Thank you for sharing your responses, everyone! If you haven't yet taken the test and don't want to read the responses, stop reading NOW :). (The quiz is here)
Read on and drop a line letting me know how accurate the quiz was for you!
In order of the questions, with further explanations/ interpretation in brackets:
The person you're walking with is the most important person in your life at this point.
The size of the animal that jumps out at you represents the way you perceive problems/ challenges in life (the most typical answer is tiger/lion, so scale accordingly if you picked a much smaller animal, like a rabbit, or a much larger one, like an elephant)
The way you deal with the animal represents how you handle problems/challenges in real life. Do you attack it, play with it, stare it down?
The fence around the house represents whether you distance people. If you had a fence, you tend to keep them at a distance.
The size of the house represents your ambitions (Rather obviously :)).
The dining room is supposed to be a symbol of personal satisfaction: If you mentioned food/ flowers/fruit etc. in your description, you're generally a happy, satisfied person.
The material the cup in the backyard is made of symbolizes the strength of your relationship (with the person you're walking with). Typically, the cup is made of china/ porcelain. Stronger materials- wood, metal- imply stronger relationships.
What you do with the cup represents the way you handle this relationship in your life. For example- if you choose to keep it outside your door rather than bring it indoors, it might imply that you don't let this person into your 'inner life'.
Walking on out, the size of the water body is scaled to your 'basal' desires- material, sexual, financial, etc. Here, I think the scale is more in terms of one's own perceptions- did you visualize a small pond or a view of the ocean?
How wet you get (or how close to the water you are) when you cross it shows how far you will go to achieve your desires.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Monday, August 29, 2011
Imagine this.
A pop personality quiz a friend shared with me several years ago. I was surprised by how accurate it was (and still is). Relax, and visualize the scenarios that follow as fully as possible. Don't put too much thought into it- just your instinctive, first response answers. I'll post the explanations in a few days. Of course, feel free to share your responses in the comments, though you don't have to :)
You're setting off for a walk in the woods. Who are you walking with?
As you walk, an animal leaps out of the bushes at you. What animal is it?
How do you react to it?
You continue along your walk and come to a clearing in the woods, where you see your dream house. Does it have a fence around it?
On a scale of 1-10 (5 being average), going from small to large, how big is your house?
You walk into the dining room of the house. Describe the room.
You wander out into the backyard, and find a cup-like vessel lying there. What is it made of?
What do you do with the cup?
Continuing on, you reach the end of your property, where there is a water body. What kind of water body is it (pond/stream/ocean) ?
If you had to, how would you cross this water body?
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Of shadow cities
I write frequently of trees, and grass and flowers and oceans. But my roots are in cities, and it is cities that complete my mental landscapes like no other geography can.
Excerpts from books about two of my favorites, New York and Bombay follow. The books also happen to be some of the best writing I’ve read recently, and Shadow Cities, in particular, is a masterpiece on so many levels.
(The books: Shadow Cities, by Andre Aciman, and Shantaram, by Gregory David Roberts)
From Shadow Cities:
Some people bring exile with them the way they bring it upon themselves wherever they go. (..) An exile reads change the way he reads time, memory, self, love, fear, beauty: in the key of loss.
It is difficult to explain what seclusion means when you find it on an island in the middle of Broadway, amid the roar of midday traffic.
Perhaps what lay beyond the trees was not the end of Manhattan, or even Paris, but the beginnings of another, unknown city, the real city, the one that always beckons, the one we invent each time and may never see and fear we’ve begun to forget.
Sometimes finding you are lost where you were lost last year can be oddly reassuring, almost familiar. You may never find yourself; but you do remember looking for yourself. That too can be reassuring, comforting.
Here I would come to remember not so much the beauty of the past as the beauty of remembering, realizing that just because we love to look back doesn’t mean we love the things we look back on.
(..) all these people and all these layers upon layers of histories, warmed-over memories, and overdrawn fantasies should forever go into letting my Straus Park, with its Parisian Frankfurts and Roman Londons, remain forever a tiny, artificial speck on the map of the world that is my center of gravity, from which radiates every road I’ve traveled, and to which I always long to return when I am away.
And a few from Shantaram:
They knew the place in me where the river stopped, and they marked it with a new name. Shantaram Kishan Kharre. I don't know if they found that name in the heart of the man they believed me to be, or if they planted it there, like a wishing tree, to bloom and grow.
I don’t know what frightens me more, the power that crushes us, or our endless ability to endure it.
Every work of art is in some way an act of forgiveness.
One of the ironies of courage and why we prize it so highly, is that we find it easier to be brave for somone else than we do for ourselves alone
The past reflects eternally between two mirrors -the bright mirror of words and deeds, and the dark one, full of things we didn't do or say.
If fate doesn't make you laugh, you just don't get the joke.
Men reveal what they think when they look away, and what they feel when they hesitate. With women, it’s the other way around.
It's a fact of life on the run that you often love more people than you trust. For people in the safe world, of course, exactly the opposite is true.
What characterizes the human race more, cruelty, or the capacity to feel shame for it?
Sometimes you break your heart in the right way.
Wisdom is just cleverness, with all the guts kicked out of it.
Excerpts from books about two of my favorites, New York and Bombay follow. The books also happen to be some of the best writing I’ve read recently, and Shadow Cities, in particular, is a masterpiece on so many levels.
(The books: Shadow Cities, by Andre Aciman, and Shantaram, by Gregory David Roberts)
From Shadow Cities:
Some people bring exile with them the way they bring it upon themselves wherever they go. (..) An exile reads change the way he reads time, memory, self, love, fear, beauty: in the key of loss.
It is difficult to explain what seclusion means when you find it on an island in the middle of Broadway, amid the roar of midday traffic.
Perhaps what lay beyond the trees was not the end of Manhattan, or even Paris, but the beginnings of another, unknown city, the real city, the one that always beckons, the one we invent each time and may never see and fear we’ve begun to forget.
Sometimes finding you are lost where you were lost last year can be oddly reassuring, almost familiar. You may never find yourself; but you do remember looking for yourself. That too can be reassuring, comforting.
Here I would come to remember not so much the beauty of the past as the beauty of remembering, realizing that just because we love to look back doesn’t mean we love the things we look back on.
