Don't cell me short

I had always been receiving the proverbial short end of the stick during my Biology practicals, being stuck with a lazy half-wit of half-wits (as half-witted as C—students can get – a surprisingly low threshold) for a lab partner (a concept quite foreign to those raised on the fodder of the self-seeking nature of practical exams) causing me to have to take awfully abbreviated lunch breaks and to do all the pipetting myself until I ran out of tunes to hum whilst injecting solutions into gravestone rows upon rows of tubes. My lab partner, on the other hand, would merrily tinker on his hand phone sending sweet nothings to some person that I could not see but I could be sure was not at this moment heaping bacteria onto an agar plate where they could continue their mindless infestation of every feasible avenue of life, like a cheese sandwich or the lining of my stomach. (Naturally the continued emphasis on aseptic precautions drove me to a brief period of paranoia visualing slimy bacteria oozing on door knobs, toilet seats and the like, similar to some sort of psychiatric illness)

Perplexed as I was as to how one could be surrounded by so much industry but not feel the slightest germ of an urge of an iota of an itch to think about starting to do some work, I always put it down as some odd sort of Western thought (and as some people say, a tradition) and went about my own business. Querulous as this is, it was only one of the odd things that I encountered for almost two terms of Biology practicals, which no doubt were designed for us to marvel at the complexities of life and expect us to believe that all that somehow arose through chance (but of course I remain tricked).

Funny lecturers with curious accents, lab technicians who stare longingly at shaking mixers (though I admit I must have had my fair share of time wasted following its hypnotic movements) aside, we'd all been endowed with the authority and endorsement to decide the fate of billions of individuals. Whether they would perish under the swift and deadly hand of ampicillin or the stealthy scythe of chloramphenicol for bacteria, or what charming offspring they would bear following the union with a lovely partner for fungi. Very much like the game "The Sims", we had the power to make or break the futures of all these organisms, though rather unpleasant and rather invisible, still counted as "living things" (now that I think about it, my leaving the dishes on the floor makes me feel rather like those poor neglected Sims of the neighbourhood who soon die amongst their piles of trash and dead azaleas).

Invested with such sway over a dominion of individuals in the realms of test tubes and Petri dishes, the sense of control that one (feels one) has is somewhat akin to that if one had the ability to call up an army of millions at the wipe of a nose, which of course drew me somewhat to soldier on with the often tedious and repetitive motions of the practicals, beginning with squishing amoebas under cover slips and gradually sliding down the slippery slope to wiping out an entire civilisation of E. Coli with a flick of the wrist. You never think of pendulum bobs or sodium hydroxide solutions in the same way.

This is yet another meaningless chant about some esoteric scientific subject, where the fact I can go on for so long is already something that warrants an expensive and ultimately fruitless scientific study. Much like there is no gain in sending a bunch of yeasts to their deaths, there is something oddly satisfying about this.

No-Ostalgie

Rarely has my interested been piqued so much by a film that almost immediately after its conclusion I charge out to write something about watching it. The last such instance, The Pianist produced an oeuvre a few thousand words long. Though this will not be of such an epic proportion, Good Bye, Lenin (a curiously comic title for a seriously tragic film) now ranks among some of the films that I appreciate the most.

Naturally, such an explosion of interest can only be fed by a well of prior understanding - a penchant for many things German and hence a certain affection for the phenomenon of "Ostalgie", the nostalgia for the old German Democratic Republic (though this seems laughably ironic, the capitalist peddling of gaudy trinkets based upon the stolid ideologies and icons of its mortal enemy socialism). On its surface, Lenin seems to be little more than a P.T. Barnum circus of Ostalgie.

We are fed with images of the GDR that we have come to know and expect; the tatty architecture, sputtering Trabants, and the border guards doing their pompous and sinister changing of the guard. The lost world of the GDR, like the city of Pompeii or Babylon, gone forever but so well-documented and fondly remembered (in some ways, at least), initially appears so distant that the people in the street might as well be discussing the Treaty of Versailles.

In such a setting, a Rip van Winkle like parable unfolds. The plot may easily be found anywhere on the internet, so I shan't transcribe it here. It is plain that Alex's mother may be seen as a personal analogue of the political entity of the GDR, and the subsequent story is a piquant interweave of these two elements, inseparable, and perhaps thus also reminiscent of the Stasi-dominated lives of GDR citizens.

Particular elements of Alex's ensuing crusade to create a microcosm of the old order in his mother's bedroom are quite striking, ranging from the recreation of state-supermarket fare (and their awful, embarrassing brand names) to the cover up about the Coca-Cola (Number 1 Class enemy) billboard that his mother accidentally glimpsed. While these provide comic relief, they are hardly funny for the right reasons: (of course, also another propensity of mine to subvert plain humour into something altogether more serious and forbidding, and this tends to cheese people off a lot) without knowing it, Alex has mobilised almost every agency of a communist state. He distorts and concocts the news media; he coerces people into acting against their real natures and principles by a mixture of bullying and emotional blackmail, manipulating their loyalty to a "leader" (or father) figure. It is a farce, founded on dishonesty, like the old regime itself. And Alex has become the neurotic, control-freak prime minister, acting on behalf of an ageing, debilitated monarch.

