Category: General

Panic becomes apparent.

Is that something new?

There is this kid from my part of the world who entered graduate school here at the same time as I did. He’s from my home town in fact, and I got to know him in my first few weeks here. We kept running into each other in the corridors of the department as we were out begging for financial support. You know, to stay in graduate school, now that we’d entered it.

I don’t usually get to talk to him very much because we lead entirely disparate lives, but I ran into him during a seminar this morning and we decided to meet a little later in the afternoon. To chat about things.

By now, you ought to be able to guess what happened next.

As is all the rage these days, he informed me he was getting married in a couple of months.

But in a strange twist of fate, this news didn’t even remotely bother me. Instead, I listened patiently as he described the situation to me in some detail.

He’d been introduced to her last August by his parents. And by introduced, I mean provided an e-mail address. He’d then proceeded to get in touch, and over the course of the e-mails, and pictures, decided by December that “She was the one.” At this point they were e-engaged, or something. He then flew down over in March (yes, like few weeks ago), got to meet her in person and “Got engaged for real.” He’ll fly back in a couple of months and “Marry her for real.”

He then went on to talk a bit about her. Her name. Where she was studying. About how she had no professional plans of her own, so she could leave at a moment’s notice and follow him anywhere his work took him. How she was “more than adequate.” You know, standard things.

Under normal circumstances, when the “Did I tell you I’m getting married?” spiel begins to drop, I break down into this hysterical mess of sappiness and fail to listen to the real story. But this time, having calmly listened to the entire tale, I have to say I am not distressed. In fact, I almost feel sorry for the guy.

It was pitiful when he began trying to convince me how e-mail and a web-cam are a valid substitute for the real thing.

It was most pitiful when I noted that it wasn’t me he was trying to convince, it was himself.

(I know your heart must’ve skipped a beat when you read the title of this post. I know, admit it!)

Yes, I could have loaded the dishwasher and forgotten to turn it on.
No, I didn’t “Not turn it on to spite you.” Perhaps I’m just scatterbrained?

One thing that women—including moms—don’t understand is that it’s not always about something specific. And more importantly, it’s not always about them. Another person could just like or dislike or love or hate or whatever them purely independent of who they are as a person. Really, they can.

I don’t have reasons for feeling a certain way, or not, toward anyone. I just do. That’s why they’re called feelings and if they were as rational as thoughts, then I’d have clear, valid reasons. Don’t you think?

I wish the world would let me be. Let me feel like I want to feel, whatever that might mean. I just want to feel unconstricted. I don’t want another’s life intimately tied to my emotions or thoughts or decisions; that’s just too much pressure. Is that so wrong?

I feel backed into a corner. I feel trapped and choked. There, I said it.

It’s hilarious (actually, it’s not at all) how I’ve even become so troubled about saying anything here for fear of who I would inadvertently hurt. Between the stalkers, friends, relatives, lovers, exs… it becomes too hard to actually form, let alone express, a real sentiment. I long for a time when this was an untethered forum, where I could speak my mind. Where I could yell and scream and curse and no one would know.

Who am I kidding? I long for a time when I wouldn’t need to yell or scream or curse.

I’ve spent most of this weekend glued to the computer. Unfortunately for you, this does not mean I made the time to write something interesting down here. Here is what went on instead.

Starting with little more than the following drawing,

I’ve initiated a process of bringing my work web-site out of the dark ages.

Clicking the image above will take you to an evolving site where I test different elements which frequent my work web-site. The plan is to make sure it looks presentable in recent browsers before I migrate the older content over.

I think I’ve captured the essence of the original site quite nicely. What do you feel?

Wearing black makes you look slim. If you’re thin.

Toward the onset of fall, I take an unnatural delight in the stark change of fashion; a change which ushers in everything from the stylish wool turtlenecks, to the provocatively form-hugging hoodies. I believe the grounds for this titillation stems from how much fall and winter wear leave to the imagination.

The less you see, the easier it is to fill in the blanks with dreamy morsels.

But then, six-to-eight months roll by and fantasising doesn’t cut it anymore.

Boy am I glad it’s getting warmer.

I’ve been missing writing about my life, and my (lack-of-)visitor-access-logs seem to indicate you’ve missed it too.

Recently, I’ve begun talking to the higher-ups about slowly winding up (down?) my stint in grad school, and moving on with my life. I’ve often fantasised about this period of my life, wherein I’ve envisioned soaring happily toward wondrous new opportunities. But in actuality, all I am is petrified. School is all I’ve known—its warm confines having been cosy and cocooning for so long—I now find my self nearing a crossroad where little seems clear to me.