(..) all these people and all these layers upon layers of histories, warmed-over memories, and overdrawn fantasies should forever go into letting my Straus Park, with its Parisian Frankfurts and Roman Londons, remain forever a tiny, artificial speck on the map of the world that is my center of gravity, from which radiates every road I’ve traveled, and to which I always long to return when I am away.
And a few from Shantaram:
They knew the place in me where the river stopped, and they marked it with a new name. Shantaram Kishan Kharre. I don't know if they found that name in the heart of the man they believed me to be, or if they planted it there, like a wishing tree, to bloom and grow.
I don’t know what frightens me more, the power that crushes us, or our endless ability to endure it.
Every work of art is in some way an act of forgiveness.
One of the ironies of courage and why we prize it so highly, is that we find it easier to be brave for somone else than we do for ourselves alone
The past reflects eternally between two mirrors -the bright mirror of words and deeds, and the dark one, full of things we didn't do or say.
If fate doesn't make you laugh, you just don't get the joke.
Men reveal what they think when they look away, and what they feel when they hesitate. With women, it’s the other way around.
It's a fact of life on the run that you often love more people than you trust. For people in the safe world, of course, exactly the opposite is true.
What characterizes the human race more, cruelty, or the capacity to feel shame for it?
Sometimes you break your heart in the right way.
Wisdom is just cleverness, with all the guts kicked out of it.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Tipping points
A familiar point of amusement for me is the three phases my relationships go through. Most of my friends are people I like instantly and deeply, within a few minutes of meeting them. I go through an initial stage of near-infatuation, where we have long conversations that linger in my mind and the person can do no wrong. On several occasions, I have fought with family and others to defend my friends and their actions. Following this, there's a phase where I find the person incredibly predictable and equally annoying- when I experience something (something I read, or a movie, or whatever else) I know EXACTLY how they will respond. And everything they do irks me.
Beyond this, there is an 'acceptance zone' where people fall in at various levels, a zone where I continue to love them but stop being irritated. I can accept their actions and behaviors as part of who they are and no longer feel the need to judge them by my standards. I like to think these zones are not obvious to my friends unless I mention them- the irritation is as unintended and inexplicable to me as the affection, and though the former passes, the latter persists through the course of these moods of mine. If I wanted to make this sound grander than I think it is, I would probably describe this equilibrium I reach as the point where my heart and brain come together in a relationship- I love, and I judge, and finally reach a phase where I can justify each to the other. (Why do I love this person and spend so much time/conversation/etc. on them? Why do I judge this person unless I care about them?)
The length of the first two phases varies- I remain infatuated with some people longer, make my peace with some sooner than others. But in every case through most of my life, I can mark off the three periods distinctly. I wonder if this is typical? (since of course, this isn't something I discuss with most friends, nor intend to!)
And in a parallel mood, I wonder if my sense of my surroundings is reaching this phase of acceptance as well. First, I couldn't get enough of being an independent adult. Then, I longed for the simplicity and security of childhood, as I (metaphorically!!) held up every cleaning rag and electricity bill and vacation plan to the light of childhood happiness asking, "Really, is this all there is to growing up?" Now, after constantly reacting to nearly everything I encounter, my body and mind are learning to fall into an equilibrium where I can move through my days with ease, and less need to evaluate each move and decision.
Beyond this, there is an 'acceptance zone' where people fall in at various levels, a zone where I continue to love them but stop being irritated. I can accept their actions and behaviors as part of who they are and no longer feel the need to judge them by my standards. I like to think these zones are not obvious to my friends unless I mention them- the irritation is as unintended and inexplicable to me as the affection, and though the former passes, the latter persists through the course of these moods of mine. If I wanted to make this sound grander than I think it is, I would probably describe this equilibrium I reach as the point where my heart and brain come together in a relationship- I love, and I judge, and finally reach a phase where I can justify each to the other. (Why do I love this person and spend so much time/conversation/etc. on them? Why do I judge this person unless I care about them?)
The length of the first two phases varies- I remain infatuated with some people longer, make my peace with some sooner than others. But in every case through most of my life, I can mark off the three periods distinctly. I wonder if this is typical? (since of course, this isn't something I discuss with most friends, nor intend to!)
And in a parallel mood, I wonder if my sense of my surroundings is reaching this phase of acceptance as well. First, I couldn't get enough of being an independent adult. Then, I longed for the simplicity and security of childhood, as I (metaphorically!!) held up every cleaning rag and electricity bill and vacation plan to the light of childhood happiness asking, "Really, is this all there is to growing up?" Now, after constantly reacting to nearly everything I encounter, my body and mind are learning to fall into an equilibrium where I can move through my days with ease, and less need to evaluate each move and decision.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Two reviews
A self-absorbed prologue (skip down if you only want reviews ;)):
I rarely write reviews, here or elsewhere. It takes more immediate thought and depth of perception than I am willing to spare for most of what I come across. I like talking about books and movies, but that is about all. Beyond that, I cannot summarize what I read nor answer the question “What are you reading lately?” with a simple title or two. It is easier to say what I am remembering, what words from books or movies or songs I stumbled over previously are most resonant with my present. Two recent encounters led me to write this down, though, and so, here goes:
Not quite magic
Perhaps obviously, the last Harry Potter movie. Perhaps equally obviously, I didn’t like it very much. None of the movies lived up to my connections with the books, though I could never quite put my finger on why as precisely as I could with this last film.
As the better part of two hours flew past on the wings of albino dragons and suits of armor coming alive, the finale was met only with an insipid, not quite heartfelt, “Does it hurt to die?” In my imagination, this is the point where the 17 year old turns to childhood once more and resurrected ghosts offer more solidity than the giant trees that surround him, where the man who has done more than most ever dream of is faced with the last great fear common to Muggle and Wizard alike. On the screen, I see a marginally annoying teenager displaying neither emotion nor much else.
I didn’t quite "grow up" with Harry Potter, reading the first book when I was 15 and the rest along the way. But like my connection with books I particularly love, I remember each encounter like a meeting with a loved set of friends, and could blabber endlessly about personal connections with each one, how I stumbled across the books before most people had even heard of them(Imagine a time when you could walk into a bookstore and ask for the third HP book and be met with “Huh?”)and much more.
Most importantly, like so many other kids/adults fumbling through life, I’ve practiced the spells with Harry and Hermione and the rest. I’ve cast personal Patronus spells at anxious interviews and Riddikulus-ed away nightmares in the dark. I have learned that to use an unforgivable curse, you must mean it, that to transform a mouse into a teacup you must be able to visualize it first.
