Author Archive: Ankit

The myth of hard work

Looking at the pace at which technology is improving it seems that the only way in which humans would be able to survive acceptably over the next century and beyond is to relinquish a deep seated idea that has been ingrained in all of us. The idea that hard-work is a noble pursuit, while very seductive, is ultimately bullshit and I want to argue why that must be so. It might be a useful thing to do but there is nothing noble about it. It may not even remain very useful for long.

The fact that there is something noble about hard-work is immediately put in question when one considers that throughout history, the social classes which have been the most well off have not had to do much hard-work. This holds for the Western nobility classes up to the 18th century before the French revolution saw through the charade and it holds for the landowner classes in the East which led a good life not because they toiled hard on the fields but had others who did it for them. They led a good life because they owned property and not because they worked hard. In modern times the equivalents are owners of large companies who seem to get compensated wildly out of proportion for the amount of effort they put in. There is a certain amount of intelligence and hard-work which has gone into the makings of this super-rich class but their success appears more to do with who their parents were and which schools they could afford to go to. The idea that those who have had the short end of the stick have only to work harder in order to achieve the same kind of success is a great story that I would also cook up if I were to keep the general masses in line. I do believe that there are exceptions where hard-work and unusual talents do pay off but the idea itself is a myth on average. It is the same kind of myth which the nobility of morality is; just a carrot in front of the mule sufficient to keep it running ad-infinitum.

My thoughts on this topic were set in motion when I was watching a documentary on how Coca Cola makes its famous drinks. The amount of automation is absolutely breathtaking and there is no reason to think that the few people who still need to be on the factory floor will not be dispensed off in the future. Obviously this phenomenon is not just related to the Coke factory but we see this in all realms of life. We see that, generally speaking, increasing automation is resulting in fewer and fewer jobs where humans are required. While hundreds of people were required to till a few hectares in the past, one person can do it all by himself now. The army of people which were required to keep records in all sorts of companies and departments have been replaced by software. It appeared then that all jobs which did not require the application of the human brain and which were repetitive would eventually be replaced by automation and this is already seen to be true. However, what we did not realize that even jobs which required human brains will also be replaced by increasingly intelligent software. This is already seen to be true in the areas of publishing (software writing formulaic articles), surveillance, medical diagnosis and many more. I think it is a clear writing on the wall now that almost all jobs which currently require human input will eventually end up being automated and this includes both repetitive jobs and jobs which require, what we consider, creative inputs.

In such a society where opportunity does not exist, what does hard-work buy you? In the intervening time between now and then, there will always be people who would peddle the same moronic idea that they always have. They will point to the exceptions who make it and say with a smug smile, if only you worked harder. However, what they won't realize is that the kind of hard-work and talent which was enough to make it for them in an earlier time will not be enough to make it for future generations because the opportunities will be far fewer. Taken to the extreme then I am imagining a society where there exist very little to no opportunities for most people to work but which still produces an abundance of goods and services. That society would collectively generate much more than enough for everyone to live comfortably but these goods and services would would not be made available (or made only grudgingly available) to the masses. This ridiculous state of affairs will become a reality if we keep on believing that hard-work is a noble pursuit and that one needs to work in order to deserve something. In fact, it would not even make much economic sense to keep believing in these notions since the producers of the surplus goods and services will find it impossible to find people who buy and consume them because they will not be part of the economy. To circumvent this nightmarish scenario it appears more natural to keep in mind what the real goal of a society is. It is to produce enough to live comfortably. It is not to work hard or to sacrifice ourselves at the altar of anachronistic ideals. And hard-work, most certainly will be an anachronistic ideal in the vacuum which will come to pass in the absence of opportunity.

Tom Magliozzi bids adieu

I cannot think of one show, TV or radio, which was more interesting and funnier than NPR's Car Talk. They don't make them any funnier, smarter, and nicer than Tom Magliozzi which is why it's a sad day for anyone who listened to the show and to NPR.

