Time Travails - Part 1

Something always bothered me about the idea of time-travel, especially in science fiction stories. There are the usual time-paradoxes, of course – going back in time to kill your ancestors before they could meet and mate, thereby making the whole exercise of you coming into existence and going back in time to kill your ancestors impossible¹ – but there was something else… something I couldn't quite put my finger on, that vaguely annoyed me from behind the shadows of my fuzzy understanding. Perhaps this is obvious to others - especially more avid readers of Sci Fi - but it took me a while to realize what exactly was troubling me. I finally managed to identify it now; and to bring my confusion out from the shadows, and hopefully present it clearly for all to see, I created the following story.

The story is the set in the mythical land of Kaalifornia - a magical place where wondrous, magnificent angels be - a place where the majestic, capricious wheels of time take many a mystical twist and turn. It is the story of a certain Mr Time Cruise (Tim, for short) – and his adventures and misadventures as he attempts to navigate the powerful currents of time.

Our story begins with old Tim standing at a certain point on a certain line. The time-line, it is called. This line, we are told, represents an 'objective'² metric of time. It is a long, long line - no one knows quite how long... some say it extends forever in both directions. All beings walk their path on this mystical line³. For our walking convenience, a series of plancks been laid out, covering the whole time line. Each planck is numbered, so we know exactly where we are. They extend - or so we are told - from -infinity to infinity⁴.

Now, according to our experience, time has this sensation of flowing - we feel in some way, to be proceeding along time in the direction of what we call the future. Assuming Mr. Cruise to be a normal, sane person (that is, only as crazy as the rest of us), we assume his experience conforms to ours, and the above is what Mr. Cruise feels too. So our good friend Time Cruise finds himself happily cruising along the time line, from present – to a new present – which is actually the future to a past that was the previous present. Whatever. But we know this is the sort of thing that we usually feel. We will represent his experience of the flow of time - as the action of him walking along this track  from planck to planck on the time-line.

Mr. Cruise then, is somewhere on this line – to be precise - he is at the point 1985.  Now, in ol' Tim's brain, there is also a record of all events that he has experienced in his 'past'. So there exists there a 'history' – his store of his story of his strolls along the shores of time.

As our friend ambles along - quite unaware to him - a little farther down the track - lurks a singularly catastrophic creature ... a creature so dreaded that the whole of space-time trembles to the very core of all 11 of its dimensions when it encounters this horrendous beast.

It is a worm.

A worm with a hole.

A wormhole.

Tim walks right up to the worm... and steps right into the hole.

Space collapses.
Time elapses.
But, in reverse...

For when it comes time for the time-reversing hole to emit Time out, he finds himself in a now, which a now in which he had been a moment ago(?), would have considered a now that came prior to a very long series of nows indeed. Tim is now, in the past.

To be precise - he is at point 1955. Of course - he continues feeling the passage of nows, every now - so his (very sane, as we've  have been careful to point out) mind experiences still, that constant flow of time. Shaken, but determined, he marches onward, displaced in time from where he was before(??) he fell into the wormhole, but proceeding along the same time-line, in the same direction - at what we will assume - if it makes any sense - the same pace. Onward to points 1956, 1957, 1958 and so on.

Tim is strolling along a deserted trail... weary and worn; lonely, forlorn... when his eyes fall upon a most enchanting image - a timeless creature of striking beauty. Her name: Whensearch (When, for short).

Time has been very kind to the ageless When. And now it is time for When to be kind to ageing Time. She invites him to rest and replenish in her oasis. Our weary traveller is instantly attracted to his hospitable hostess. He nervously asks her out. A date with Time? Why not?, thinks When.

When has always been searching for time - and now she finally finds Time. The enchanted arrow of time crosses both hearts... and begins an endearing romance. Many joyous dates pass... hours that seem like minutes, years that seem like days - and the happy couple dream dreams of living together happily forever after...

Alas... this is no fairy tale... and nothing here does forever last. In fact, in the very arrow that made two hearts most happy - lurks the shadow of ever-escalating entropy.

For while our beloved couple dream dreams of forever - the dreaded worm - the very one with the hole - rears up its unwholesome head once again. And poor Tim's next encounter of the wormed kind is set up. Yet again does he fall through that dratted hole - yet again is he whisked cruelly off to a time far, far away...

This time, Time is transported to the point 2015. The now at which he had been standing just before he fell into the hole would have considered this now to be a now coming after a very long series of nows indeed. It is what he would have called then: the future.