The books, you see, were never about the magic alone. They were as much about allegory and myth and growing up and finding strength as they were about learning to cast a powerful spell. The real magic was the people in the stories, not the things they did. And the movie, though well-made for a film, fails to capture that. The movie is about the fireworks and the effects, not the maturing of character and subtleties that captured my heart the first time around. It’s like licking the icing off a cake. Though I won’t say no to the icing, I prefer savoring the layers.
Magically real
And secondly, am I the last person to be reading Shantaram? I tend to avoid over-hyped books, especially when they are ‘sold’ to me by eager wannabe intellectualists over late-night bar conversations. And biased as I am in my views, I tend to be wary of books about India. But this- it is rich and layered and magical and familiar, Bombay in my eyes as I read his words. Street-smells rise off the pages and I almost feel the rickety bus and the weight of my bags as I hold them tight. Colaba streets and night-time by the Arabian sea and the ease with which the words flow. The humor reminds me of the cleverness I love about Salman Rushdie, every few lines I come across a turn of phrase or a sentence that makes me want to grab the words out and wave them on a banner that shouts, “Look at this!” and the love that seeps through the words keeps me turning the pages. Even only a few chapters in, I am hooked. And even if the rest of the book disappoints, this I would come back to.
I rarely write reviews, here or elsewhere. It takes more immediate thought and depth of perception than I am willing to spare for most of what I come across. I like talking about books and movies, but that is about all. Beyond that, I cannot summarize what I read nor answer the question “What are you reading lately?” with a simple title or two. It is easier to say what I am remembering, what words from books or movies or songs I stumbled over previously are most resonant with my present. Two recent encounters led me to write this down, though, and so, here goes:
Not quite magic
Perhaps obviously, the last Harry Potter movie. Perhaps equally obviously, I didn’t like it very much. None of the movies lived up to my connections with the books, though I could never quite put my finger on why as precisely as I could with this last film.
As the better part of two hours flew past on the wings of albino dragons and suits of armor coming alive, the finale was met only with an insipid, not quite heartfelt, “Does it hurt to die?” In my imagination, this is the point where the 17 year old turns to childhood once more and resurrected ghosts offer more solidity than the giant trees that surround him, where the man who has done more than most ever dream of is faced with the last great fear common to Muggle and Wizard alike. On the screen, I see a marginally annoying teenager displaying neither emotion nor much else.
I didn’t quite "grow up" with Harry Potter, reading the first book when I was 15 and the rest along the way. But like my connection with books I particularly love, I remember each encounter like a meeting with a loved set of friends, and could blabber endlessly about personal connections with each one, how I stumbled across the books before most people had even heard of them(Imagine a time when you could walk into a bookstore and ask for the third HP book and be met with “Huh?”)and much more.
Most importantly, like so many other kids/adults fumbling through life, I’ve practiced the spells with Harry and Hermione and the rest. I’ve cast personal Patronus spells at anxious interviews and Riddikulus-ed away nightmares in the dark. I have learned that to use an unforgivable curse, you must mean it, that to transform a mouse into a teacup you must be able to visualize it first.
The books, you see, were never about the magic alone. They were as much about allegory and myth and growing up and finding strength as they were about learning to cast a powerful spell. The real magic was the people in the stories, not the things they did. And the movie, though well-made for a film, fails to capture that. The movie is about the fireworks and the effects, not the maturing of character and subtleties that captured my heart the first time around. It’s like licking the icing off a cake. Though I won’t say no to the icing, I prefer savoring the layers.
Magically real
And secondly, am I the last person to be reading Shantaram? I tend to avoid over-hyped books, especially when they are ‘sold’ to me by eager wannabe intellectualists over late-night bar conversations. And biased as I am in my views, I tend to be wary of books about India. But this- it is rich and layered and magical and familiar, Bombay in my eyes as I read his words. Street-smells rise off the pages and I almost feel the rickety bus and the weight of my bags as I hold them tight. Colaba streets and night-time by the Arabian sea and the ease with which the words flow. The humor reminds me of the cleverness I love about Salman Rushdie, every few lines I come across a turn of phrase or a sentence that makes me want to grab the words out and wave them on a banner that shouts, “Look at this!” and the love that seeps through the words keeps me turning the pages. Even only a few chapters in, I am hooked. And even if the rest of the book disappoints, this I would come back to.
Thursday, July 07, 2011
An explanation
Saying a well thought-out "no" is perhaps one of the most empowering acts possible. It takes introspection and deep thought and much courage. Despite my tendency to optimism, I believe the capacity to refuse something is just as essential and important as the ability to say yes. This implies, of course, a certain degree of self-realization and maturity in the person involved. The refusal I refer to is not the childish tantrum of a toddler refusing his green peas, nor the denial of the eternal pessimist who believes nothing is possible.
No is the stand of a person who has seen two paths and made a choice. It is not an thoughtless process- "here I am, let me pick one and see where it goes. Why think about this?", nor is it the un-choice of the person who drifts with the tide, "Yeah, let me just see where life takes me, maybe it will work out." No is the choice of the teenager to stand up to peer pressure. It is the refusal of a person to take on more work to keep everyone around happy. It is the stand of the woman who is not afraid to take time for herself away from her family. It is the choice of the person who refuses to bend to circumstance just because it exists.
Just as important as voicing the refusal is enabling another to voice it. Perhaps the parent who has raised a child capable of saying no is a better person to explain this. In my mind, raising someone to a level of self-awareness where they have both the knowledge and strength to refuse something is an act of power. This is not always welcome, of course, since any extreme growth comes with pain. And even if the refusal is directed at the parent/ teacher, there must be, somewhere, some measure of pride that they have raised a human being who knows their mind and is unafraid to use it.
And yet a refusal rarely makes sense to the person on the receiving end. "Why must I go through this pain and this struggle?" asks the hurt voice. If there is a purpose, perhaps it is this. This was never about you. You were meant to teach someone else something about themselves, give them a degree of knowledge and strength they did not have before they met you.
