Berkeley!!!

Ok, as you guys have doubtless realised, my blogs are gonna be Berkeley-centric for a long time to come:):):)

I wanted to talk about the random quirkiness of this campus, and how it ALWAYS makes me smile. Let's disregard all the people for a minute; I should talk a little more about my professors. Apart from their obvious passion and easy competence, they care so deeply about their students that the humungous classes become warm and personal.

Professor Majda is my favorite of the lot. My Chem 1A professor, he looks very dignified-silver haired, bespectacled, formally dressed. In class however, he can be so cute! He freaks out if students use 'big' words while answering, and feigns ignorance. He played the James Bond title soundtrack before starting chemical bonding, and uses crazy cartoons and funny jokes to illustrate perfectly boring concepts. No class is purely theoretical; he tries to make students race against bromine vapor! While demonstrating how air pressure pushes a boiled egg into a flask, he screamed, "Where's my egg?" and seemed oblivious to the laughter that ensued. His theatrical shudders and gasps while heating something are amusing in the extreme-best of all, when lecture ends, he gets so excited he bursts a hydrogen balloon and laughs at the explosion:)

Ms.Bobo, my college writing teacher, admittedly has an easier task on her hands, since its a seminar with just 21 students(literally nothing by Berkeley standards). But her concern and enthusiastic excitement are a joy to the beholder-she kept asking about my sprained ankle, and asked me to change my single-strapped bag, because she knows I live all the way across in Foothill. She sits with us and discusses everything from Google to favorite colors. With her, everything is as comfortable and open as can be! I really enjoy those classes; especially because of the brilliant articles she encourages us to read, and the mind maps and other concepts we employ, I can literally feel my mind opening up to the vast vistas beyond.

David Presti, who lectures on 'Drugs and their effects on the brain,' has been awarded several times by his students, for being the passionate, unconventional man he is. He's written his own textbook, and it's such a personal thing that you can literally hear him speaking from the pages;he's even included the desperate emails sent to him by past students who wanted to pass or raise their grades. Haha. No wonder then, that his class is renowned as one of the BEST at Berkeley. He recommends books of plant poetry for reference, talks about witches and shamans, asks us to write papers on plant rituals....again, I can feel my mind embracing such 'weird' concepts(I'm an avid reader of Paulo Coelho).

Carly Stair, my Psychology professor, never ceases to delight. When our auditorium was full of sweating, panting students (due to non functional AC), she went, "Well, welcome to our personal sauna!" Today, discussing the nature-nurture debate, I was blanking when she switched to sexuality, and shot, "Men mate widely, women mate wisely!" Every lecture is such an eye opener...

Ah, I bet you've all had enough of my raving. But it's not all rosy. I don't think half the GSIs have any clue what they're doing (FYI, Grad Student Instructor). They're in charge of our discussion and lab sections, and well.... That part isn't working out particularly well for me! But I guess you can't have it all :/

Got so much homework to do, plus midterms next week. Yeah the work is killer-4 midterms PLUS 1 final PLUS weekly assignments PLUS daily quizzes... it never lets up!

And I love Berkeley for that:):):)

Berkeley=HOME:):):)

'Cal is not just a university, it's a home.' -EAP student
'In college, there are 3 things-sleep, academics, and a social life. And there's only time for two of them.' -Senior at Berkeley
'Once your mind is stretched to the dimensions of a greater idea, it never quite returns to its original size.' -Oliver Wendell

Ah, where do I begin? It's been barely three weeks, and yet there's SO MUCH I've seen, experienced, and FELT at Cal that I'm overwhelmed!

And this blog post would probably never have come about, but for the urging of my college writing professor, Ms. Stephanie Bobo, to keep a personal journal at this (most) exciting period of my life.

What she forgot to add is that it's also INCREDIBLY busy (sleep has become my favorite activity, and insomnia is now a thing of the past)... I can only eat once a day thanks to time restraints... And so on and so forth. Ah, well. I've been meaning to do this for a while.

