the capricious north wind

On January 14th, 2008, at 11:30 pm, my grandfather died in India. When my father found out my grandfather was in the hospital, my sister and I hastily threw together a few pairs of socks, his travel documents, and a white kurta, and during rush hour on a Friday evening, my mother managed to get him to JFK International Airport in under 40 minutes. For the last five years, my father has spent the 14th of January in restlessness.

The rest of the India, however, comes together to rejoice on this day. January 14th is the widely observed pagan holiday of Uttarayana, celebrating the change in direction of the north wind. It marks the onset of warm weather, of harvest, of new beginnings. People all over India, regardless of ethnicity, religion, class, gather on rooftops and terraces and fly brightly colored paper kites, pausing only to eat nut brittle and puffed rice balls. The aim of the kite flying is to actually cut another kite down. The kite string is coated with finely crushed glass, and so, at the risk of beheading passersby, strangers and friends engage in a playful duel, all fighting for the right to yell "kai po che!" ("I have cut it!"), the triumphant exclamation of victory.

To observe the fifth anniversary of my grandfather's passing, my father and I traveled to India. My father and I visited all of my grandfather's surviving siblings, my father's aunts and uncles. At each home, in between sips of guava juice, my father would tell the story of my grandfather's death. All would nod, would contribute their version of the story, and then in the uncomfortable silence, when feelings are on the verge of exposure, someone would inevitably pass us more food, and emotions would be once again successfully suppressed.

My grandfather's brothers and sisters look scarily similar to him, speak with the same kind, gravelly voice, and employ the same reassuring mannerisms. My father thirsted for their conversations of red wine, of chance encounters with European diplomats, of cricket. The resemblance of my grandfather to each was so uncanny, it was as though we visited my grandfather several times over, and yet my father would leave their homes with a deepened sense of restlessness, as we were only surrounded by vestiges, ghosts, memories of my grandfather and his mark on this world.

On the actual anniversary, my father asked his mother if she wanted to go to the temple, or wanted to do anything special. "No," she strongly responded, and then immediately turned to tell me her theory on consuming large amounts of clarified butter to help me lose weight (it's a working theory). Like most of her generation, my grandmother does not dwell on pain. She accepts it, silently bears it. Expression of emotion has come with the new generation of anguished wanderers.

My father then realized it was Uttarayana, and so we walked to my uncle's house to celebrate with him and his neighbors on his roof. Though the morning zephyrs were slightly weak, in the afternoon the north wind rages through streets, the balconies, the treetops. The sky was teeming with paper kites, as the city slowed to celebrate spring, to hope for what is to come. People shouted, cheered, clapped, usually arbitrarily, as no one actually understood the science of cutting down another's kite. I apparently successfully cut down two with one stroke, though I'm still quite weary of this statistic.

In the evening, the thickness of kites waned, and the sky gradually filled with glowing, floating Chinese lanterns. Our terrace ignited about a dozen large, colorful lanterns, the heat from the flame causing the paper globes to rise, the light causing them to glow.

The smog and city lights will never allow the city of Vadodara to become fully dark, so it instead remains a fuzzy sepia (yes, an instagram classic). In the viscous, city air hung these lanterns, thousands dotting the dark brown sky. As if stars held in suspension, the entire sky glided in unison, the harmony of the lights shattered only by fireworks on the horizon. It was panoramic; we were surrounded on all sides by a constructed, starry night.

 My father and I moved to the opposite end of the terrace. My father's eyes have been searching for the last five years. My grandfather was one of the few people who could match my father's brilliance, compassion, and strong, stubborn sense of ethics. My father can discuss in depth on an unparalleled range of topics--Justin Bieber's rise, the Moghul Empire's fall, the economy of rice in South East Asia, the implications of Federer losing his seat as No. 1. He speaks better English than anyone I've met in the English speaking world. He's also a prolific writer, only comparable to his own father, the one who had instilled in him an unquenchable thirst for knowledge. My grandfather was just as attached to the past, just as disillusioned by the present, as is my father, who lost his connection to his childhood, to a glorified past, with the death of my grandfather. My father continually seeks memories, seeks to rebuild the past, seeks ways in which death could have been avoided. He retells stories, hangs on with relish every audible expression of nostalgia by a cousin or aunt, or even a shop owner who knew my grandfather.

On the terrace that night, my father's eyes darted restlessly across the horizon. "There," he pointed, "that dark building behind that pocket of light. That was Dadaji's hospital." A red firecracker splintered the heavy silence between us, or, more accurately, the silence suffocating him.

Back home, my grandmother, clad in her new royal blue cardigan, anxiously awaited our arrival.

"So, you enjoyed?"

And we had. Though my father's heart had been wrung dry, he and I enjoyed the time we spent together. On the roof, throwing lanterns into the air, I felt closer to my father than I had in years, even though I knew his thoughts were not on the paper kites, but elsewhere. That night, he and I stayed awake until 11:30 to light a diya for my grandfather. We bowed our heads in reflection, his hands held in prayer, mine clutched clumsily in front of me, and together we stood for several minutes. Shortly thereafter, I went to bed, but my father stayed awake till the flame burned out.