Tragically snatched away from his precious When, he is alone again, forlorn again. But his consciousness, relentless as ever, continues to move him along the continuum (discreteum?) of time - from points 2015 to 2016 to 2017 and on...  As he ambles along the shores of time, Time, tired of all the walking, pauses to admire the horizon. He is struck by the beauty of wave(-particle)s that come to light - it is as though time has come to a stand still.

But time and tide, as we well know, wait for none... not even for the tired Time watching the tide. And the fickle zeitgeist of the ever-changing times conspires to set up a third close encounter.... with the same dreaded worm - the one with the hole... this time, transporting Time back to the time he had left his past present  - back to 1985.

Our time-worn friend has been through a lot. One thing though - through the best of times and the worst of times, through times of springy hope and wintery despair, through travels to the past and back to the future - one thing, has remained a constant. One thing that Time felt each time, all the time. That is his sense of the constant flow of time - that keeps accumulating as his history in his brain.

Let's review, then, what Mr. Cruise's 'history' (as we described it earlier) is. He was first born at a certain time - say 1961; he ambled along till 1885; was then pulled back into 1955; moved on 'normally' till 1959; was then he brutally thrown into 2015; went on normally to 2019; and then, he came back to 1985. There is a series of then-s here, quite separate from the order of time-line points he travelled across. On the timeline, he has intermittent intervals of existence – from 1955 to 1959, 1961 to 1985, and 2015 to 2019. But in his own history – his memory – the sequence is different. There is thus another dimension - a history-line, on which timeline values can lie. The fact that the history line exists, indicates an extra dimension – this was the bothersome aspect of the time-travel idea – this hidden dimension that does not usually get an explicit mention in the stories.

Having a historical verses an objective time-line presents problems for vocabulary used in sentences describing time-traveled actions, since the function (time as function of history) is not monotonically increasing, nor is it continuous. Thus if Tim went from the future into the past, the past for him occurs after the time-lined future. Since English deals with both times in the same way, these dimensions are crunched into one and the meanings of the words we use in describing time get overloaded with both historical (memory) and 'objective' timeline meanings. Words like first, then, ago, before, and after might refer to both cases.

Thus achieving clarity in describing time-travel in a tale is a somewhat complicated exercise. The (grammatical) tense for these words is awkward, since the past to a time cruiser need not really be the past, the future may have already happened, and the present… well, whoever knows what the present is?

NOTES

1. This is of course, if we believe in a single unchanging time-line. If on the other hand, we favor a malleable time-line (like in the Back to the Future movies), we might merely find our photographs fading away. Also, do we allow a person – a consciousness which records history – to be twice at the same time? Maybe only one of a person can exist at any one time. In that case, one cannot meet oneself in the past, because the one that one is going to meet is the one that is meeting the one that one are going to meet.

2. What is this 'objective' thing I mention? I don't really know. Let's just assume it exists for now.

3. It looks like we are saying there is a single 'objective' line on which everyone walks - but this is just for the convenience of writing; we could imagine each of us having a different time-line if we want to.

4. Although we use integers here, this too, is merely for expository convenience. We will leave it for later to decide whether the line should be continuous or discrete.
We will also just assume for now, that this line does extend to infinity both ways. Of course, we could have a starting point for time, for example, at the Big Bang. Similarly, we could have an ending point (2012?). What happens to time before/after these points? One answer is that it doesn’t exist: time came into existence when the Universe was created, and might come to an end if and when the Universe ends. We could also have circular time, so that time never begins or ends, but for ever and ever loops

A Purposeful Pattern

A friend recently asked me for my expert advice on composing her SoP  - Statement of Purpose - for seeking admission to graduate schools. Having been selected by almost more than one university for my own excellently stated purpose, I was abundantly qualified to offer such advice. But mine was a different field, and a different purpose. So I wondered if I could distill the distinct pattern of my statement, and present it independent of the actual purpose itself - an SwP, if you will - a Statement without Purpose. Here's the pattern my own SOP is an implementation of:

1. Start with brilliant poem, resplendent with dazzling rays of your phenomenal passion and astounding aptitude for the field. [Or: when inspiration fails to strike, cook up clumsy rhyme with pathetic puns to make awkward opening (to) statement.]
2. Break into prose to recount early fascination with subject... the deep inspiration behind the formation of your early goals... finally revealing the  moment of realization of your ultimate purpose in life [Or: moving from bad verse - to even worse - insert random childhood story, and sprinkle with buzzwords from the field.]
3. Parade past successes showcasing your super-awesome brilliance and enduring genius, ending with story of how you saved the world. [Or: list things you've screwed up... leaving out the part saying you screwed them up.]
4. Move on to your discovery of feeling of emptiness in life as it exists... a lurking hunger, an ever-deepening yearning for growth... culminating in the dawning of realization that this university is the sole gateway to manifesting your life's most precious dreams... [Or: flatter, beg, plead, pray to be taken in.]
5. End with profound thought, leaving reader awestruck at your immeasurable insight... causing them to reflect on the relativity of the quantum-mechanical nature of reality, taking them into supreme superconscious states.. and experience.... enlightenment! [Or: quote random zen koan.]

Staying Afloat

After years of remaining securely confined to dry shores, I'd decided to finally take the plunge. By joining swimming classes. Today was my first lesson. How'd it go? Swimmingly, I must say! At least... as swimmingly as swimmingly I swim.

Several lessons, in fact, were learned today. All of them to do with keep afloat... though not all of them literally so.

I started from office at 6, bubbling with excitement. The excitement of learning a new, exciting skill. The excitement borne of uncertainty, of not knowing how it'd be, and so letting the imagination swim wild with possibilities. Pregnant with visuals of Phelpian skills. Of becoming a very shark in the seas. And excitement, of course... from the anticipation of being surrounded by hot babes in cool waters :)

I'd signed up for Monday evening classes, but forgot the exact time. So I went to the gym to find out. Did I tell you about my awesome new gym? It's a colossal building, with a huge parking lot extending across both sides, which is almost always completely packed. I found a place half a mile to one side. Walking to the building from my car was itself enough of a workout! As I stepped inside, I felt I was entering a mall. Upon entry is a lobby... much like a hotel's. A counter, and behind that, a little waiting room with a lounge with a big screen TV. On its left, is a beauty saloon / barbor's shop. On the right, is a cafeteria. Behind it, started an array of office rooms, activity rooms, massage rooms (I got a back massage last week: a sublime experience). Further in, there come basketball and rackeball courts, and a mountain-climbing wall.

Towards the back, there's a huge area for kids to play - the kind they have in malls, with tubes to crawl through, and bazillions of balls in a cage. Wouldn't mind spending time there myself (I did ask them if I would be allowed in... the lady returned a smile, but did not look too pleased. I'll be keeping a close watch on you, it seemed to say). The first (or second, as it's called here) floor has cardio and workout equipment, and a couple of rooms where various classes are held.

In the center of the building, are the changing. rooms.The men's room reminds me of a Roman bath.. I guess it's the flooring. It's long, and fairly wide, with neat cubes of lockers to one side, a series of washbasins, each lined with blow dryers, milky lotions to silkify one's skin, and gels for upstanding gentlemen to fashion upstanding hair. At regular intervals, are neatly piled loads of white, soft, inviting, towels. Steamy vapor emerges from an opening leading to the showers. A passage from the rest room leads out to the back where the pools are. Four of them. Two inside the building, and two outside. And then, there are the sauna and the hot tub... where big, fat roman senators reposed, bathed in soothing steam, and bubbled by hot springs.

I went to the pool office, and asked what time the lesson started. 7:30. Great. A good hour to go. Home was a 10 minute drive. Home I drove, to dump my laptop and stuff, and catch a much deserved 15 minute rest after a long day's hard work. I wanted to reach the gym early because I knew they had some sort of secret and sacred ritual for gaining access to lockers. I knew it involved having to submit your membership card, and probably your soul, dancing over a pentagon, pledging lifelong allegiance to the society by signing in your blood, and so on; but I was foggy on the details. I got home by 6:45, and spent a relaxing 15 minutes lazing in bed. 7 o'clock, I got up and got ready. I took my change of clothes, took my license and couple of cards out from my wallet, since I didn't want to carry the whole thing - and was off.

I was the gym by 7:15. Walking through the door, I ruffled through my pocket for my membership card to show the guy at the front desk. The card loads up your photo on screen, and that's how they let you in (I hear impostures are caught and dispatched to wander forever in the dungeons below the building). But he recognized me from my brief visit earlier in the evening, and said - Didn't you already check  in? Yes indeed sir, i did, said I, and marched on to the men's room. Then i remembered i needed to find out about the locker.. All the while I'd been fumbling in my pocket for my membership card... and realized with a dread - I hadn't got it! Gah! I rushed out to car to see if i could make it to home and back in time. Drat the huge and packed parking lot! I reached car and saw it was past 7:20. No way i could make it back in time.