When I first landed here, on moving in day, it would be an understatement to say that I was DESPERATELY homesick. I didn't connect with my roomies much, or socialize, or bother to meet my professors and look at my textbooks. I just picked up my Matrix phone, finished my allotted quota of 900 minutes talking, bitching, clinging and crying to my best friends back home.... I even considered switching schools, returning home, giving up on higher education.

Haha. It never ceases to amuse me what a dramaqueen I am:).

'Cause this place is home. I realised this truth the day I returned my Matrix phone to my parents, bade them goodbye, and allowed myself to soak in the essence of Berkeley. I started loving the anonymity (that had so mortified me when I first arrived), the friendly people, the 'take-it-or-leave-it' atmosphere, even my HUGE classes(with 500-odd students). I learned to laugh at Professor's Majda's cute Chem puns, watch Cal tube(our version of You tube) everyday, love the 'work hard party harder' spirit, make tea and popcorn for all everyone during our impromptu 'slumber parties' when we congregate and yak in a single room, cheer for Dave Matthews out of my dorm window(which had the best view of the concert, btw)...

I can't decide what I love most about Cal-Is it the beauty and serenity of this campus? The fact that it attracts geeks and contributes to science in newer and more innovative methods everyday? Is it because I'm a part of WiSE(Women in Science and Engineering) where we live like a sorority, have substance free FUN parties and get concerned advice and support on everything, from pepper spray to gender disparities? Yes, a big campus like this can have an ugly underbelly, but it's incredible how much Berkeley cares. You can talk to a peer counselor if you're depressed or stressed, get free tutoring if you need it, talk to major advisors about your schedule, join the million+ clubs if you wanna meet like-minded people, call a police officer to escort you to your dorm late at night(it's called Bearwalk), meet your professors with the STUPIDEST questions, meet your RAs who live with you and facilitate your activities(so they care for you, without being nosy-they're just your friends!)...the resources are endless! All they ask is that you reach out and use these resources-and endeavour to do your very best, always.

It really is that simple!

There are plenty of things I've learnt out of the classroom (though I can, as Mina put it, literally hear the wheels turning in my head,' thanks to all the interesting information I'm assimilating everyday). I've learned how marijuana smells, how to drink tap water, how to tweeze my eyebrows, how to schedule my days using a cute Cal planner (I think I need a stopwatch, really), how NOT to judge people(even if they have pink hair or a tail peeking from their bottoms), how to respond to American greetings...

"Hey, how are you?"
"I'm good, how are you?"

NEVER vary from this format!

Oh btw, to be a true Cal student, you must hate Stanford to your last breath (I love this concept, it's coz of the football rivalry, and football is big here- reminds me of the India-Pakistan neighbourhood cricket animosity back home). Red and white are Stanford colors, and wearing these during game season is like waving a red flag at a bull. I was asked very firmly to take off my innocuous red tee once and forced to walk around in my tank top.

Heard during a Physics class-
Professor-"Of course RED has the lowest frequency and BLUE the highest(haha coz blue and yellow are Berkeley colors!)"

Popular T-shirt quote
"We discovered Berkelium AND Californium.
WHERE'S Stanfordium???"

Berkeley does not ask permission or leave for anything it does. It doesn't allow anyone to be unhappy. It just sucks you along, and before you know it, you're part of a happy carnival, and you forget what life was like earlier.

The thing that made me decide upon Cal was not its glowing reputation, its opportunities for undergrad research, its excellent faculty, or its myriad offerings.

Nope, it was just the school motto, printed on top of Sather Gate (I've put up the pic, perhaps you can see the star with its illumining beams).

It says, very simply, 'Fiat Lux.'

'Let there be light.'

Make new friends...

As all of us part, and embark on our separate ways... Sitting here, typing away on the eve of Friendship Day, the translation of an old French song comes to mind. I will always love you guys.

Make new friends, but keep the old,
Those are silver, these are gold.

New made friendships, like new wine,
Age will mellow and refine.

