unknown to this world. Here the wind did not care whether it was 1 pm or 1:05 pm. The grass did not care whether I managed to stick to a deadline or not. The ladybird had no assignments to make, no papers to publish, no goals to follow. They were just there, in the present, eternally in the present. Looking at that scene you felt that this here could never change; that this moment would go on forever, and that sometime after eternity you would look up from your tranquil reverie and find that ages have passed, that you are old now, and it doesn't matter that you spent your life looking at the blade of grass fluttering in the wind, for that was somehow what you were born to do in the first place.
How different this was from the world in which we lived! How different from numbers running down a computer screen: 27 seconds to run through 30, 000 data points! How different from assignments, projects, applications, forms, mails, letters and phone calls! How different from the constant second hand chasing you through the day, reminding you that hey, you have a life to take care of. Life? What life? Can life be spent chasing life?
Let us pause for a minute here. Let us not rush through life, let us not aim at accomplishing a million things in life. Let us just learn to watch instead of look, absorb instead of witness. Let us not, as Wordsworth said, lay waste our powers, getting and spending, late and soon. For life is not a trial, life is not a mission we have to accomplish. Life is beautiful, and it is meant to be lived.
When I look back at the past two or three years of my life, and especially at the last few months, life has been a whirlwind. I have been working almost non-stop for the past year, and in the meanwhile my fascination with my work has deteriorated into disappointment, sometimes even disillusionment. In the backdrop of all this I have made the decision of going for a Ph.D, and at the same time been assailed by doubts as to whether this was the right choice. And somewhere down the line I have had a remarkably bittersweet experience with relationships.
Then suddenly, this other day, in the midst of all this chaos, I decided to take a day off. Off, not as in run off to a movie, or catch a hasty train to a hill station. Off, as in the idle, time-is-eternal off: grab a novel, sit down where the only company you have is yourself, and watch time fly slowly by.
It was afternoon, and the sun was out, strong, but not scorching. In front of our hostel is a small garden of sorts (a herbal garden supposedly), and strewn about are a couple of benches and swings. I sat on a swing, behind which towered a tree. The sun shone through the leaves, and made beautiful patterns of light and shadow on the book I was reading. Every now and then a cool gust of wind blew, brushing through the leaves and the blades of grass so that they rustled. In front of me a small ladybird toiled its way through the grass.
But it was the pace of time then that struck me most. Time did not exist here. Time was a concept unknown to this world. Here the wind did not care whether it was 1 pm or 1:05 pm. The grass did not care whether I managed to stick to a deadline or not. The ladybird had no assignments to make, no papers to publish, no goals to follow. They were just there, in the present, eternally in the present. Looking at that scene you felt that this here could never change; that this moment would go on forever, and that sometime after eternity you would look up from your tranquil reverie and find that ages have passed, that you are old now, and it doesn't matter that you spent your life looking at the blade of grass fluttering in the wind, for that was somehow what you were born to do in the first place.
How different this was from the world in which we lived! How different from numbers running down a computer screen: 27 seconds to run through 30, 000 data points! How different from assignments, projects, applications, forms, mails, letters and phone calls! How different from the constant second hand chasing you through the day, reminding you that hey, you have a life to take care of. Life? What life? Can life be spent chasing life?
Let us pause for a minute here. Let us not rush through life, let us not aim at accomplishing a million things in life. Let us just learn to watch instead of look, absorb instead of witness. Let us not, as Wordsworth said, lay waste our powers, getting and spending, late and soon. For life is not a trial, life is not a mission we have to accomplish. Life is beautiful, and it is meant to be lived.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Against Rationality-Part I
I guess four years is a wee bit too late to vent my anger at life, the universe and everything in general and the engineering world in particular, but hell, better late than never. Plus, four years of harrowing experiences in the midst of scientists and engineers does things to you, and I have to say some things before I go a little balmy in the head.
So this post (and a few more to come) is about "rationality", "logic", "reason", "science", "intellect", "intelligence" and so on and so forth. It is about the standard dogma that is indoctrinated into so many Indians, most of whom land in such grotesque places as the IITs. It is about the belief, reiterated till it becomes fact, that yes, life is logical, that reason, cause and effect are things of infallible accuracy and unfailing integrity. More particularly, it is about the high status we accord to science, logic and reason, and the farthings we throw at everything else.