Then i had a brilliant idea. What did i need a locker for - when i had a car? I'd just dump all my stuff in here. Congratulating myself on my resourcefulness, I jogged across the huge, packed parking lot, back to the gym. There was someone new at the counter, but i confidently strode by, with a casual - I already checked in, you see. Only one problem. The keys to my car. I doubted if they'd last in the pockets of my trunks... those pockets were loose, and I was afraid the keys would decide to do a bit of swimming of their own. I could hand them to someone in the office, surely? But would they take the responsibility? I imagined the exchange: Why not keep it in your locker? Ah... you see.. I... err.. forgot my card.. What! Tresspasser! To the dungeons with you!!

What else could I do? Cache it in my mouth? Tuck it in my underwear? ...And then i realized - there were two problems: I had my shirt too. Actually three: my shoes. I could just leave those somewhere in the men's room, I guess. But that kind of thing would surely be frowned upon here. And I couldn't go out without my shirt if it got lost. And i definitely could not afford to loose my keys. So I decided to ask for a locker anyway, and see what happened. The guy said - let me see.. we can probably give you one - do you have your license? Great, of course I did!

Of course - it was in the car. So I dashed across that dratted huge, packed parking lot again to get to my car. I'd thrown my license somewhere into the dashboard... and now, it was lost in a pool swimming full of schools of papers, chargers, a GPS, and bits and ends God knows from where or when. I took a deep breath and dived in... At last I managed to retrieve my license, and sprinted back in. The old guy was back at counter. You again! he exclaimed. Yup, the very same, said I, rushing past him to the locker guy. 7:30. I got a locker key, searched for it in the men's room, stuffed in my keys, license, shirt and shoes, and hopped along to the pool.

Then began the swimming lesson. There were quite a few people in the pool. I walked along the pool, trying to pull in my tummy as far as it'd go. The gods, with their cruel sense of humor, have made me such that my abdomen is the only part of my meager frame that grows without bound. There was only one other person in my group - a lady, also as new as me to the art. Which was a comfort to both of us. Her little kid was learning outside in the kids' pool. Our coach was nice, a girl 20 or so i'd guess. She asked me about my experience.. Ah so you're new at this.. what all have you done? Absolutely nothing! My very first time in a pool. Ok, no problem, she said. We'll soon get you swimming! I guess she could see natural talent brimming in me. And to my surprise, I found I was a natural indeed! I took to the water as a fish.......  to air. Yep, I was a natural all right - a natural... disaster.

The first exercise involved holding on to a ledge and kicking to stay afloat. I kicked. And drowned. Don't fight the water, the water is your friend. Relax your feet, she said. Relax, my foot! How the heck can you relax when your supposed friend is intent on swallowing you whole? ...I closed my eyes and mentally chanted: The water is my friend. The water is my friend... and imagined myself as a lean, mean, submarine... gliding gracefully though the seas.

...Of course, sub-marine was exactly where this landed me.... while displaying all the grace of a hyperactive baboon. Realizing I might require an easier level to start at, the instructor took us across to the shallowest part of the pool to try our kicks there, where we could place our elbows on the floor. Here, I at least did not drown - because it was too shallow to do so. The kicks, however, fared no better. Undaunted by the complete lack of progress, our coach decided we needed to try something different. So we went on to practicing lying on our backs. Now this was something I could do.... even worse than the kicks. You had to bring your hips up to float. Somehow. My adamant hips, however, decided to stay stubbornly stuck in the dismal depths of the pool. I was in completely over my head with this task - which is not a great place to be when you're in water. Anyway, the lesson ended after a while, with some more desperate kicking, more ungainly attempts at up-hipping, and getting my ass totally kicked by my new friend, the water.

But guess what, I actually improved a tiny winy bit! My feet now stay kicking at water level almost a whole nanosecond. And though I was no shark, I think I put up a performance that would do credit to an unhinged octopus.