It's probably not coincidental that Alex's mother had her heart attack just shortly before the real collapse of the GDR. Indeed, the parallels run further than that, with the second heart attack right before the second (and final, irreversible) act of official reunification. Just before the end of her natural life, or the end of the life of the GDR, or even the end of the life of Alex's scam, Alex's mother reveals that her communist sympathies were all a sham, a lie, all a symptom of denial, just like the GDR, just like Alex's charade.

So indeed, there is a pall of defeat, a feeling of wasted life near the end that shows Lenin to be more than a comedy. But even in the stirring notes of "Die DDR Hymne", like all (West, for no one could expect anyone from the East to do something apologist like this) German works about the reunification and facing up to history, one could pick up a certain sense of nationhood and German unity that is usually the keynote of most such literature.

It's always pleasurable that one can find something that is memorable, that stirs one in an unique way that only what one most treasures can, and then keep it close to one's heart, filling up the box that is reserved exclusively for these things and these things alone. For all its poignancy, and striking resonance, Good Bye, Lenin can only continue to remain in the special box of mine.

(Oh please, it's just a bloody comedy, stop it already)

"Last Valentine's Day, I went to the dentist, thereby delivering a resounding 'Fuck You' to all things good and romantic."

Yes, I do unabashedly quote myself, and I won't stand down from what I appear to be saying. With the number of sappy articles on Valentine's Day (whose first letters I note with glee to also represent another, less savoury, by-product of romance) hurtling upwards like the price of roses, it is much too easy to see that singles (singles; yes, like cheese singles, watery and cold) feel a mix of resignedness and embitterment on this day. It is like when one goes to the races and bets a small sum on the horse that finishes dead last, then he shrugs his shoulders and goes 'Ah well, better luck next time' and then goes home to a hot meal and warm bed, without much injury to his well-being and ego.

I've always held this belief in such matters (people say that you need to go slow, like that horse you bet on) but there are those punters who go home and contemplate pouring kerosine down their throats. And on 'special' red-letter days like these they sigh even more loudly, as though wishing to expel their very lungs, and then they write overwrought and terrifyingly depressing articles about their heart-rending plight.

While I try to think of it as a pretty ordinary day, as it is, I sometimes do also mull over certain connotations of the day as I am given a slight onus by the hype that surrounds it. After much thought-grinding, I come up with a certain bunch of ideas; Being especially punchy about love and stuff this year (no particular reason, perhaps just being more extra cheesed-off), I now think that Valentine's Day reminds me of the part of love that is obligatory and a little bit creepy, of holding hands until your palms sweat and your little finger goes to sleep (yes, I reluctantly admit I do know what this feels like). Naturally, this is not a positive thing to say, and I foresee a torrent of views to the contrary.

But it is not singles alone who lead the revolt against the tyranny of social expectation for the occasion. Many 'couples' (I quite dislike this word, for it reminds me of physics, or trains) too find the sheer arbitrariness restrictive and domineering. But nevertheless it is probably the world's largest, most widely celebrated non-official holiday; nowhere in the world is February 14th a public holiday, yet after Christmas and New Year it is one of the most important festive occasions, both in terms of the number of people who "observe" (for lack of a better word) it and in terms of its commercial impact (and appeal, for merchants). It is also one of the few that, like New Year's Day, transcends ethnic and religious boundaries.

Unlike Christmas, where I believe that everyone is united in joy and revelry (whether in the material sense, or at least at heart), the feelings of people on this day are often mixed, as I've noted. Some people are deliriously happy, some are resigned, some become sad, others become delighted. It is one holiday where there is no universal way that one should feel about it, unlike the happy mood that everyone usually has reserved for other holidays. It is fully reflective of the see-sawing, conflicting, intermittent nature of matters of the heart (why heart? I use it out of tradition, but everyone now knows that emotions originate from the brain. But matters of the frontal lobe just doesn't cut it) that this day is supposed to be dedicated to, a real life embodiment, with human emotion, of this nature.

Valentine's Day is like the cherry on top of the tasty cake of romance – ostentatious, flamboyant, pretentious(!), but wholly useless other than for that purpose of ornamentation and completeness. The rest of the year is like the rest of the cake, as least for those who have a chance to eat it. But in employing such awful, cheesy metaphors I am similarly falling into the trap of how people express their tender feelings this day.

But I get ahead of myself. Cupid's arrow has made a martyr out of me.

Universal Truths

I would have liked to write more frequently, but too often the urge to blow things up with a Panzerfaust in Wolfenstein: Enemy Territory was more overpowering than the somewhat pastoral creative pursuit of writing. Which is all not too surprising either, given the second law of thermodynamics, that the tendency is for reactions to dissipate energy to the surroundings rather than concentrate them in an ordered form.

This empirical fact most people know: a plate shattered on the ground cannot reversibly reassemble itself into its original form; flour, water, eggs, butter and strawberries don't automatically bake themselves into a tasty cake that materialises suddenly in one's mouth; and so on, but rather than know it as the imposing Second law of Thermodynamics, it seems more a part of common experience, which may be why almost everybody finds tapes being played on rewind so hilarious – they portray violations of the second law.