Friendships that have stood the test;
Time and space, are surely best.

Across the miles, across the sea,
Friends we will forever be!

For true friends are one of a kind,
Very special and hard to find.

Sow good friends wherever you may roam,
You'll always be welcome in their heart and home.

Cherish friendship in your breast,
New is good, but old is best,

So make new friends, but keep the old,
For one is silver, the other gold.

Confessions of a broken-hearted teenage dramaqueen

Shit. This is the third time I've woken up from a light, drug-induced snooze in the past one hour. It's 2 a.m. now. Wow. Not the first time I've seen this hour, and it's definitely not the last. But it feels different, somehow. Perhaps it's the painkiller talking. I had to take two shots today, so I can be perfectly sanitised (and disease free) when I land up in Berkeley.

It would be nice if they manufactured painkillers specifically for the heart.

No, really. Mine is feeling like a wrung out sponge now. I kinda hoped my doc would stick his long, scary needle through my treacherous ticker, and fling it out onto his white disinfected floor, so I could spit on it, tread it to a mush, burn it to a cinder and then flush it down the toilet.

Anything for this terrible pain to fade.

I know the Universe will probably hate me even more than it already does, for insisting upon inflicting my private griefs on unsuspecting bloggers. With all due apologies, this is the only way I know to heal. As Ram helpfully pointed out, I'm an 'interior-interior' person (while Nithin is an 'exterior-exterior' person). I cannot cry easily, I live in a state of constant denial (hence the insomnia, and hence the dark circles, and hence the pacing around...but I digress), and nervous laughter is my preferred form of venting.

I don't want to be an interior person anymore. Cause I simply can't be brave about this.

And why am I turning on my histrionics, you ask? That's a good question. The answer sucks, though. I broke up tonight with my boyfriend of 9 months(effectively, 3 years). It was my longest 'steady' relationship. It was the first time I got dumped. And, most importantly, he was one of the few people I'd let inside The Core.

Ah, The Core. My lil stone heart has a tiny corner (walled by an indestructible fortress), open to very VERY select people. To some degree, I think we all have that. Well, the fortress to The Core is locked, and I swallowed the key long ago. To gain access to my heart, you had to dig rellllllly deep.

Stupid Nithin. Idiot boy. Sigh.

Despite my fierce resistance, he stole that key.

Everything smells, looks and feels different, even though its only been a few hours. A veritable lifetime. And going off to my doc's appointment didn't help distract me- the radio seemed to only play OUR songs(including his horrible caller tunes), people kept calling and messaging to enquire about what is really none of their business, every CCD we drove past caused my guts to shrivel and eyes to smart; even opening my tote was unsafe, because a glance at my Pooh keychain(that he gave me) or the Mocha sugar packets(which I flicked after long, sultry afternoons sitting with the hookah) made my intestines feel like spaghetti.

And listening to stupid couples dedicate songs to their special 'other-halves' made an invisible fork churn my spaghetti intestines skilfully with its tines.

I don't wanna hear it-time will heal your wounds, you will fall in love again, blah blah. I don't care. I read somewhere that the Y-chromosome is steadily shrinking. In a couple of million years, the male species will disappear! Hallelujah!

I try. I do my best. I try to forget how he held me when I was hurt, moody, or happy. I try not to remember how he smelled, brayed, gulped water, flushed, smiled and blew smoke rings. I've numbed myself to the more painful memories-how we walked to school in the rain that evening, how he looked when he slipped that ring on my finger, how we completed each other's sentences, how he gave me telephonic kissies when I needed TLC, how we both wept when we finally accepted that we had to let go. How we'd've done ANYTHING for each other.

'Relationships of all kinds are like sand held in the hand.' How many times have I heard that? The pressure of the transition to college made me cling-and subsequently the sand flowed out. Awkward pauses reigned; simple words led to fierce fights. Everything that had once endeared you to me now felt like a thorn in my side-specifically, my backside.