As I pulled myself out of the pool, I realized that I had forgotten my shorts in the car. Drat. I had to walk out in my wet trunks. I strutted out of the pool area with what i thought should be a casual, nonchalant gait... while hoping people around wouldn't wonder what the heck i was doing walking out in soaking clothes.. I then noticed a door marked 'Exit' to the side, a bit nearer where my car was parked. So I didn't have to go the front lobby, at least. I opened it, and it let out a huge screeeech! Emergency exit, of course. I just hadn't read the 'Emergency'. Gah.

Anyway, I then crossed that huge, packed park yet another time, reached my car, and realized the locker key was still with me. Gah and more gah. I'd have to walk back. Of course, since I was already at my car, I could at least get my dry shorts and change before I got back out. And of course, I didn't realize that till I was half way back to the gym. Gah and drat. Anyway, back I went to my car, got my shorts, and returned to gym. And of course, the guy at the desk was there, waiting to welcome me again. You, yet again! Yup, me, yet again.This is what I do all day. I handed back the key to the locker guy, changed, made one final trip across the parking lot, and drove back home.

So.. not quite the adventure I went looking for... but then, what's an adventure if not unpredictable? I went to learn to swim - and ended up learning many more lessons than I had planned on - in and out of the pool

_________________________________________________________________________

That - was three months ago. Sadly, my swimming days seem to be over for the while. I did, however, discover a brilliant new use for my swimming goggles: I now wear them when cutting onions. This activity usually causes my hopelessly sensitive eyes to leak like the Niagra. But with my goggles on, I can cut away without fear or tear

Sudoku

This weekend I saw a sudoku magazine in a shop - and this image popped into my head, which I had to get out on 'paper'.

The 4 Stages of Understanding and Algorithm

I was chatting with a couple of my friends¹ one day, when we realized the singularly depressing state our lives were in. We suffered, we concluded, from a pathetic lack of energy and enthusiasm. The gravity of this situation was deeply disturbing. We need to disturb the very depths of this deeply disturbing state!, we thought. And resolved to immediately commence on a new and exciting project - one that would be worthy of investing our joint genius into. One that would expand our minds, and allow us to illuminate the world with our brilliance!

Alas, it turned out to be one of those bursts of enthusiasms whose sorry fate it is to begin with all the promise and vigor of the Big Bang, only to rapidly settle into the steady state of a spent, stagnant, star that has run out of fuel. But though our project did not give birth to anything quite as spectacular as the Universe, it nonetheless produced what I like to pass for the mildly amusing shimmer of a mediocre meteor...

That evening, I chanced upon an old article describing some odd algorithm. When I had first encountered it several years ago, I'd found to be quite beyond my powers of understanding. But being delusionally optimistic, I'd shoved it into my ever-growing agglomeration of 'stuff-to-look-at-later'. That night, I decided to give the paper another try; and sat down to reflect upon the elusive insights its author had attempted to expound. Deeply absorbed in this reflection, I had one of those moments when the sheer intellectual stimulation of reflective absorption triggers the spontaneous emission of an enlightening, illuminating, radiation. My wavelength matched author's, my understanding was suddenly amplified... and everything became at once coherent. I came to the stunning realization that this now that I was experiencing, was that later that I had been waiting for, all those years. I promptly set about creating an implementation of the algorithm. The program I produced is certainly not worth presenting here, but the exercise did beget one other thing...

It hit me how I had evolved through the process of understanding the algorithm. And the next day, I awoke with a buzzing excitement - eager to convey my new-gained insights to my friends. I started mentally drafting my email to them while standing at the bus stop, waiting for my bus to office. Through the ride, it continued to mature, and during the course of a relatively slow day at work, evolved into the following reflection on the evolution of my understanding. So here are The 4 Stages of Understanding an Algorithm, as they apply to me.

[Note: The 'you' in the following lines really refers to me.]

Looking through my experience

Of trying to make sense

Of this Algorithm...

The rhythm…
Of this flow of consciousness -

Of what is now, and what was then -
Prompted me to pen:
The 4 Stages of Understanding an Algorithm

These 4 successive st-ages then,
I thus present to thee.

(I know the mighty William penned 7
But then that was William... and this is just me.)

In the first stage - the problem is perplexing:

And let me tell you that it is rather vexing

As you set upon your mental muscles flexing

Concatenating cantankerous strings; ever-kinking lists, linking

Expanding exotic exponentials; confounded combinations, combiniking
You wonder what the heck the guy who wrote this was thinking
And keep blankly blinking….