The next morning, the ground was littered with lifeless, torn paper kites, futile save for the memories they evoked of a glorious day in January.

five hours till the eleventh hour

The world is ending quite soon.

Today, in between eating more falafel than a human should eat and blasting Bonobo as I speak to constituents, I've reflected on my 24 years on Earth.

If I had another 24 years of existing, I would probably wear jean shorts in the winter. I would drink wine every day, and go swimming. I would definitely stop being lazy about shaving my legs, and I would sit on a park bench without my cell phone. I would probably skip work to do something outrageous for a day, like eating hydrogenated peanut butter with Oreos or surfing in Long Beach with brand new board shorts. I would hang out with Manu more, make sure she doesn't become neurotic like her older sister. I would not quit the flute. I would move to Mumbai for one year and try to dance, before maiming the rest of my limbs. I'd go to Morocco. I would not grow white hair and I would continue eating pasta with ketchup. I would cry for the children who have died, for the children who have starved, for the children who have only seen pain, and I would stop crying for myself. I would make my bed. I would make my mother and father's bed. I would wear a hat every single day. I would do crunches. I would write a book, I would perpetuate my propaganda against cauliflower, and I would never paint my fingernails. I would be a better kid. I would buy a slip 'n' slide. I would kiss everyone. I would dance in the rain.

Unfortunately, we have less than five hours. Tonight is my last chance to eat pasta with ketchup while I wear jean shorts (and get pneumonia). No more thoughts of carpe diem, no more Dr. Phil, no more corny Hallmark cards about la vie. We're done.

Go forth and buy Oreos, while supplies last.

the Higgs boson: Man is Matter, and now we know why

On July 4, 2012, while my friends and I joined the rest of the country in toasting to America, to summer, to veggie chips, physicists across the ocean at CERN uncovered the final clue that could potentially solve the mystery of the universe. The Higgs boson, a fundamental particle whose existence was posited by Peter Higgs and his team to explain the diversity of existence, was (most likely) discovered by two teams of persistent physicists this past Wednesday. The New York Times' piece on the breakthrough provides more detail.


The powerful implications of the (almost) confirmed existence of the Higgs boson are a bit difficult to understand without a keen understanding of physics, of outer space, and of the Higgs' position in both fields (or without a very gifted and patient college science professor, as I was fortunate to have).


Essentially, this specific particle explains the fundamental question of why the universe is as it is, not solely how or what. Third grade science has taught us that we are surrounded by, and are part of, "matter," which is simply, "things." But we were never taught why these "things" came into being. Why is that that an atom can be of various weights, that oxygen is in vapor form, that humans have opposable thumbs? The immediate responses to those questions are much like responses our parents would provide to us as children, when we asked the fundamental questions of our childhood.

Daddy, why is my hair brown?

Because your mother and I have brown hair.

But why do I have to have the same hair color as you and Mommy?

 Just because.

In the same way, atoms of different isotopes can be different weights because they are composed of different numbers of neutrons, oxygen is in vapor form because at standard pressure its molecules bind as a gas, and humans have opposable thumbs because we evolved from primates. And why does all of that happen? Just because (well, and some more profound scientific rational, but for the sake of example, work with me).


However, there is an underlying structure, a gorgeous rhythm that pervades the seeming arbitrary nature of the universe.


It's cooler than Jesus.


In 1964, Peter Higgs theorized a mechanism (later dubbed the Higgs Mechanism) by which particles, everything in the universe is given mass. Essentially, there is an invisible force, a field that permeates the universe. It is the "quantum excitation," or breaks in the symmetry of this field that give rise to the seeming arbitrary distribution of mass in matter all around us, within us. It's a flaw. It's a screw up. The entire universe is a series of flaws, snowballing screw ups, exponentially expanding, creating, evolving. 


The Higgs boson explains why there was even a Big Bang in the first place. There was no man on the moon beating pots and pans, no looming head in the sky grinding his teeth. It was an arbitrary excitation of a point in this field that propelled into creation our unique universe. Though random, arbitrary, it was a flaw fundamental to the existence of the universe.


I'm not conventionally religious. I can't sit cross legged because of my bad knee and houses of worship make me queasy. However, the grand implications of this flaw are awe-inspiring. This singular "error," the quantum break in an otherwise beautiful symmetry, could have easily occurred on another point in the field, could have easily created a completely different universe, or potentially no universe, an existence of which we would not be a part. The specific excitation in the particular point on the field put in motion the creation of the universe as we know it, the creation of Earth, the creation of humanity.


I'm not sure what is God, and I don't think I'll ever be sure what people mean when they refer to God. The only certitude is that humanity, life, the entire universe is bound by a single, fundamental flaw, an essential asymmetry that shapes, creates, and renders mass to "things" and meaning to life.


I guess this just means we're all just a bunch of screw ups, but we're in it together, and for the long haul. Amen.