No is the stand of a person who has seen two paths and made a choice. It is not an thoughtless process- "here I am, let me pick one and see where it goes. Why think about this?", nor is it the un-choice of the person who drifts with the tide, "Yeah, let me just see where life takes me, maybe it will work out." No is the choice of the teenager to stand up to peer pressure. It is the refusal of a person to take on more work to keep everyone around happy. It is the stand of the woman who is not afraid to take time for herself away from her family. It is the choice of the person who refuses to bend to circumstance just because it exists.
Just as important as voicing the refusal is enabling another to voice it. Perhaps the parent who has raised a child capable of saying no is a better person to explain this. In my mind, raising someone to a level of self-awareness where they have both the knowledge and strength to refuse something is an act of power. This is not always welcome, of course, since any extreme growth comes with pain. And even if the refusal is directed at the parent/ teacher, there must be, somewhere, some measure of pride that they have raised a human being who knows their mind and is unafraid to use it.
And yet a refusal rarely makes sense to the person on the receiving end. "Why must I go through this pain and this struggle?" asks the hurt voice. If there is a purpose, perhaps it is this. This was never about you. You were meant to teach someone else something about themselves, give them a degree of knowledge and strength they did not have before they met you.
Tuesday, July 05, 2011
Logical progression?
:Tell me the way to the big city.
:Do you want to go there?
:I don't know. Give me the directions and then I will decide.
If the journey is all that matters, why set a destination? Enjoy the sights along whatever path you are on.
If you want to reach the big city, find a way to get there regardless of what the directions say.
Unsure of both desire to reach a destination and the means to reach it, one can rarely get anywhere.
:Do you want to go there?
:I don't know. Give me the directions and then I will decide.
If the journey is all that matters, why set a destination? Enjoy the sights along whatever path you are on.
If you want to reach the big city, find a way to get there regardless of what the directions say.
Unsure of both desire to reach a destination and the means to reach it, one can rarely get anywhere.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Among others, I am
I went to a party yesterday. One where I didn’t know a soul and my RSVP, sent thrice, had not been acknowledged. I walked into a tiny room filled with people and wine and beer and food, conversations and laughter and those big, intimidating circles of people who all know each other. I spoke to people I had never seen before, and eventually even the person who had ignored the RSVPs wandered over and introduced himself. About 30 people spent over two hours together, and at the end of it I was among the last 8 hanging around and chatting as we made plans to continue the conversation at a nearby bar. Bottom line: I enjoyed it, and met some good people.
If you had told me a year ago that I would be this person, I would have laughed in your face and bet my first-born child upon proving you wrong. If you were to tell anyone that knows me, they would probably do the same. I am the person who skipped out on a party I helped organize because I couldn’t talk to the classmates I had spent two years in a dorm with. I’ve skipped out on countless reunions and lab lunches, work outings and dinners with friends, only because I was “too shy”. And yet, I would do yesterday evening over without a second thought. Have I, “as a person”, changed so much?
I try not to dwell too much on the self. In terms of a personality, I don’t care for discussions or analysis of who I am. My tastes, the things I like or the ways I behave are not significantly enough a part of who I am to be held on to like symbols of identity.
Am I shy or talkative? Am I the kind of person that hangs out in bars? Am I sufficiently devout and respectful of tradition? Am I a fashionista or a geek, a chick or a scientist? I try to avoid clichés not because they exist, but because I don’t think they serve much purpose. The “person that hangs out in bars” is not always an alcoholic, and the “shy” person is often far more egoistic and full of themselves than the girl that chatters to every stranger. I don’t like being labeled, and refuse to label people based on such traits.
A personality is a set of survival tools for society, and I view it as such. At a more innate level, I am a person with ambitions and desires, a specific set of goals that bring me different kinds of satisfaction: physical, emotional and intellectual (I will not discuss the spiritual here). My “personality” is what helps me get to those satisfactions.
If you had told me a year ago that I would be this person, I would have laughed in your face and bet my first-born child upon proving you wrong. If you were to tell anyone that knows me, they would probably do the same. I am the person who skipped out on a party I helped organize because I couldn’t talk to the classmates I had spent two years in a dorm with. I’ve skipped out on countless reunions and lab lunches, work outings and dinners with friends, only because I was “too shy”. And yet, I would do yesterday evening over without a second thought. Have I, “as a person”, changed so much?
I try not to dwell too much on the self. In terms of a personality, I don’t care for discussions or analysis of who I am. My tastes, the things I like or the ways I behave are not significantly enough a part of who I am to be held on to like symbols of identity.
Am I shy or talkative? Am I the kind of person that hangs out in bars? Am I sufficiently devout and respectful of tradition? Am I a fashionista or a geek, a chick or a scientist? I try to avoid clichés not because they exist, but because I don’t think they serve much purpose. The “person that hangs out in bars” is not always an alcoholic, and the “shy” person is often far more egoistic and full of themselves than the girl that chatters to every stranger. I don’t like being labeled, and refuse to label people based on such traits.
A personality is a set of survival tools for society, and I view it as such. At a more innate level, I am a person with ambitions and desires, a specific set of goals that bring me different kinds of satisfaction: physical, emotional and intellectual (I will not discuss the spiritual here). My “personality” is what helps me get to those satisfactions.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Cocoon
Inside these padded walls, I can bounce my ideas around. The walls lob them gently back to me, creating a resonance of harmonious theory. Nothing crashes, nothing breaks inside the silk cocoon. Any dissonance is quickly blended in until it is unrecognizable. Occasionally, an especially sharp notion may poke through, exposing the padding and threatening to break my shell. Poke the stuffing back in quickly, frayed threads and knots and all. Sew up the hole, and all that remains of the uncomfortable idea is a scar where the walls were stitched up.
Each of us creates our own padded spaces, surrounded by people and ideas we are comfortable with. Within this space, we like to think of ourselves as diverse, open-minded folk. Yet the best measure of being diverse is when one's ideas are threatened.
If everyone you speak to agrees with you and slips seamlessly into your cocoon, you never even see diversity. If you aren't being challenged, you have no idea of where to expand, where your padded walls need to be mended. The measure of your growth is how your cocoon handles challenges that don't fit into it already.
Each of us creates our own padded spaces, surrounded by people and ideas we are comfortable with. Within this space, we like to think of ourselves as diverse, open-minded folk. Yet the best measure of being diverse is when one's ideas are threatened.