Bassam cafe

It surprises me that I have never explicitly written about this cafe in SD. I am sure that in my myriad musings on great coffee shops, the prototypical place that has always been at the back of my mind has been cafe Bassam. I have no doubt that whenever, with clenched fists of anger, I have scoffed against the soulless and slick coffee shops which crop up with embarrassing regularity in this world, the one place against which I was measuring all others was Bassam. And, therefore, it is rather surprising that I have never thought of mentioning all of it quite so clearly. In this world which is so incredibly unfair to so many, what an amazingly ridiculous and pretentious enterprise it is to take one's cafes so seriously. But Bassam can only be understood against the backdrop of such an incredible folly. It's not great coffee shop. The coffee isn't even all that special. However, it is a poignant work of art, the culmination of the fantasies and dreams of one man who may or may not be clinically insane: the only kind of man who is capable of creating things which are beautiful and not just useful.

Bassam cafe sits in a location which is as much a puzzle as the fact that it exists at all in a city like San Diego. I lived not too far from it for a little more than a year and I hardly ever noticed much foot traffic in the area. I'd invariably walk over and spend my late evenings behind those large glass windows, reading a book, and listening to the same 30 songs which the owner (Bassam) seems to put on repeat everyday. The cafe is decorated with what can only be termed a bizarre, yet lovingly assembled, collection of paintings, portraits, glassware, antique furniture, cigars, wine bottles, teas, armoirs, hip-flasks, clocks, statues, marionettes, musical instruments, and of course, guns and rifles. The interior is illuminated with sodium lamps whose warm yellow light refracts through the mirrors, window panes, and glassware and lends a beautiful depth to the heavy dark wooden furniture. There are times when the pianola is playing instead of the recorded music and there are times when one of Bassam's many curious patrons takes to the grand piano and ascends into Beethoven and Chopin pieces. Then there are times when the cafe's chairs are pushed to the sides and the central area plays hosts to those who wish to tango. But often the place is simply a beautifully remembered memory of some reality which was created, bit by bit and painstakingly, into something which could not be made any more beautiful. There is that old familiar tune in the air. There's the sanguine glass of port. There are those pretty baristas chatting away behind the counter. There's Proust. And then there are those puzzling characters who swerve around the space loosening further the flimsy grip of reality. With the setting so perfect, the coffee almost doesn't matter.

I understand that this is a rather romantic description of the place and it misses some issues which go on behind the scenes but I'd like, for once, to maintain and embellish the illusion which takes flight in my imagination rather than take it down through vapid tangents. I see the cafe as a paean to the creative power of an individual, his flight from mundane reality into a fantastic world that is both enchanting and infectious. The owner appears to be a curious and troubled character but I'd expect nothing less from someone who is capable of creating such beauty. Very rarely do I come across anything comparable. Compared to Bassam I find the best cafes merely adequate and I find those which are trying to be cool and sassy, in hilariously bad taste. At best, the others sell decent coffee in a tolerable setting but often they are just soulless and tasteless*.

* One hilarious example that comes to mind is a cafe which has the gall to call itself cafe intelligentsia in Chicago. Its patrons are women in yoga pants and men who go to gym! I am stereotyping here with the understanding that there exist very rare exceptions.

Long walks in Hyde Park

Of all the things that I miss about my time in SD perhaps the one that is dearest to me is the memory of the long walks I used to take from my house to the Hillcrest medical center bus stop. Every morning at around 8:30 I used to pick up my weathered Jansport bag, which has stood me in good stead for 9 years now, and head West on Quince avenue towards the white wooden truss bridge across the mini canyon teeming with bird songs, bamboo trees, and all sorts of desert flora. I remember the SD weather often being crisp and the Sun often shining beautifully through the foliage on the side of the canyon where it percolated down on its green floor in puddles of gold. It was often very quiet with hardly any traffic on the roads and nary a soul to be seen around. I remember clearly the creak of the bridge as I walked across, the rough touch of its wood as I passed my hands over it, the houses which lay sleepily on the sides of the canyon, shades drawn and the low Sun reflecting off of their windows. I remember the little quiet bridge suspended over a world which was beginning to wake up but had not quite as yet. I would walk across it and up to first avenue where I'd turn right to head North. Along the route are beautiful houses with white picket fences, flowering trees with their branches drooping on to the sidewalk, a weird house with its grounds adorned with large metallic animals, a meditation center, and, of course, the royal mart cafe where I'd stop for a coffee over whichever book I might have be reading then. The whole walk from my house to the bus stop, including the coffee stop, used to take me a little more than an hour and I'd look forward to walking back for another hour in the evening. My house was close to the fashionable neighborhood of Hillcrest which I very much looked forward to moving to in 2011 (from La Jolla). However, I came to the slow realization over the course of the next year that I merely tolerated all the bustle and activity of the place. What I really liked about my neighborhood was the part which was not very Hillcrest: long solitary walks along uncrowded back streets. It has taken me many years to become comfortable with the fact that I dislike the bar culture, the constant din and activity, and the excessive socializing which others seem to crave. I'd rather have my little corner of the world, peaceful and simple.