Do I work on this, or was it that which caught my fancy? Who is going to hire someone so vague? Do I attempt for a position in Europe, or hover around here? What about India? What do I really care about? What am I looking for? Should I take a break to figure it all out? … Already floundering, struggling to find my way, I now also have the pleasure of juggling the whole “It’s high time you found a nice girl and ‘got settled,’ young man” routine.

All of which can be a tad overwhelming for a kid whose most important decisions largely present themselves at vending machines: “Do I hit the Coke button, or do I crave the lemony-lime goodness of Sprite today? Oh deary me, so many cold, sugary choices… I can’t decide. Arrgh!”

Ever since I first heard about the possibility of an I, Robot movie a few years ago, I’d been pretty stoked. I wonder why it took so long for me to actually see it, but see it I did a couple of days ago.

And the verdict? It wasn’t a horrible movie.

Sure, they concocted their own stories loosely within the confines of Asimov’s universe and sure Dr. Calvin was a tad embellished,

but it was all right. It wasn’t horrible, and I dare say it was quite fun at points.

You see, I have a special attachment to I, Robot, as I am sure is true for countless other people, as it was the first Asimov book I’d read. Starting from this 9-short-story-long book in my eighth grade, I’d read just about everything the good doctor had written by the time I’d completed my eleventh. Just about everything I could get my hands on, anyway.

Asimov’s writing—certainly to the little outcast geek within me—was extraordinarily addictive. He was one of the most prolific writers of all time, and wrote all sorts of tales usually set within the realm of science fiction. While one may be quick to lump them all into this category, his works include tender romances, intriguing murder mysteries, expansive world building and so much more. Yes, of course, it takes a certain kind of reader to sigh when a woman admits her only ever love—or physical experiences in any case—to have been with a robot (or another extreme variation of the theme: The man who falls for and marries his protector though he suspects she’s a robot). But I am that sort of reader, and his words clicked with me. Very well.

Over those few years, I’d read hundreds of stories—ranging from the shortest of short stories to the most elaborate novels. From a birds-eye view, Asimov’s writing paints a sort of elaborate, pseudo-history of humanity’s future. Starting from our fledgling steps with humankind-changing technology a few years from now (as is the case of introduction of robots with I, Robot), to the rises and falls of humanity as they proceed to conquer the galaxy over the next tens of thousands of years.

As a kid, I read what I could get my hands on, reading things in the order in which I procured them and not closely following their intended chronology cataloguing his vision of our future. Over this semester, I’ve begun to fix that. Having forgotten most of what I read, I’ve been amassing and devouring everything from the very first (admittedly shoddy) short stories of robots through the grand finale of the Foundation Series,

including some reads I didn’t have access to as a kid. And this time, I’ve been reading them in order.

While the superficial import of these tales might seem like something cliched (Evil super-genius will stop at nothing to take over the entire galaxy.) it takes a little more than a cursory glance to realise their true essence (The story of a poor, neglected little boy who is desperate for attention). And, it’s the fact that I can relate to these tales set in a consistent universe so intensely that draws me so much to them.

During the course of navigating your way through life, you’ll be required to play numerous roles. The son, teacher, artist, plumber, lover, student, writer, preacher, judge, chauffeur, mother… the list is continuous. Admittedly, I may not know very much about life, but there is one bit of insight I’ve gathered which I’d like to share:

Seasons change, circumstances evolve, roles come and go, but at the heart of it all, the actress donning all those hats exists rather statically. You—the player of all your roles—are an atomic unit, so to speak. You have your own identity, your own state of mind, free will, … and exist entirely separate from your roles.

Please, never confuse who you are with the roles you play.

Such detachment is the key to contentment, enlightenment and inner-peace.

No, I don’t mean eternal happiness; I mean contentment, enlightenment and inner-peace.

I haven’t done this in ages.

Judging from the relatively static appearance of this web site (emphaticallystatic.org, remember?), you’re probably under the incorrect assumption that things have stagnated under the hood as well. Perhaps this list of recent going-ons will change your mind. I’ve emphasised tasks that I’ve completed.

1. Made the “favicon” (the little icon in the URL bar) transparent.
2. Upgraded an ancient WordPress to something current.
3. Correspondingly upgraded all plugins and modified them to suit my needs.
4. Tuned caching to improve site responsiveness.
5. Prevented spam comments from messing too much with “most popular posts” calculations.
6. Cleaned up code to look-up the database less often, further improving site responsiveness.
7. Updated XHTML 1.0 Transitional pages to XHTML 1.1 pages.
8. Completely remove styling from XHTML pages; perhaps even images?
9. Clean up CSS and get it to validate.
10. Ran over source with Emacs to indent it better.