If everyone you speak to agrees with you and slips seamlessly into your cocoon, you never even see diversity. If you aren't being challenged, you have no idea of where to expand, where your padded walls need to be mended. The measure of your growth is how your cocoon handles challenges that don't fit into it already.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
About me
Considering how much time I spend writing about myself here, it seems unfair that I should be annoyed by other people's bios. I hate having to write "About me" sections, bios or anything else that requires a snappy, succinct sentence that sums me up. And when I come across one that attempts to be humorous or deep, all I want is to rip it apart. One person describes herself as "Delightfully Indian". To whom are you delightful, and what makes you more Indian, or more delightfully so, than every other person in the sub-continent? Are you really no more than a uniquely gleeful conglomeration of race-determining gene variants?
Or someone else who says: "I like blue M & Ms". What's wrong with the rest? Yes, I went out and ate an entire pack of every color to find out what was so great about the blue ones (nothing?). Would this person get along better with the blue creatures from Avatar than normal human beings? The people with sparkly one-liners about themselves abound. I, on the other hand, must prepare for hours to introduce myself in a professional setting, just listing my qualifications. I have no world-views I would kill for, no candy fetish, and much as I love certain geographies, I like to think I am more than just "Indian", delightful or otherwise.
For myself, a recent conversation with a friend helped me understand. I like the idea of being always amused. Amusement, which stems from the verb "muser"- to think. I am constantly encountering things that set me thinking. Things I do not understand, funny things and sad things, strange things and things which explain older things I didn't understand. They all make me wonder, and most make me smile. I finally have a bio: "_ is constantly amused by the world and everything else." And even that amuses me. Ha.
If you had to pick one word or phrase to define your (most frequent) state of mind, what would it be?
Or someone else who says: "I like blue M & Ms". What's wrong with the rest? Yes, I went out and ate an entire pack of every color to find out what was so great about the blue ones (nothing?). Would this person get along better with the blue creatures from Avatar than normal human beings? The people with sparkly one-liners about themselves abound. I, on the other hand, must prepare for hours to introduce myself in a professional setting, just listing my qualifications. I have no world-views I would kill for, no candy fetish, and much as I love certain geographies, I like to think I am more than just "Indian", delightful or otherwise.
For myself, a recent conversation with a friend helped me understand. I like the idea of being always amused. Amusement, which stems from the verb "muser"- to think. I am constantly encountering things that set me thinking. Things I do not understand, funny things and sad things, strange things and things which explain older things I didn't understand. They all make me wonder, and most make me smile. I finally have a bio: "_ is constantly amused by the world and everything else." And even that amuses me. Ha.
If you had to pick one word or phrase to define your (most frequent) state of mind, what would it be?
Wednesday, June 08, 2011
The point is to live everything
Too much in the recent past is unexplained, and I struggle to find answers, even as I feel ashamed to be so expressive in this space. There are others who wonder and hurt far more deeply than I ever wish to, children and parents, lovers and wives and friends. In lieu of greater comfort, I rediscovered this:
“Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are now written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.“
— Rainer Maria Rilke
“Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are now written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.“
— Rainer Maria Rilke
Tuesday, June 07, 2011
Echo
Somewhere today a lab is out of order. People walk the hallways asking, "Have you heard?", "She was going to finish in a few months" , "She worked so hard.. poor thing."
A greying professor remembers her first emails to him. Enthusiasm bordering on desperation, the years she put into getting to a point where she could send him that email. He may even remember how he wondered at her perseverance as he presented her case to the committee, asking them to fund her graduate studies.
Somewhere, a brother takes the first flight available to meet his sister. There are anxious parental phone calls, logistics, endless paperwork and planning. This I cannot bring myself to imagine.
In frozen time-frames she walks into my room at night, after roll call, demanding and distributing her 'jaadu ki jhappis'. I hear her echo "-TA" when I call her Sanchi, completing her name emphatically. I hear her laugh and I see her dance, listen to her voice in countless conversations, real and virtual. What next, we ask and say, what next?
We've talked of plans, after hostel and after Baroda, what the US is like and the tedium of grad school, buying cars and non-academic options after a Ph.D. And each time our refrain, What next and what else?
Somewhere, there is an echo of our words that goes round and round the globe, a string of electrons magically dancing through cables under the oceans and continents. What next, it whispers, what next?
Even as the words bounce around, you are gone. In frozen time I feel the crash of metal and flesh and bone on a dark highway as it ripples under my skin, my fingers trembling in a mocking echo of yours. The smell of the fruit samples in your car and the sound of the sirens and helicopters and paramedic voices. Your emphatic ending of your own name resonates in emptiness and hits me harder than anything.
The words of our friend as she tells me you are gone. The way I wish for someone to hold her close through this.
Somewhere, shouldn't something be more ordered than it is here? Are the partings here balanced out by reunions elsewhere?
Or perhaps our echoes have no balance. Just the strength they find in their repetition as they bounce around the world, fading as we fade and revived by resonant times as somewhere, an advisor reads an enthusiastic email from a grad student. And somewhere, a brother flies out to meet his sister for a reunion happier than this one. And friends talk of things other than death when they say, What comes next?
A greying professor remembers her first emails to him. Enthusiasm bordering on desperation, the years she put into getting to a point where she could send him that email. He may even remember how he wondered at her perseverance as he presented her case to the committee, asking them to fund her graduate studies.
Somewhere, a brother takes the first flight available to meet his sister. There are anxious parental phone calls, logistics, endless paperwork and planning. This I cannot bring myself to imagine.
In frozen time-frames she walks into my room at night, after roll call, demanding and distributing her 'jaadu ki jhappis'. I hear her echo "-TA" when I call her Sanchi, completing her name emphatically. I hear her laugh and I see her dance, listen to her voice in countless conversations, real and virtual. What next, we ask and say, what next?
We've talked of plans, after hostel and after Baroda, what the US is like and the tedium of grad school, buying cars and non-academic options after a Ph.D. And each time our refrain, What next and what else?
Somewhere, there is an echo of our words that goes round and round the globe, a string of electrons magically dancing through cables under the oceans and continents. What next, it whispers, what next?
Even as the words bounce around, you are gone. In frozen time I feel the crash of metal and flesh and bone on a dark highway as it ripples under my skin, my fingers trembling in a mocking echo of yours. The smell of the fruit samples in your car and the sound of the sirens and helicopters and paramedic voices. Your emphatic ending of your own name resonates in emptiness and hits me harder than anything.