With insight, quite out of sight; 
You ‘rith, read, 'rite – but fail to find the direction right;
You try procedures heavy and light – but do not see at the end of the tunnel, light;
But you muster all your might – and fight – in the faint hope that you just might.

Thus does the first stage age...

In the second - the solution is impress-ing:

As you sit upon the problem, with it about messing,
Guessing and second-guessing, progressing and regressing -

In an inspired instant most mind-expanding
you  suddenly hit upon –
(while you still sit upon –)
that awakening we call under-standing

It takes you into a trance of inspiration,
and the elation calls for celebration! 
A bell starts ringing!  An excitement catches hold to you!
In joyous exhilaration, you start singing!  And dancing, if you can dance, too!

The second stage is conquering complexity, and it sits high and mighty...


In the third stage – the understanding is transcending:

This is where those innumerable hours, mind-bending,
Finally come to a  most mellow ending.

For when understanding transcends, the trance ends, for one
(to use a very much intended pun).
And the impressive complexity crumbles to such humbling simplicity
that you wonder how else but this way, it could be done.

The problem appears to daunt us much less.
The solution acquires a sense of obviousness.
What was once forced – now flows naturally.
What was an invention, becomes – a discovery.

The third stage is the return to the wisdom of innocence...


And in the fourth and final stage – the feeling is depressing:

As cometh to light a matter most distressing
I find my mind, into melancholy mood regressing

For how come I had to be so tortuously taught,
That which other minds had originally "got"?
And while these heads, an infinity of  incredible ideas, sprouted
How come mine remained immaculately droughted?

Thus thinking,
Dispirited strokes inking,
I start again blinking…
And into misery sinking

…Sans problem, sans solution, sans inspiration,
Sans everything but the eternal depression…

________________________

1. Ragavendran Madhusudanan and Prasanna.Murthy - and 3 blogs I highly recommend.

Ink Stains

Thoughts...

Not quite random

Yet not altogether coherent

Perhaps fuzzy shadows of greater truths

Amorphous, entangled, muddled, incomplete

But alive

Flutter about, seeking expression

And in a struggle to articulate -

Attempt to contort into the contours of language

And Create -
Ink stains on a page...

Greetings, all! As some of you might know, I have been thinking about starting a blog for a long time now - in fact it was one of the top things in my to-do list. However, my legendary listlessness makes the whole list a very contradiction in terms. The gods, you see, have been most malevolently generous in endowing me with a limitless capacity for persistent lack of initiative.

My laziness forbids me from spending too much effort making tiresome decisions. And there are so many tiresome decisions to make here. What should it be called? What should be the first entry? What is worthy of being shared? How much work does a piece require to make it good enough.. or even just readable? This was all just too much.

But I finally hit upon a solution to these problems. The solution is, quite characteristically: an excuse :) In place of eloquent (escripent?) writing, there will be pages peppered with metaphorical ink-stains, messy scribbles and scratches... ostensibly containing within them, little ink-lings of more meaningful and beautiful things. The poem above is the prime* example - it recursively reflects on itself, as much as it profiles everything to follow.

I'm hoping, though, that these discursive scribbles will provide for some diversion. And that some of these ink stains will leave... somewhat interesting impressions...

Facing the Heat

[This is something I wrote a long, long time back. I will be filling up the blog with such scribbles from the past, till I find the motivation to come up with something new.
See if you have the patience to make it through this meandering maze to the very end :)]

A haircut trip is always a harrowing one for me. I don't enjoy it. I try to postpone each trip for as long as possible, and get my hair cut as short as possible - to delay the next trip for as long as possible. I've also found that shorter hair keeps me in better shape, more away from allergies and colds (that I have an extra special propensity to catch). To cut a long story short - I like my hair short and I don't like to have it cut.

It doesn’t help that the worst place for colds is the barber's shop. Leaving my hair wet for a long time always worries me. Some barbarous barbers will insist on shampooing my hair before they let their precious equipment touch it. I then have to debate it out with them on why I be spared the shampoo. And they always insult my hair! Some would constantly mutter about the deplorable state of affairs of my hairs (it seems I have several different kinds, each worse than the rest put together); others will shove mountains of advice down my throat (or ears) - hair-oic saviors valiantly (and vociferously) striving to salvage a poor soul whose hair has almost been lost to the devil; yet others - these are the worst - will not comment or counsel, but observe a stern silence - a silence that chastises as no words or actions could.