I knew it was coming for months now. Incredibly, I didn't have the courage to break away. The temptation of freedom was strong, but the dependence, even stronger. I realise now that every fight, every hurtful word, even the past scars, had fractured our relationship. I refused to face the glaring facts; I mean, there IS something wrong if 'I love you' is simply used as a synonym for 'Bye'.

Such a tempting, tantalising, torturous game. 'What if...?' What if I'd given US more space? What if I'd curbed my reckless tongue and fierce temper? What if I hadn't hung up on you earlier today? What if we'd tried, one last time, to work it out? But there are only so many times you can piece together broken china. After a while, the effort is simply not worth it.

Even worse is the treacherous game of 'How much longer...?'How much longer before you stop haunting my every other thought? How much longer before I get more than a couple of minutes' sleep each night? How much longer before I stop thinking of you as Fixie (the pixie), Froggie, Fakeo, or even Nostril hair??? How much longer before I smile and laugh? I remember asking you, quite puzzledly, 'But Nithin, without you, how am I supposed to breathe?' It was a sincere question. But I'm doing OK now. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. After a while, I'll be able to do it without effort. I'll be able to get out of bed every morning and sleep soundly every night.

Unbidden, come thoughts of loneliness, insomnia, you dating another girl, us drifting apart... Losing you, even now, seems transitory. But this time, there's no turning back.

You were always a terrible friend. Remember? You start asking me out again after barely 2weeks!!! But you know too much:) I can't let you go.

That's another thing. You know more about me than anyone else in the whole wide world, including even Shirin. But you understand little. Remember all the times I forgave your lapses, and smiled when my heart bled? Then again, perhaps I pushed you over the edge with my mood swings, my tantrums, my emphasis on language...

No.....I'm doing it again! The 'What if?' I've gotta stop!!! But I'm kinda accepting it now. And I have a feeling that things are only going to get better.

This is an 'interior' person's goodbye....A last effort to describe what you meant to me, how much you altered my life. Mere words can't do that. We grew up together, and such shared history, such linked emotions, cannot be circumscribed by the written word.

Remember what Dire Straits said?
'When you gonna realise, it was just that the time was wrong Juliet?'

Whatever. It will take me tremendous self control and considerable time before I stop making excuses and sad faces. But I will learn to complete my own sentences, warm my own hands in freezing theaters, and buy something in a shop if I like it (this was usually your prerogative). I will learn not to call you as soon as I wake up every morning, and do my best to start listening to music again. I will smile, and not bleed. I will remember the good times, and feel grateful that it ended on a high note instead of a sour one. Maybe one day, I will understand why this had to be.

But it's so hard. So very hard. Anyone who has never been burned will never understand. What do they call this pain? Withdrawal symptoms??? I think I have cancer really:(. A weird affliction that worsens each time. I admit I'm unlucky in love; but with you, I've been very, very lucky.

I will always love you. I know we made the right choice. I just wish, with all my heart, that it was a choice we'd never had to make.



The author apologises for the utterly pointless rambling and hysteria, but shamelessly admits that writing public articles about such events makes her feel infinitely better.

Broken

My head bowed
I listen as you
Recite the happenings of your day.
Mundane, hopelessly boring events,
There is so much I need to say.

Yet I sit here, unable to meet your gaze,
Consumed by my silence,
Your chatter ceases
And we sit, together,
So near, yet so apart
The breadth of my couch, a yawning chasm,
That neither has the courage to cross.

Instead of bridges,
Why do we insist on building walls?
Why do we play these sick, sick games?
I gave you all I was
You laughed and turned away.
I clutch at your shrivelled affection
Hoping, praying, that you will stay.

The slanting night shadows,
Twist and turn,
Dance and burn,
A bacchanal of sorts;
An orgy of emotions,
Fueled by passing cars
And the tears that steadily carve rivers.

I don't know how we got here,
Yesterday was so rosy;
Another lifetime.
Please just reach out,
Hold my hand,
Don't let me spend yet another endless night
Staring at the ceiling in a trance.