The words of our friend as she tells me you are gone. The way I wish for someone to hold her close through this.
Somewhere, shouldn't something be more ordered than it is here? Are the partings here balanced out by reunions elsewhere?
Or perhaps our echoes have no balance. Just the strength they find in their repetition as they bounce around the world, fading as we fade and revived by resonant times as somewhere, an advisor reads an enthusiastic email from a grad student. And somewhere, a brother flies out to meet his sister for a reunion happier than this one. And friends talk of things other than death when they say, What comes next?
Friday, June 03, 2011
Instead of faith
On a circling wind I watched a bird rise. Steady in its ascent, perfect stillness and awareness in every wing tip. On the same wind two sparrows tumbled through, flapping desperately to get to the nearest tree even as they were tossed around by the wind.
When I raise my eyes for inspiration, I don't always see what I wanted to see. But at times like this, I get what I needed- a good laugh at myself. So what if the universe doesn't feel like restoring my faith once in a while, and instead chooses to remind me of how ridiculous it is to flap about desperately in a storm?
Perhaps it is merely a spiritual placebo. Or perhaps it is just that when I am quiet enough to look to the skies, I can connect with a calmer, more rational and faithful self. Yet these are the times I am convinced of greater powers, a deeper universal rhythm worth keeping time to. And sometimes laughing at myself with.
When I raise my eyes for inspiration, I don't always see what I wanted to see. But at times like this, I get what I needed- a good laugh at myself. So what if the universe doesn't feel like restoring my faith once in a while, and instead chooses to remind me of how ridiculous it is to flap about desperately in a storm?
Perhaps it is merely a spiritual placebo. Or perhaps it is just that when I am quiet enough to look to the skies, I can connect with a calmer, more rational and faithful self. Yet these are the times I am convinced of greater powers, a deeper universal rhythm worth keeping time to. And sometimes laughing at myself with.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
I wish you a storm
"In the kingdom of the gods, one must be very careful. There are things we cannot do, words we cannot say." These are some, that for different reasons, will never reach their intended destinations in that kingdom.
=============================================================
You think you know it all. Just as I do. But here is the difference between you and I- I know that everything I stand for and believe in might be wrong. And I hope at least some of it is. But I know this also, and try, most times, to live by this. That commitment and kindness mean more than romantic ideals. That honesty counts for more than chickening out. That sticking through the tough times is worth it.
Because this much I know is true. Life is short and people disappear like summer winds. One minute they are here, talking to you on the phone about wedding dresses and how they suspected that guy you’re about to marry was your boyfriend all along, and the next minute they are gone. Before you can pick up the phone and call ‘when they are better and out of the hospital’. Before their son has a chance to start on his first job or bring a bride home. Before they can even get home from their first family vacation in ten years, they are gone in a crashing disaster of brain and heart and organ failure.
Because life slips away like this: Raw flesh tortured apart by the force of its own life-blood. A little clot that stops your brain that breaks your heart that brings your kidneys to a grinding halt. Because life slips away like this: Not in your sentimental tears and tortured emotions.
This much I know for sure. That blood surges and clots and the color of your bleeding romance will stop you in your tracks forever. This is the nature of blood and of life and of death. And this I can assure you will one day happen to both you and I, regardless of what we stand for today. So spare me your mawkish romance and your bloodshot eyes, your weeping heart and your fragile pretentions of emotion.
In this my parents, my husband and others more patient than I tell me to be kind and move on. Life is short, they remind me, and gone like a cloud in a summer storm. Love the uncle who said, the last time he called, “I’m waiting to see you at _’s wedding.” Remember the affection and hold the memory of shelter and warmth. Life is too short for unkindness, they say.
But on days like this I resonate only with one of my favorite cinematic moments. A scene from American Beauty, of a plastic bag caught in the wind. My words billow with rage and patience is ripped apart by my uncle’s passing.
I have neither time nor space to give you, ex-girlfriend of someone dear. Instead I give you my questions: Why say you were faking your emotions all this while? What sort of a woman are you, so keen on a wedding that you have forgotten what it takes to make a marriage? Why this gut-less playing of mind-games that only hurts the one I love? And what sort of family is this you come from, that thinks nothing of making outlandish demands of others’ children, but have failed to make their daughter become a decent human being?
At the end of it all, I only want for this to turn back on you, all the anger and confusion and unhappiness you have caused.
I wish you every unshed tear and all the grief you have caused. Because I hope they cut you deep enough to open your heart to this ephemeral space, where fragile things like people and love must stay so strong, when all we have is each other to hold through all the storms.
=============================================================
You think you know it all. Just as I do. But here is the difference between you and I- I know that everything I stand for and believe in might be wrong. And I hope at least some of it is. But I know this also, and try, most times, to live by this. That commitment and kindness mean more than romantic ideals. That honesty counts for more than chickening out. That sticking through the tough times is worth it.
Because this much I know is true. Life is short and people disappear like summer winds. One minute they are here, talking to you on the phone about wedding dresses and how they suspected that guy you’re about to marry was your boyfriend all along, and the next minute they are gone. Before you can pick up the phone and call ‘when they are better and out of the hospital’. Before their son has a chance to start on his first job or bring a bride home. Before they can even get home from their first family vacation in ten years, they are gone in a crashing disaster of brain and heart and organ failure.
Because life slips away like this: Raw flesh tortured apart by the force of its own life-blood. A little clot that stops your brain that breaks your heart that brings your kidneys to a grinding halt. Because life slips away like this: Not in your sentimental tears and tortured emotions.
This much I know for sure. That blood surges and clots and the color of your bleeding romance will stop you in your tracks forever. This is the nature of blood and of life and of death. And this I can assure you will one day happen to both you and I, regardless of what we stand for today. So spare me your mawkish romance and your bloodshot eyes, your weeping heart and your fragile pretentions of emotion.
In this my parents, my husband and others more patient than I tell me to be kind and move on. Life is short, they remind me, and gone like a cloud in a summer storm. Love the uncle who said, the last time he called, “I’m waiting to see you at _’s wedding.” Remember the affection and hold the memory of shelter and warmth. Life is too short for unkindness, they say.
But on days like this I resonate only with one of my favorite cinematic moments. A scene from American Beauty, of a plastic bag caught in the wind. My words billow with rage and patience is ripped apart by my uncle’s passing.