But at the mere mention of "Thermodynamics", and there is bound to be this sudden and awkward hush, like one that follows the entry of an infamous bandit and myriad guns into a saloon. What is simply a more formal and rigorous restatement of the laws of the Universe that we know and love is alienated because of its association with science, science that is like a cold, harsh knife. We know the second law, and we know 'there is no such thing as a free lunch', or the first law, and in this respect we have already covered the ground for 90% of thermodynamical study. All things considered, it is probably the subject in Physics and Chemistry that is the most well understood by, if but subconsciously, and most relevant to life for the average layman. However, it is so steeped in the impenetrable language of mathematics that everyone tends to develop some terrible fear of it.

Some scientists are loathe to touch thermodynamics because of its intense relation to everyday life – its principles shape and guide and conduct everything from the flight of airplanes to the synthesis of biochemicals in the body. Indeed, it is so intrinsically linked with life itself that it is hard not to become the target of midnight philosophising. A typical think-through reveals two obvious questions: If energy cannot be created nor destroyed, then what is its ultimate source? (something that may be considered even in the total absence of religious thought, even though that seems the most palpable path to take); How is it possible to understand life when the entire world is ordered by a law such as the second principle of thermodynamics, which points to death and annihilation?

This is why any university thermodynamics curriculum is so difficult to teach. In the course of endowing students with assorted but heavily methodical equations and ideas, the mind does begin to wonder about the relevance of taking such a technical and precise approach, because these don't ever seem to answer any of the questions (at least the important ones. We do know how to calculate the molar heat capacities or the pressure of a gas). Every thermodynamics lecture might be seen as an emotional play with a deep moral message, but as we nod meaningfully after these plays, sometimes we wonder if everything was just a great big waste of time.

A Novel Approach

Reading, though intimate, an exclusively personal and intense pleasure, is also socially significant. For an internal act, it's so often the focus of external and often poisonous judgement, though those judgments are sometimes more imagined than real. But also because of such a perception of there being a certain sort of assessment, reading is often turned into less of a recreation than a social yardstick, with books becoming as culpable as the shoes we wear or the cards we carry. In fact, due to such a vigorous blurring of these lines, sharing in the delights of reading have turned into an extensive game of hide and seek, not in the least on that social minefield that is reading.

The subject matter we choose to read about, theoretically because we enjoy it, is often a subconscious choice perpetuated by pleasant reading experiences that we have had before. In that sense it seems arbitrary, and no one should tell us what we should be reading (as more sinister governments have tried to insinuate). Much like I enjoy having a couple of Snickers bars every now and then, or partaking in flaccid noodles bobbing in a plastic cup of indeterminate origin, I too sometimes like to read novels that, in more polite circles, would be described as ones written with less than savoury intentions. I don't usually feel self-conscious about them; yet I never read them in public - on the train, in the park, because of the paranoia about looking like a grown-up idiot, like somebody who has forgotten to zip his pants or take the tags off her new blouse, or men engrossed in American comics - that is, a faux pas.

Then I realised how disparaging I'd become about what I chose to read in public. Was it not the snob in me that had recoiled at the thought of reading that? I wondered whether what we choose to read is to a large extent determined by how we anticipate others will respond to hearing that we've read it. This forms the very basis of literary pretence. There is, much as we would like to deny, a certain subset of the vast repository of the literature, that are perceived to be reflective of certain high intellect, or social pedigree and a certain refined persuasion. Even if our natural tastes steer us mightily away from such (more often than not) dreary literature, there more reward in toting around The Name of the Rose (a book that contains everything, like the book that Faust was offered, only at a much more reasonable price) all day than in nodding off to the awful, meandering translation of the corruptive influence of knowledge.

But there goes my snobbery again. Sometimes because it this it becomes difficult to distinguish between the people who enjoy academic reading (anything Russian or written before 1900, bonus points if both) out of a sort of masochistic humour, or those who are out to impress. Though honestly, I've never judged anyone by the cover of their book, nor have I been moved by someone's choice of book, which I believe is entirely an affair of personal leanings, like the brand of one's breakfast cereal, or colour of lipstick, and hence also an entirely mundane thing. It might also be because of other people thinking that I would be thinking what they would be thinking about me thinking about what book they are reading, in the same way that a cunning game of "Polar Bear" is played. Hence people on both sides do get deceived, with those who are accused of shallowness and those who then seem to have affectionate and impeccable literary tastes.

It is not entirely true that some form of psychoanalysis cannot at all be performed through the observation of book choice, however. But the conclusions that may be drawn are awfully limited and are probably flawed. There is no evidence that people will like you more because you have read the whole of In Search of Lost Time (or as a more common example, War and Peace) unless they happen to like neurotically patient people with a masochistic streak, for example.

Unapologetically, I still go down the relatively unexplored line of rather academic reading, even if it sometimes attracts undue attention, which I try to brush aside - unless someone does call me a 'poser', a comment which I take rather indignantly. Much as we would like to elevate ourselves higher on the stepladder of moral finesse, our gateways from this plane to the other can often also be our snares.