" I don't believe in astrology; I'm a Sagittarius and we're skeptical." -- Arthur C. Clarke

Arthur C. Clarke was wrong. He was not a Sagittarius; born on 16 December, he was actually an Ophiuchus, the newly revealed thirteenth sign of the Zodiac. Among the characteristics of Ophiuchus are mentioned "interpreter of dreams" and "one who reaches for the stars;" apt for Arthur C Clarke, wouldn't you say?

Someone (a French philosopher/scientist, I think) once said something along the lines of: "tell me the position of every atom in the universe and I can predict exactly what is going to happen in the future"? This was when the laws of classical physics - and forces such as electromagnetism, gravity, and the strong and weak nuclear forces - were beginning to be understood. Scientists of the day must have really felt that they were close to "understanding the mind of God."

If we believe that the entire universe is made up of particles that are all subject to the forces of nature then we have to accept that at any instant these particles can move in only one particular way. Which means that the arrangement of the particles on any date can be predicted, provided we have the information and the computing power. Isn't this what astrology, somewhat ambitiously, attempts to do?

You are a mass of matter being subjected to the pulls and pushes of every other bit of matter in the universe. It would be possible to accurately predict your course through space and time if it were possible to know the position of every atom in the universe at the moment of your birth. This of course is not possible. So astrologists make a crude (very crude) compromise. They ignore the influence of distant galaxies. These influences, in any case, come evenly from all around us and conceivably cancel one another out. The bodies in our solar system, on the other hand, are close by and their push and pull cannot be ignored. This can be roughly computed. The method of course cannot be accurate, but it has the potential to indicate a general trend.

An astrologer once told me that only about 60% of what he predicted would be correct. "60%" is no doubt an optimistic estimate but can you doubt that the sun and the moon, Saturn and Jupiter, and Venus and Mars hold you in their invisible arms and lead you through this cosmic dance.

The Earth on a long lease

We have 3 billion base pairs in our genome. With so much raw material, we should have had some 3 million genes. Instead we have a paltry 30000 genes, which uses up just 10% of our genome. So what is the rest doing? It has been called “nonsense” DNA, and Francis Crick—no less—dismissed it as “little better than junk.” Strangely, it seems to abide by Sturgeon's Law, which says that “ninety percent of everything is crap.” Just think: Issac Newton, Mother Teresa, Sachin Tendulkar, and Adolf Hitler had only 10% of their genome driving them. Imagine what they might have achieved if the remaining 90%—the “crap”—had kicked in!

But surely frugal nature would not pointlessly load us with so much junk. There has to be a reason for its presence. I am fascinated by the explanation that this junk - these meaningless sequences in our DNA - are the “fossils” of genes past. As the evolutionary biologist Susumu Ohno put it, “The Earth is strewn with the fossil remains of extinct species; is it any wonder that our genome too is filled with the remains of extinct genes?” We have after all evolved from simple molecules that learned to make copies of themselves, through humble single-celled creatures, to our present complex form. Surely we did not start out with the three billion base pairs, or the 30000 genes, that we have now. Bits and pieces must have been added on (and shed) over the eons.

Imagine the early Earth: teeming with exuberant life forms, each desperately trying to establish a foothold on the evolutionary ladder. No price was too high to pay for survival. Our first unicellular ancestors must have had fierce drawn-out battles with innumerable bacteria and viruses. Countless numbers on both sides must have perished before some truces were arrived at. Free-living bacteria were permitted to live within our cells disguised as mitochondria if they would agree to generate energy for our daily use. Deadly retroviruses agreed to lay down arms if they could insinuate themselves into our genome and function as genes and thus be spared harassment by the cell’s deadly arsenal. Even as new genes were added, other functional genes—having served their purpose —must have mutated away into “junk.” In this junk, therefore, is the story of our evolutionary past. And what a story that must be!  For in this corrupt code is the story of our survival; in it are the traces of our wings and scales, of our horns and tails.

But why is this junk DNA being preserved? Some 40 million base pairs are believed to have been discarded since our ancestors migrated out of Africa. But so much excess baggage is still being retained. There must be a purpose. Perhaps it is because in it lies not just our past, but also our future. As the genetic clock ticks on, random mutations will continue to take place in the nonsense sequences and, every now and then, a new meaningful sequence—a new gene—will appear in the meaningless jumble to take us a step further in our evolutionary journey. We have traveled only a small fraction of our journey. Most of the road lies ahead.