I have neither time nor space to give you, ex-girlfriend of someone dear. Instead I give you my questions: Why say you were faking your emotions all this while? What sort of a woman are you, so keen on a wedding that you have forgotten what it takes to make a marriage? Why this gut-less playing of mind-games that only hurts the one I love? And what sort of family is this you come from, that thinks nothing of making outlandish demands of others’ children, but have failed to make their daughter become a decent human being?
At the end of it all, I only want for this to turn back on you, all the anger and confusion and unhappiness you have caused.
I wish you every unshed tear and all the grief you have caused. Because I hope they cut you deep enough to open your heart to this ephemeral space, where fragile things like people and love must stay so strong, when all we have is each other to hold through all the storms.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Easy way out : The boomerang effect
Sometime back, I wrote about how it's actually quite easy to fulfill one's dreams. (Before I go on, I would have to say this is speaking only in a personal growth/ professional sense. I don't mean dreams like your crush returning your affections or time travel to a care-free childhood.)
From personal experience, an important motivator is being forced to do things I dislike. Stuck in a job that is "OK", something I can tolerate from 9 to 5 and go home, rinse and repeat for the week- I am far less likely to stay up all night trying to find a way to make my 'dream' happen. But when forced to do things I actively dislike, it is far easier to make myself move towards what I want even at the end of a ridiculously long day.
The potency of fear as a motivator is well established in metaphor and reality to any adult(looming deadlines, ticking clock, back against the wall). At least for me, annoyance and hating what I was doing turned out to be pretty strong motivators to move towards what I want.
So if working towards fulfilling your dreams sounds impossible, try running in the opposite direction. And maybe you will find that hidden something that makes you push harder when you think you can't, and boomerang back to where you want to be.
From personal experience, an important motivator is being forced to do things I dislike. Stuck in a job that is "OK", something I can tolerate from 9 to 5 and go home, rinse and repeat for the week- I am far less likely to stay up all night trying to find a way to make my 'dream' happen. But when forced to do things I actively dislike, it is far easier to make myself move towards what I want even at the end of a ridiculously long day.
The potency of fear as a motivator is well established in metaphor and reality to any adult(looming deadlines, ticking clock, back against the wall). At least for me, annoyance and hating what I was doing turned out to be pretty strong motivators to move towards what I want.
So if working towards fulfilling your dreams sounds impossible, try running in the opposite direction. And maybe you will find that hidden something that makes you push harder when you think you can't, and boomerang back to where you want to be.
Monday, May 09, 2011
Recipes and stop signs
Especially among friends, it surprises me to find people that think of recipes as rules to follow. When cooking with friends, I am amused by those that level out the flour in the measuring cup or insist rajma cannot be complete without the addition of fresh coriander/ cilantro leaves. Some friends frequently receive links to recipes with comments like: "Oh, I am very creative, I always add my own tweaks to dishes", while others might reply: "How can I make that, I don't have any _ on hand". Between the two extremes, I have grown up watching my mother add sambar powder to pasta for fussy children and serve sandwiches as dinner to a group that felt a "meal" must include rice, chapattis could hardly count as lunch or dinner.
My favorite kitchen memory of my mother is this: Working 9-6 and trying to manage two small children, one of whom always wanted sambar and the other would eat nothing but rasam, my mother put her magic spoon to work. In her absence, we were given a 'spell'. No matter what she'd cooked, all we had to do was turn the spoon thrice. Dip it in deep and turn the spoon thrice to the right for sambar, and three times the other way to turn the sambar into rasam. Et voila! We each got what we wanted. Of course, the other requirement for the spell was two naive children who didn't know that curry powder sediments at the bottom of the vessel, or even really know the difference between sambar and rasam ;).
My own culinary adventures are similar. I like to think I can cook menus off several world cuisines, and given a spare pantry will whip up a kootu or a pasta or fajitas or a stir-fry. But none of them are 'authentic', and none of them are particularly 'creative', at least in my opinion. It's food, and it tastes good to those I cook it for. It fulfills our needs and keeps us happy, and that is enough for me.
Recipes are suggestions, not rules to live or die by. As are stop signs, as long as you look all ways ;). And so are 'principles'. There is always a different perspective, and principles/morals are guidelines on how to proceed, options one can choose to live by. If a moral cannot stand up to circumstantial logical scrutiny and open discussion, I don't think it is worth killing/ dying for, nor is it worth causing unhappiness over.
(P.S: Why does spell check find fajitas acceptable, but not rajma/sambar etc.? For those that want 'recipes' for any of the foods mentioned, I'm happy to oblige ;))
My favorite kitchen memory of my mother is this: Working 9-6 and trying to manage two small children, one of whom always wanted sambar and the other would eat nothing but rasam, my mother put her magic spoon to work. In her absence, we were given a 'spell'. No matter what she'd cooked, all we had to do was turn the spoon thrice. Dip it in deep and turn the spoon thrice to the right for sambar, and three times the other way to turn the sambar into rasam. Et voila! We each got what we wanted. Of course, the other requirement for the spell was two naive children who didn't know that curry powder sediments at the bottom of the vessel, or even really know the difference between sambar and rasam ;).
My own culinary adventures are similar. I like to think I can cook menus off several world cuisines, and given a spare pantry will whip up a kootu or a pasta or fajitas or a stir-fry. But none of them are 'authentic', and none of them are particularly 'creative', at least in my opinion. It's food, and it tastes good to those I cook it for. It fulfills our needs and keeps us happy, and that is enough for me.
Recipes are suggestions, not rules to live or die by. As are stop signs, as long as you look all ways ;). And so are 'principles'. There is always a different perspective, and principles/morals are guidelines on how to proceed, options one can choose to live by. If a moral cannot stand up to circumstantial logical scrutiny and open discussion, I don't think it is worth killing/ dying for, nor is it worth causing unhappiness over.
(P.S: Why does spell check find fajitas acceptable, but not rajma/sambar etc.? For those that want 'recipes' for any of the foods mentioned, I'm happy to oblige ;))
Monday, May 02, 2011
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
First, a little explanation: A combination of de-motivation and procrastination, awesome words (Carl Dennis, Wallace and others), and my own desire to see something nice when I visit my own blog - are the cause of this sudden flurry of posts. One of the most recommended things to beat the blahs is a good walk/run, and I'm a strong-voiced proponent.