Talk about having a bad hair day. I have one every day. But the worst days are those when I have to pay a visit to hairdresser. I must be honest, though – I make it difficult for myself – or rather, my hair makes it difficult for me – to have hairdressers address me normally. Because normal, my hair is not (unless you count the angle some strands form with my scalp). It is usual for my head to look like innumerable chaotic sea storms raging simultaneously across the globe. Or perhaps an upturned octopus with a zillion legs (a zillitopus?), with all permutations of arms tied into all manner of knots. The strange thing is, my hair is not all straight, or all curly, or even all wavy. I have all the kinds (sometimes within a single strand) – a very Swiss army knife of hair strand variety. But instead of forming a harmonious ensemble, they compose a concoction of the most cacophonous chords. This is another reason I could not afford to have long hair: the shorter it was, the less it could misbehave.

After much deliberation, I had come to the conclusion my next cut had to be today. This time was a new experience, even for me. I got a haircut all right; but also something I had not (literally and metaphorically) bargained for.

I started with a short prayer. I reached the parlor; it was fairly empty. One of the barbers accosted me. He pointed me to the chair - that dreaded seat of the most barberic torture - with the ominous calm of an experienced executioner. He then asked me what I wanted (my last wish). 'A hair cut please, and make it short please', I stuttered, fervently hoping that he would be too pleased with my two pleases to be too unpleasant to me. He sprayed his liquid (they claim it's water, but I've a strong suspicion its DDT) all over my hair, my head, my face.

And then he asked, 'chai lenge?' (will you have some tea?). At least, that's what I heard. 'No..no, thank you', I said. 'No, I want to have my tea. It'll take 5 minutes, I'll be back' said he. 'Oh..oh of course.. ok.. sure, please do', I managed to mumble, trying to disguise my embarrassment as graciousness. Meanwhile, my hair was wet. I began to worry about falling sick again. In an attempt to keep my mind away from such depressing deliberations, I started looking around for diversions. There was one other customer in the saloon. This guy sported some of the most spectacular spikes I'd ever seen. I had only seen such displays of hair-raising heroics in cartoons before. Yikes! What spikes! On them you could take virtual hikes! I imagined I could faintly discern the tips covered with snow...

My barber did come back in 5 minutes all right. Surprisingly, the cutting itself proceeded fairly smoothly. Thankful my ordeal was over, I was about to get up, when I realized he was staring at me. I looked in the mirror. Everything seemed fine. I couldn’t see what the matter was.

He examined my face closely, and declared: “Your face is so dry. You don't take care of your face. You must get a facial."

'Hmmm..' said I. I was wondering what to make of this. People insulting my hair to my face, I was used to; but I had not yet faced such an obvious attack on my face itself.

'Which one?' he went on.
'I beg your pardon?'

'Which one will you have? There's Caustic Cream of Kentucky, for 250; Fruity flavors of Frankenstein - 300; the Golden Gooseberry of Garangutania - 350; Essence of Effervescence of Eratopatathus - 400...' (I forgot the real names, but I'm sure I'm not too far off the mark with the above appellations).

I was still thinking of how to respond. Of course, a facial was out of the question. The task was now to inform him politely, but firmly, that I needed none of this nonsense, thank you very much. I opened my mouth to reply, trusting my natural eloquence to take care of the exact words.

'Mmmm.. how long will it take?' was the brilliant response my natural eloquence came up with. '15 mins. Which one?' By now, I realized I'd already said yes; I only had to choose how much to loose. '250 will be fine, please', said I (I had still not given up hope on the power of pleases to please).

He nodded. And continued his discourse. 'You must take care of your face. It's so dry. Look at this. And this. And this…' It was horrible!

He started with the exercise. Or should I say - exorcise. For I had no doubt he considered himself an exorcist, fighting valiantly to drive away the devil from my face.

My poor face.. They say the way to make holy water is to beat the hell out of it. It was evident he believed in the same philosophy for holy-fying faces.  He took the cream in his hands, and started applying it in careful measures to the surface of my face. All the while the discourse continued. I closed my eyes. And let what was happening happen. Nothing I could do after all. It was a pity I couldn’t close my ears.

10 mins he kept the Cream of Kentucky kentucking all over my face. Then he washed it off.

It was over! :)

I was about to say thank you so much, it was a such a pleasure having my face exorcised by you, may I please leave now, when he cut me off – 'No no. This won't do. This won't do at all. Your face is too far gone. The cream of Kentucky is not enough.'