Not knowing Chicago when I was moving from SD, I ended up renting a place in an area (east Lakeview) which is like Hillcrest but on steroids. It's a very beautiful,  well manicured, slick neighborhood with tons of restaurants, coffee shops, gyms, and bars. It is a place which many people would immediately fall in love with. However, I mostly have memories of wondering how to escape what appeared to me to be pretty much a personal nightmare. I'd walk around and look into the wood paneled bars and become overwhelmed by their shiny fakeness. I'd wonder, where are the real people of this world and how come I am surrounded by these automatons who have been mercilessly cast en-masse from the same unsympathetic industrial mold? I have recently moved to the distinctly unfashionable neighborhood of Hyde park and have been loving it. On a long walk this weekend under the pretty Fall foliage of bright orange, red, and yellow leaves, I got reminded of the pleasure I used to have on those walks in SD. Hyde park is the neighborhood surrounding the University of Chicago which has a distinctly beautiful campus. Imposing Gothic architecture which looks older than it actually is due to the elaborate arabesque of ivy which adorns its walls. Edison bulbs dimly illuminating long dark, hallowed as it turns out, portals of this illustrious institution. Old style, ornate brick houses with lush gardens. The place has a distinctly sleepy feel to it and is more or less devoid, as of now at least, of the laughable, if they were not so annoying, preoccupations of the yuppies. Yes the neighborhood appears boring by modern urban measures but I'd not have it any other way.

ISRO to Mars

India's Mars mission, Mangalyaan, now in Mars orbit! How amazing! I remember the days not too long ago when I'd wait patiently for the results of the PSLV and GSLV launches and having my share of disappointments. Thanks and congrats to the scientists at the Indian Space Research Organization (ISRO) and related agencies for pulling this off.

Civilization and Savagery

It was one of those routine bus trips back from Guwahati city to IIT campus late in the night around 13 years ago. I remember sitting at the left side rear window and noticing an elderly lady a few rows ahead. Apart from her the bus was full of students, most of whom were friends from my own class. These students were loud and unruly like young students tend to be especially when they are rounded up in close quarters and I have no doubt that I myself had at other times, participated in the sort of unruliness that I am talking about. However this time, with that extra person on board, I remember feeling a distinct sense of discomfort at the obnoxious loudmouthedness, the excessive cursing, and the general savageness of the atmosphere. I remember feeling ashamed on behalf of the person and a sense of anger at the insensitivity of my friends to my imagined discomfort of this person whom I did not even know. This emotion has since manifested itself a number of times, most recently at a concert at the Chicago symphony orchestra where I took my parents for a rendition of Mahler. A couple sitting in the row in front of mine could not keep their mouths shut for the duration of the concert. They were sitting a few columns away from me which prevented me from interrupting their interruptions. However, my rage was complete at their indecorous behavior which seemed to be ruining the experience for my parents and others who were trying to listen. However, the interesting thing about this emotion of mine, of feeling uncomfortable on behalf of others, is the fact that it might have no legitimacy at all. The old woman on that bus that night might have been perfectly fine with her surroundings and my parents and others, for all I know, might not have cared at all during the concert. It's possible, perhaps even likely, that others have thicker skins than I attribute to them. Moreover, the idea of being ashamed on behalf of others rests on a very slippery slope for it is the same impulse which tries to legitimize all sorts of censorship. People have made a hobby out of getting offended on the behalf of others. They get offended on behalf of their children, the religious, moral, and ethical sentiments of their communities, on the behalf of minorities, so on and so forth. And it is a short trip from feeling offended on the behalf of others to trying to suppress speech, behavior, and opinion uncomfortable to one. Of course people who do get all tied up in such a fashion are only more ridiculous than those whom they dislike so much.