I want to know you're hurting too,
My pain is magnified by the fact that-
you can still live, laugh and love,
And make your promises, your empty, empty apologies,
While my every waking moment
Stretches as an endless torment, from dawn to never-ending night.

The loss of trust is a terrible thing,
The loss of innocence, even greater,
Whom do I lean on? Where do I turn?
And as I struggle to rise from the ashes,
I still want you to know that
I did my best; I gave it all;
None else would've done any better.

Ah Biology :)

[Once again, a college application essay. This is one of my favourites, since I bravely attempted humour! Most of the credit for my performance in Biology should rightfully go to Pramila Ma'am. However, for the sake of easy reading, I have attributed all of my interest and achievement (in Biology) to Nirmala Ma'am. The essay topic was an approximation of:'What made you choose your particular major?']

Biology is not an easy or precise science. It is tricky, smells like formalin and involves a lot of intimidating diagrams and tongue-twisting taxonomical names. Schools teach it so students can learn how babies are REALLY made (in case their parents didn’t go the whole mile while telling them about the birds and the bees). At least, that was what I thought until I entered the ninth grade-and met Nirmala Ma’am.
Anyone who has ever had Nirmala Ma’am will tell you that she doesn’t teach Biology; she teaches children. Clad in her crisp cotton sari and standing at a diminutive five feet, she starts bombarding you with questions before she even closes the door behind her. From angiograms to angiosperms, no topic is overlooked during her intense review sessions. As you turn to pull out your notebook, her hands whirl across the blackboard, drawing brains and hearts with mind numbing precision.
The first month is a blur (neuron? nephron?), but when you finally catch up, you start wondering why you couldn’t answer her questions earlier, how many notebooks you will exhaust before the year ends, and whether your wrist will actually crack if you write faster than 3,000 words per minute. You also learn the meaning of all the trite little phrases that biology teachers often employ, like “Biology is the story of life.” You end up sitting before a computer screen for hours into the night, marveling at the seamless perfection of the DNA double helix and laughing uproariously at nerdy jokes like the one below.
Question-Why are amoebae so bad at math?
Answer-Because they divide while multiplying!
I was so moved by Nirmala Ma’am’s influence that I decided to beg and plead for 8 months for an internship at Biocon, India’s largest biopharmaceutical enterprise. A week there as their youngest ever intern was enough to make me realize that this was my calling. The biotechnologists that I assisted and interacted with could not infuse life into words and 2D diagrams, like Nirmala Ma’am could, but they taught me technical aspects I could never have learned in a classroom. I felt an adrenaline rush whenever I entered the bustling laboratory, buttoning up my spotless lab coat, breathing in the heady aroma of reagents. I progressed so quickly that I was even allowed to test enzymes by myself!
During the winter of my 11th Grade, I was selected to be a part of the prestigious CPYLS (CSIR Program for Youth Leadership in Science), a national initiative to encourage budding scientists. Once again, I saw, learned-and was conquered. I spent hours with Nirmala Ma'am after class, excitedly detailing all the state-of-the-art facilities, and describing the complicated procedures I’d witnessed. Her constant guidance and encouragement enabled me to start working on my long standing projects on prion diseases and micronutrition-projects that I’m still researching today.
Now that I’m in my fourth year under Nirmala Ma’am’s tutelage, I’ve realized what makes her so special. Unlike most teachers, she is driven by such a strong passion for her subject that it’s actually contagious! I have slogged for months just to earn an imperceptible nod during her review sessions, a word of praise during rare one-on-one conversations (when she sheds her ‘monster’ persona). Through my own efforts, I’ve discovered a curiosity and passion for this enigmatic, yet easy, subject; and thanks to Nirmala Ma’am’s, I can now predict genotypes of successive generations, classify organisms with ease, and even get a 790 on my Molecular Biology SAT with absolutely no preparation (needless to say, she wasn’t very pleased about that!). Like a Mills and Boons heroine, I eagerly examine every flower and leaf, classifying it, drawing conclusions-reticulate or parallel venation? Pinnate or compound leaves? Monocot or dicot?
If Nirmala Ma’am hadn’t entered my life with a swish of cotton, barking a volley of complicated questions, I have no doubt that I would be pursuing the Arts, particularly Creative Writing and Journalism. Without even trying, she made me chart a course very different from the one I had decided upon earlier.
A particular line comes to mind-"A teacher affects eternity;he can never tell where his influence stops."