It was not over :( …

'But I'm not about to give up. We'll have to call in the Fruity Flavors.'

'Hmmm..'

'It'll cost 50 more. But it'll drive away the devil for sure.'

'Hmmmmm... how much more time?' was all my exemplary eloquence could manage.. I dared not even ask if that was 250 + 50 or 250 + 300. And then, what if the Fruity flavors of Frankenstein were also no match for the devil? Would we have to call in Gooseberry and Eratopatathus well? I tried to calculate.. I only had 500 in my pocket.. if it were only incremental fee he would charge for each, then I could manage... but otherwise...

He had already started with the preliminaries in getting the Fruities ready. I panicked. Did I have enough? If this were a restaurant, I'd be washing dishes. What would it be here? I pictured myself washing the chai wale cups..  

Meanwhile, the Fruity Flavors had been brought out, and an elaborate procedure was being carried out in getting them ready. Four colorful boxes. Inside one big grand box. Which one would it be? He took out one. Turned it around in his hand, examined it, then kept it back. Then the next. This too was placed back. Out came the third. And back in it went. Then came the fourth box. Aha! This was it. He took some cream into his hands (just as he had taken, the destiny of my face). I closed my eyes again, and started my prayers.

There was grinding, grating, wiping, soaking... and then he was absent for some time. The fruits had apparently been left to ripen. I opened my eyes and saw what must surely have been the 2000 year old ghost of Cleopatra staring at me from the mirror. I closed my eyes again. This battle was not for me. Let Frankenstein fight them all!

He came back after a few hours (or that is what it seemed to me). Then there was some washing.. and - finally - it was over! :)

I opened my eyes again. Look at the difference! he said. I looked at the difference. It was currenlty 500 - 300, if I was correct in my calculations. In my face, I could discern no major difference. 'Hmmm...' I said. 'Wait till I've finished with you!' he went on. Then you will see the difference.

It was not over :(

I started panicking again. Not Goosberry and Eratopatathus! The difference will then be negative! Not the tea cups! God knows how many of those would make up for the creams.

But it turned out it was the next Fruity Flavor of Frankenstein. I realized he would apply all 4. Grinding, scrubbing, rubbing, soaking, washing.... again.

Again, he took out one box. Kept it back. Then another one. Then back. Then the third (this was the fourth the first time). Back this went as well. Then the last. And this was the next he used on me.

I realized it was a ritual. Before taking out each flavor, he had to examine all the others. An ancient code, no doubt laid out by Frankenstein himself, followed to this day by this clan, followers of Mr F.

Halfway through the third flavor, I felt something I had not felt before. Not at this level, at any rate. It took me a moment to realize it was... intense pain! On my nose! I opened my eyes. He was holding a screw driver to my nose! A huge, effing, screwdriver! Driving the devil away is one thing, having my face screwed up is also something I had resigned myself to accept as my face's fate - but a screw driver on my nose! He was taking stuff out, apparently. Dangerous stuff, devilish stuff. Shoveling it out.

It was extremely painful. He said, 'I know this will be extremely painful. ..But this is how the devil is driven out.' And then he showed me what he had shoveled out. See that! he said. And that! All this is the result of not taking care of your face. You must improve, he admonished. There was stuff all right. I had no idea what it was. And it had come from my face. The devil was coming out... in pieces.

The fourth round went rather smoothly after that horrible third one. It took a good 40 mins for it all to get over. And then he said, 'what about a head massage?' I could not say no. After all I had to do the dishes anyway. What was the point resisting? Besides, this was one thing I actually enjoyed in a barber's shop. Sure, said I. The massage over, I was finally given permission to walk out. I emerged from the saloon - the devil driven clear out of my face, Rs. 410 driven clear out of my pocket - to begin in life, a new phase, with a new face.

I had come out alive! And with a soft face! My face was actually soft to touch... but would it remain that way? I can't wash it now for fear of loosing the softness.

My experience reminded of Ogden Nash's poem - This is going to hurt just a little bit - describing the poet's experience in the dentist's chair. In the end he reflects on the irony of this 'vicious circle': we visit the dentist so that we may have healthy teeth; when the primary reason we want healthy teeth is so we won't need to visit the dentist! The same applies to me and the barber. I want healthy teeth, short hair, a soft face. I don't want to visit the dentist. I don't want to visit the barber.