I normally stay clear of the yapping about current affairs on this journal because it gets in the way of the customary highly-self-centered content. But this article on the daily hits too close to home not to comment about: (American) Students struggle to get (Indian) visas.

The first (and currently only) comment on their web site sums things up nicely:

“What a cry-baby piece!

Given that the USA operates one of the nastiest and [most] unaccountable visa regimes it is hardly a surprise that other countries have taken to treating American citizens as the Americans treat them.”

This is it people; this is what I’ve been waiting for.

Not very different from that abused little kid who spends fifteen hours a day in front of the TV hoping to escape from it all, I’ve wiled away the past five years of my life in graduate school. Sure, I’ve learnt a thing or two, and have a few pieces of paper making my stay seem legit, but you and I both know it’s about time I stepped into the real world and faced it like a man. Or mouse—which seems more likely—but face it nonetheless.

I don’t intend on stalling under fear of the unknown anymore, nor do I intend on wasting my time on trivial pursuits. I am finally motivated, and I’ve formulated a plan; a real plan with a realistic timeline.

And I fully intend on carrying it through.

(I better get something useful done before this caffeine buzz wears off.)

Fuelled perhaps by events I’ve disclosed recently, I’ve been persuaded to “put myself out there” and “see more people,” before it’s “too late.” Sadly, this has been the source of some heartache, as I am a stranger to being turned down.

You see, I’ve always managed to avoid rejection, just like how I’ve always prevented my slaves from staging a violent and bloody uprising: not keeping slaves.

Perhaps I should be more discerning as to who I ask out. It’s just, though her beauty was only skin deep, being size 0, she seemed beautiful all the way through.

You know the conversation is taking a really wrong turn when your mother—somewhat formally—prefixes a discussion with, “And, on a more personal note… ” The queasiness that such an innocuous string of words can arouse in the pit of my tummy will be apparent to anyone who knows my situation as well as I do; for you see, you then know exactly what’s coming next.

It is quite customary where I come from, that, when one is regarded to be “of marriageable age,” their parents assist them in finding them a life partner. And by “assist,” I mean they force you into marrying whoever it is they deem “right” for you. Somewhat sneakily—and quite successfully—over the past half-decade, I’ve been evading this sensitive issue with my parents under the guise of being “entirely engrossed with my PhD work.” It’s not surprising in the least that you see right through the pretence, and soon figure out that this is merely a smokescreen to buy me some time; time to explore, experiment and mature enough to make up my own mind on such matters. But what is odd, is that my parents seemed to realise this is a blatant lie too, yet willingly played along with it.

Luckily for yours truly, his little fib provided them in turn with a watertight excuse when solicited by people whose only job seems to be disposing daughters they’ve grown tired of. The blanket excuse of their son being in school—doused in the connotation of his immaturity—almost made them seem earnest when they harped about how ready he was not, how his studying occupied him entirely, and even, how he’s just plain incapable of supporting their daughter at the moment. This made it incredibly simple for them to mercilessly decline any and all who approached; and not seem conceited.

This ensured life was good. As good as it could be, anyway.

And in this time, I’ve grown quite accustomed to my independence. Yes, I’ve fallen once or twice (or eight times), but for the most part I’ve gotten to do interesting, fun things for which I otherwise wouldn’t have had the opportunity. But, as you obviously realise, I still don’t have a lot figured out in my life. I don’t know what I want. I honestly don’t know what I am going to do, or where I am going to do it at. I don’t know what makes me happy; in fact, I am quite certain I am not emotionally, financially, or in any other regard, entirely capable of keeping myself satisfied, let alone another.

Given all that, and given the general state of confusion my life is in, I am not entirely certain this topic is appropriate to bring up any time soon, but with the PhD phase of my life coming to an end (hopefully), my beloved argument is failing to hold water. Today, I found out that my mother is not going to mass-decline any and all requests for her son’s hand, and furthermore, will gleefully proceed to do things in order to set me up. I’ve fought long and hard, but being that I don’t have the energy to fight anymore, or even explain things candidly, I put my arms up in the air and told her to go ahead and do whatever. As in, if someone comes up and keeps advertising their little girl to her, I asked her not to think about me and proceed to do whatever makes her happy.

As long as her measures don’t bind me to follow through in any way.

The following just a random collection of responses I’d scanned but didn’t use in the article:

I told you the article was complete a while ago, why are you still here?

Well, not really.

So I’ll leave you with one that was particularly useful.

Happy Whateveritisyoucelebrateordont!

This article has concluded, stop clicking!