My grandfathers

[I wrote this essay for my college applications; but it is a piece from the heart, so I thought it should feature on my blog.]

“Desire is the key to life because desire is power. You are what your deep, driving desire is. As your desire, so your will. As your will, so your deed. As your deed, so your destiny,” goes a famous Buddhist proverb. Perhaps it was composed by my two grandfathers, whose inspirational lives could fill entire Chicken Soup books.
Siddlingaiah, who grew up to be my maternal grandfather, was born to an impoverished widow in a god-forsaken South Indian village. Working three menial jobs by the time he was thirteen, he managed to attend school and win a scholarship to study medicine in the city. Times were hard; he was forced to copy out entire medical textbooks and subsist on water when his mother couldn’t send him his monthly pittance. Braving all odds, he rose to the rank of District Health Officer and even now, a year after his death, awed villagers recount to me how my grandfather had performed an emergency surgery in the forest, on a woman whose intestines had been ripped by a bear, with only saline water, needles and thread at his disposal. At his funeral, I saw the passing of not a man but a legend; yet for 16 years, I merely saw my aging Grampa cheerfully battling the repercussions of 40 years of diabetes, even as he coaxed me to finish my vegetables. People often tut-tutted about his deteriorating physical condition, commenting that a man of medicine ought to have had the 'sense' to look after himself. But Grampa's favourite Sanskrit edict was- Paropakarartham idam shariram (The purpose of this body is to help others). Once, in a ruminative mood, he narrated to me the incredible story of his life (making light of his hardships, including the onset of diabetes at a mere 27 years)and suddenly he murmured, "If I had wanted to, I could've taken better care of myself, sleeping regularly, exercising, eating healthy. I'm not a fool. But even if I live to be 80, fit as a fiddle, what is the point? It will only be advantageous to me. I would rather die young, secure in the knowledge that I have alleviated the suffering of others." He fixed his rheumy, nearly-blind eyes on me. "Always remember child, if you live only for yourself, then it truly makes no difference if you're alive or dead." He wasn't preaching; just explaining his chosen destiny. And die young he did, after a protracted illness. His patients, family and friends miss him terribly-the booming laughter, carefree smile and genuine concern. Even though he became irritable and irascible as his illness progressed, we all loved him sufficiently to smile through his tantrums.
Thimmappa, my paternal grandfather, was the eldest child in a family of ten, and had to shoulder the burden of his father’s premature death. He conducted tuitions, attended night classes, and became the youngest ever Assistant Commissioner of the Food Department. It can’t have been fun or easy, but I’ve never heard him discuss those dark years; he educated and married off his siblings, and is a contented, intellectual man to this day. He often tells me that 'education is the great equaliser' and insists on cross reviewing every one of my report cards.
Living with the legacy of these two strong men, I’ve never had the luxury of considering failure an option, and my definition of crisis has been forever altered. Even as I grumble about my unrelenting workload, I’m grateful that my biggest worry is usually a debate or the upcoming SAT. They were born in times and places where farming and drinking to death was the norm, but they fought the circumstances-and triumphed. Their burning desire to succeed eventually shaped their destinies-and mine. I owe my strong work ethic to their discreet, non intrusive influence. Everyday, I endeavor to achieve a little more by challenging my boundaries; my proudest moment was when my uncle casually remarked, “She’s a chip off the old block-truly her grandfathers’ granddaughter.” I strive for excellence, and vow to leave my mark on this world, just like my two heroes did. My attitude, as molded by them, has been aptly summed up by Adidas-impossible is nothing.