And yet, there was something personally wrong with the couple who sat whispering in that concert and with the behavior of those students on that bus. I can, in a very private way, take issue with them but the offense must be personally owned in order for it to have any sort of meaning in my own eyes. The thread which unifies these two incidences together with the many others which I have experienced is perhaps an elitist one. I dislike unruly behavior as I see it primarily as being uncivilized (and not as being morally wrong). I prefer civilization over savagery, deliberation over red-blooded passion, and intellect over emotions. I prefer refinement over brutishness and I, therefore, prefer Tennis over American Football! So when the couple sat whispering and when my friends brought down the roof, they had, to me, incarnated as uncivilized brutes. Their behavior was something that civilization and common sense was supposed to have put a check on. The fact that it had failed to do so was and still is, in my eyes, the failings of certain people the company of whom I steadfastly try to avoid now. However, the real kicker is that I realize this as a deep personality flaw in myself, in that my leanings are so heavy. I'd have liked to strike a certain balance which one sees in a passage by Russel but it's not there yet.

Waxwing slain

Picture1-Nabokov

Midnight's Children

So many brilliant men and women have practiced the art of storytelling over the many past centuries that it has become, as I imagine, very difficult to tell a story and tell it in a fashion which is uniquely new and refreshing. Midnight's Children comes as close as any other to pulling off this nearly impossible task. It's an inspired book, as tired old reviewers looking for adequate superlatives and failing to find them would say, a towering achievement of a singular intellect. It is the story of Saleem who was born at the stroke of India's independence and whose destiny, as it were, becomes intricately tied to the destiny of India itself through the coincidence of his birth. In his quest for painting a rich tapestry, Rushdie draws amply and resourcefully from the truncated din that India is. He delves deep into her many zany characters, her tryst with her imagined predestined glory, her pottering and graceless fumbles as she marches unflatteringly towards it.

The story is a first person narrative of Saleem who happens to be an unreliable narrator. He looks back at his own life and manages to connect the course of its evolution to the destiny of the nation in which he was born. He sees in his personal ups and downs, victories and failings, the flows and ebbs of India. He believes in his imagination to such an extent that national history becomes nothing more than an imitation, albeit on a much larger scale, of his own little story. Tolstoy wrote War and Peace primarily as a critique of the traditional method of doing history where only the important sounding events are treated as if they had a force of inevitability devoid of individual desires and mistakes. History, as it turns out, can be traced back to insignificant events and petty little personal motivations. Saleem is the culmination of this alternative historical vision. He knows that it is possible to view history in a different way and has the madness and imagination to do justice to this vision. What we have then is a book like no other (none in my experience at least). A story which spans, often within the same sentence, the most intricate personal details and the most grandiose public ones connected together with the tenuous neuronal connections of a man who may or may not be clinically deranged. The style, if I may make the comparison, is distinctly un-Joycean. Ulysses and this book lie at two extremes of a particular kind of spectrum. While the former is a stunning treatment of locality, small spaces, personal anecdotes, and limitations of time, Midnight's children is an amazing exercise in the vast scales of time, space, and imagination. It is written within the same sort of magical framework as Murakami's Kafka on the shore but while the latter fails miserably as a good and coherent work, MC succeeds admirably. It has a disjointed logic of its own but that logic has discernible laws for its operation. It's book where the supernatural is not used to disguise the paucity of talent of its author.

SD reredux

My second trip to SD after moving to Chicago completed recently. And while the last one resonated with long walks alone on lovingly remembered streets, this one ended up being about the amazing people I know there. It has been several years since I graduated from UCSD and SD is not the place which most people think of as their career base. Yet, and yet, I found myself entirely short of time when it came to spending it with those whom I'd have liked to. I had the feeling, however, that this was the last time when the tremendous variety that moves me was to be found preserved there. People have plans and many will disperse before I have the chance of going back again. Which is perfectly fine in the cold and reserved sort of way that life works. However, in the emotional and nostalgic light through which I gaze that Sun drenched city, the place would lose a certain magnetism and the people, perhaps, would too. We are primarily contextual, our essences tied faithfully to the settings of certain memories. We are not remembered so much as being endowed with this or that quality but as being lively contributors to some strong remembrances which were made memorable through equal contributions from others and from the settings in which their memories are placed. Once removed to alien surroundings we run the risk of becoming pale shadows of our past. It is, therefore, always with a deep sense of trepidation that I meet someone whom I have very fond memories of in surroundings which have nothing to do with those in which those memories were formed. In those moments, since what I am really trying to do is to figure out how much of the old person still remains, I feel deeply conflicted between the desire to find permanence and the rational thought process of allowing and accepting its absence. Perhaps this hankering of mine for reexperiencing some memory of the past is the reason why I have found myself being utterly disappointed by the medium of photography as well. While what I have in my mind is live and mutating and full of beautiful visions, what a photograph provides is merely a pathetic approximation to these feelings. I find its dead, soulless, sledgehammer approach to memory insulting to what is otherwise intriguing, nuanced, and multicolored. As an extension, I find those who are obsessed with capturing life within the borders of a 4 by 6 or, even less romantically, in the cemetery of a zillion electrons, amusing at best. While they are utterly absorbed with their ridiculous cameras and ridiculous lcd screens, the feathered seraph that is life unfurls its beautiful wings and soars against the patterned clouds.