So let me start. Being, unfortunately, a science student myself, I will let this first post follow "logic" through science.
Science itself is logical, and so is mathematics, so what use would it be to look at logic within the framework of science? Actually a lot, and for that precise reason. Science is something we always regard as being logical, in other words, being derived from fixed, though maybe unknown, rules. Rules, of deduction, inference and reasoning. We science people like so much to lay down rules, to lay down formulae, and to exclaim with unabashed pride that, hey, this sequence of symbols on paper explains everything!
Towards the end of the 19th century, this was the general mood prevalant among mathematicians. Mathematical proofs were getting more and more formal, with fixed rules of inference, and mathematical logic had firmly taken ground. Mathematical proofs were becoming more and more "mechanical". Hilbert, as part of his 20 problems, asked the obvious question (Entscheidungsproblem): How mechanical are mathematical proofs? Does there exist a set of axioms and a set of inference rules that will lead, "logically", and hence "mechanically", to every known theorem in the book?
If Hilbert's proposition was true, all that you needed for mathematics was a set of symbols, and a set of axioms and inference rules operating on those symbols. Nothing more. What those symbols meant, or if they had any meaning at all, would be insignificant. Meaning would essentially a matter of book-keeping
Then came Kurt Godel, and his Incompleteness theorem: For any formal logical system that was consistent, there was always a statement that would be true if your axioms were true, but that you could never prove by the rules of logic. In other words, logic, the simple rules of inference, would not suffice to determine or prove this statement, and yet this statement would be true. The way you could prove this statement was to talk about the meaning of the statement, something that logic was incapable of doing.
The point I want to drive home is this: logic is not how theorems are proven. Logic is not how science happens. Science and Mathematics, though they seem driven by logic, are not driven by logic, or at least not logic in the sense of a set of axioms and inference rules. What it is that drives them, and what kind of "logic" is involved, well, I'll harp on that on my next post.
So this post (and a few more to come) is about "rationality", "logic", "reason", "science", "intellect", "intelligence" and so on and so forth. It is about the standard dogma that is indoctrinated into so many Indians, most of whom land in such grotesque places as the IITs. It is about the belief, reiterated till it becomes fact, that yes, life is logical, that reason, cause and effect are things of infallible accuracy and unfailing integrity. More particularly, it is about the high status we accord to science, logic and reason, and the farthings we throw at everything else.
So let me start. Being, unfortunately, a science student myself, I will let this first post follow "logic" through science.
Science itself is logical, and so is mathematics, so what use would it be to look at logic within the framework of science? Actually a lot, and for that precise reason. Science is something we always regard as being logical, in other words, being derived from fixed, though maybe unknown, rules. Rules, of deduction, inference and reasoning. We science people like so much to lay down rules, to lay down formulae, and to exclaim with unabashed pride that, hey, this sequence of symbols on paper explains everything!
Towards the end of the 19th century, this was the general mood prevalant among mathematicians. Mathematical proofs were getting more and more formal, with fixed rules of inference, and mathematical logic had firmly taken ground. Mathematical proofs were becoming more and more "mechanical". Hilbert, as part of his 20 problems, asked the obvious question (Entscheidungsproblem): How mechanical are mathematical proofs? Does there exist a set of axioms and a set of inference rules that will lead, "logically", and hence "mechanically", to every known theorem in the book?
If Hilbert's proposition was true, all that you needed for mathematics was a set of symbols, and a set of axioms and inference rules operating on those symbols. Nothing more. What those symbols meant, or if they had any meaning at all, would be insignificant. Meaning would essentially a matter of book-keeping
Then came Kurt Godel, and his Incompleteness theorem: For any formal logical system that was consistent, there was always a statement that would be true if your axioms were true, but that you could never prove by the rules of logic. In other words, logic, the simple rules of inference, would not suffice to determine or prove this statement, and yet this statement would be true. The way you could prove this statement was to talk about the meaning of the statement, something that logic was incapable of doing.
The point I want to drive home is this: logic is not how theorems are proven. Logic is not how science happens. Science and Mathematics, though they seem driven by logic, are not driven by logic, or at least not logic in the sense of a set of axioms and inference rules. What it is that drives them, and what kind of "logic" is involved, well, I'll harp on that on my next post.
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