I started running a few years ago for the sense of strength and well-being it brings me, even if it is purely biochemical. Though I try (really!) not to preach about exercise, it is hard not to want to share the high it brings. The quote below sums it up so well, maybe it will even inspire me enough to just shut up about how great it is to run :)
"Even if you'd never get old or even get fat;And your dog could take itself out; And everyone loved you; And you always slept well; And you never got sad; And all your teachers all thought you were a genius; And no one ever broke up with you; And every scholarship was a full scholarship;And the world wasn't a mess; And your body looked good all on its own; And every day in every way; You felt like you just wanted to feel...
YOU'D STILL RUN."
I started running a few years ago for the sense of strength and well-being it brings me, even if it is purely biochemical. Though I try (really!) not to preach about exercise, it is hard not to want to share the high it brings. The quote below sums it up so well, maybe it will even inspire me enough to just shut up about how great it is to run :)
"Even if you'd never get old or even get fat;And your dog could take itself out; And everyone loved you; And you always slept well; And you never got sad; And all your teachers all thought you were a genius; And no one ever broke up with you; And every scholarship was a full scholarship;And the world wasn't a mess; And your body looked good all on its own; And every day in every way; You felt like you just wanted to feel...
YOU'D STILL RUN."
This is water
After my rather silly rant yesterday, I came across some wonderful resources on productive mind-hacks (ways to inspire a procrastinating freelancer ;)), one of which mentioned this little gem. A book called "This is water" by David Foster Wallace, based on a commencement speech he gave a few years ago. Here's a link to the speech.
The mention of just remaining aware of all the possibilities every minute, day in and day out, also reminded me of this poem by Carl Dennis.
Candles
If on your grandmother's birthday you burn a candle
To honor her memory, you might think of burning an extra
To honor the memory of someone who never met her,
A man who may have come to the town she lived in
Looking for work and couldn't find it.
Picture him taking a stroll one morning,
After a wasted month with the want ads,
To refresh himself in the park before moving on.
Suppose he notices on the gravel path the shards
Of a green glass bottle that your grandmother,
Then still a girl, will be destined to step on
When she wanders barefoot away from her school picnic
If he doesnt stoop down and scoop the mess up
With the want-ad section and carry it to a trash can.
For you to burn a candle for him
You needn't suppose the cut would be a deep one,
Just deep enough to keep her at home
The night of the hayride when she meets Helen,
Who is soon to become her dearest friend;
Whose brother George, thirty years later,
Helps your grandfather with a loan so his shoe store
Doesn't go under in the Great Depression
And his son, your father, is able to stay in school
Where his love of learning is fanned into flames,
A love he labors, later, to kindle in you.
How grateful you are for your father's efforts
Is shown by the candles you've burned for him.
But today, for a change, why not a candle
For the man whose name is unknown to you?
Take a moment to wonder whether he died at home
With friends and family or alone on the road,
With noone to sit at his bedside
And hold his hand, the very hand
It's time for you to imagine holding.
==========
The mention of just remaining aware of all the possibilities every minute, day in and day out, also reminded me of this poem by Carl Dennis.
Candles
If on your grandmother's birthday you burn a candle
To honor her memory, you might think of burning an extra
To honor the memory of someone who never met her,
A man who may have come to the town she lived in
Looking for work and couldn't find it.
Picture him taking a stroll one morning,
After a wasted month with the want ads,
To refresh himself in the park before moving on.
Suppose he notices on the gravel path the shards
Of a green glass bottle that your grandmother,
Then still a girl, will be destined to step on
When she wanders barefoot away from her school picnic
If he doesnt stoop down and scoop the mess up
With the want-ad section and carry it to a trash can.
For you to burn a candle for him
You needn't suppose the cut would be a deep one,
Just deep enough to keep her at home
The night of the hayride when she meets Helen,
Who is soon to become her dearest friend;
Whose brother George, thirty years later,
Helps your grandfather with a loan so his shoe store
Doesn't go under in the Great Depression
And his son, your father, is able to stay in school
Where his love of learning is fanned into flames,
A love he labors, later, to kindle in you.
How grateful you are for your father's efforts
Is shown by the candles you've burned for him.
But today, for a change, why not a candle
For the man whose name is unknown to you?
Take a moment to wonder whether he died at home
With friends and family or alone on the road,
With noone to sit at his bedside
And hold his hand, the very hand
It's time for you to imagine holding.
==========
Monday, April 18, 2011
Motivation
My email inbox overflows with compliments. Some are delicately phrased critique of samples, others are more immediate "It looks fine, no editing needed!" Complete with smiley faces and wishing me luck, wanting to stay in touch and looking forward to working with me.
You would think this would make me happy, wouldn't you? These are ventures into a field where I have no professional training, no certificates to prove my worth. Compliments from the experts are my only reassurance that I'm making the right moves. And I have enough words of praise in that inbox to satisfy not just one, but several needy egos.
But none of them begin or end with confirmed offers of a full-time job doing what I love. And I am a little de-motivated now, despite going back and reading all those emails over. (Yes, how shallow and silly. I don't know of another way to convince myself I'm doing the right thing- do you?) So I am looking for motivation. To stay committed to this, to not just sell out and go back to a lab bench streaking out cultures and designing primers and doing PCRs.
Perhaps it is petty, to think that a few months of effort should yield such rich benefits so quickly. Perhaps the praise is merely well-intentioned and not meant. But why tell me to "continue writing because of your exceptional style" if you don't intend to give me the opportunity to do it?
You would think this would make me happy, wouldn't you? These are ventures into a field where I have no professional training, no certificates to prove my worth. Compliments from the experts are my only reassurance that I'm making the right moves. And I have enough words of praise in that inbox to satisfy not just one, but several needy egos.
But none of them begin or end with confirmed offers of a full-time job doing what I love. And I am a little de-motivated now, despite going back and reading all those emails over. (Yes, how shallow and silly. I don't know of another way to convince myself I'm doing the right thing- do you?) So I am looking for motivation. To stay committed to this, to not just sell out and go back to a lab bench streaking out cultures and designing primers and doing PCRs.
Perhaps it is petty, to think that a few months of effort should yield such rich benefits so quickly. Perhaps the praise is merely well-intentioned and not meant. But why tell me to "continue writing because of your exceptional style" if you don't intend to give me the opportunity to do it?
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