I have very few photos of SD but it is alive in my mind in a way that a place can never come to life in a photo. There are absolute characters of life I know there but their brilliance owes something to my own imagination as well. In my mind, in the heady drifts of my mnemosyne, I have filled in empty spaces with psychedelic colors and silences with strange reverberations. I have bent the elastic essence of reality, slightly here and a little there; in my mind SD lives on in vivid colors.

The bluishgreen Almirah

The book that I am reading now is Salman Rushdie's very well written and very famous Midnight's children. The story of Saleem Sinai who, by the act of being born at the stroke of India's independence, became intimately intertwined with her destiny. Among the many virtues of the book the one that immediately stands out to me is Rushdie's amazing talent of molding the rich tapestry of Indian life into stories of great muted sadness and comedy. More than anything else the book is a testament to the potential of brilliant stories which resides in the Indian culture, a culture whose logic is entirely its own and which fails to be adequately quantified in typical Western measures. I do not claim any special greatness inherent in the culture. I merely claim its stunning, almost mind-boggling intricacy. When all is said and done the American culture is merely unidimensional, all its facets chiseled by the same inevitable forces of efficiency and selfishness, all its products minor variations of the same essential mold. By comparison the products of the Indian culture, because it offers so little and it places such curious constraints on them, are weird tragicomic specimens both heroic and hapless in the situations they find themselves in. There is hardly ever the go-getter devil may care attitude among them which is perhaps just as well. One can never meet too few of those despicable characters in life.

In the book I came across the word almirah which refers to a sort of metal cabinet used to keep valuables. I am not sure if it is still in fashion but it sure was when I was growing up. In my home it was referred to as an almari, perhaps an indianisation whose roots are now difficult to trace. Like Proust's Madeleine and tea, the word took me sailing into the past, to the touches of that bluishreen almari which was part of our household for as long as I can remember. Like the oval wooden dinner table and the glass center table, like the ornate dressing table and the heavy sofa, that almari came into our home with the marriage of my parents and it still is going relatively strong after 33 years. The sofa has been replaced and the glass table broke at some point, the dinner table was also eventually deemed too wobbly and worn out but the almari remains. It remains with its signature metallic creak and its chipped paint. It survives with its silvery pointy handle whose cold touch I remember with more clarity than I remember many things which happened yesterday. There were other storage spaces in the house but the almari was always used for the most precious things, my mother's expensive sarees, important documents, money, and jewelry. There is a curious way by which images of nostalgia assume a proportion much larger than reality. I now remember that almari being much bigger than it really is. I now ascribe to it the human emotions of pride and grace which accompany a life of tight-lipped service in the line of duty. I now see in its closed doors barriers more insurmountable than suggested by the mere rotation of its handle. There indeed is something very human about its memory. It grew with me and through daily touches and sights, through being a passive spectator during a couple of decades, it has precipitated in my conscious as a living benevolent presence. It, along with certain other objects which survive through the ages, is a dusty, musty reminder of a childhood spent in relative security and happiness. These reminders are not vocal but by being silent they are perhaps more poignant. They also serve a much larger purpose than starting points for personal nostalgia. The fact that that object was preserved through all those years even when means were available to replace it with something better functioning and newer says something about a culture. Beyond the superficial level where reside qualities such as making do with less and a certain modesty, perhaps it point towards deeper traits as well. The traits of not being afraid of permanence and of being more or less satisfied with the present. And I cannot help but be propelled, from the innocuous little memory of the bluishgreen almirah, to make comparisons between the two cultures which have dominated my life so completely.

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