But the onion, I understand, has 12 times as much DNA as a human. The salamander has 40 times as much! Does that portend a greater destiny for these “lower” life forms? Why not? Who knows which species will inherit the Earth next? Some 65 million years ago the dinosaurs ruled the Earth, with no one to challenge their dominance. Our furry forebears probably spent most of their time scurrying about in the undergrowth trying to avoid being caught for snack by a foraging dinosaur. And then a bolt from the blue: a shooting star crashed into the world and turned it upside down! Today, we visit the KFC outlet and gnaw on pieces of the closest surviving relatives of the dinosaurs!
The dinosaurs were around for 200 million years, and where are they now?  We have been around for just 5 million years, and already we strut about like we own the Earth. Tread softly Homo sapiens, you only have the Earth on lease. Tomorrow it may be the turn of the onion!

kanji - food for all seasons

'Kanji' - that's how malayalees were referred to in my college days. The correct term, these days, is 'mallu,' I'm told.

Kanji was a good term, for an appreciation of this simple food was something that malayalees - pauper or prince - had in common. (Perhaps this commonality had something to do with our acceptance of marxism.)

It's different now: most mallus these days sneer at kanji. A pity. I still find it such a wonderful food. So much more satisfying than, say, 'gobi manchurian' or chilly chicken! It's so much more suited to our climate. In the hot and humid summers, a bowl of kanji can rehydrate you like nothing else. During the monsoon months or in the crisp cold of December/January, a hot steaming bowl of kanji is an infusion of warmth before you snuggle down for a good night's sleep.

Of course, it must be cooked just right. The rice grains must be of the right softness, with the edges blurring into the opalescent water. In the steam that rises from the bowl, you must be able to smell the scent of the paddy fields and the sweat of the laborers who have toiled under the hot sun.

a vagrant gypsy life

This poem by John Masefield holds so much magic for me. I never tire of reading it. I first came across it in school (in class 7 or 9?) along with this same picture of a sailing ship under storm clouds.

Sea Fever

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

I cannot understand the almost visceral appeal that this rhyme holds for me.

I once took the ferry to cross a small strip of backwater in Kochi. That is the extent of my contact with the 'sea.' But, despite that, I can feel the wheel kick in my hands; I can hear the humming of the wind and feel the planks under my feet vibrate with the flapping of the canvas sail. I can feel the flung spray on my face and taste the salt on my lips. Was I perhaps a sailor in some past life?

Or is it because the poem is a celebration of unambitiousness? The poet's joy in the little things? Isn't that the way I would have liked to live? Is it not how I have scripted my own disastrous life story?

koi lauta de mujhe....

A program by the Rafi-Kishore foundation (Thrissur) on Diwali evening. That's the first I've heard of this organization. The hall was packed. Standing room only, with many people standing outside the hall, braving the light drizzle. How hungry people are for the melodies of yesteryear.

Local talent only - and some of the singers were obviously amateurs - but everyone sang with their hearts. The predominantly middle-aged crowd hummed along with the singers, reliving their youth.

the scent of the yakshi

Its November. The pala tree at the crossroads close to my home has bloomed. Bunches of little waxy yellow flowers crust the tree. Soon the ground below will be carpeted with fallen flowers. For now, the blooms perfume the whole village. Its that time of the year. The tula varsham has ended and the vrischika kaatu has not yet started to blow. The nights are cool and the air still. My house is more than 100 meters away from the crossroads, yet at nights the air around my house is heavy with the sickly sweet smell of the pala flower.

Its the smell you get when you awaken at 4 AM with a bad hangover after a night of debauchery. You see the crushed, browning, jasmine flowers on the pillow. By your side, the seductive young beauty of last night lies snoring through an open mouth, transmogrified into a terrible yakshi.

Elections

Its election time in small town Kerala. Jeeps have been criss-crossing the streets these past two days. Between the opposition bashing and the election promises they play little snippets of music. The Communists play their old anthem from 60s -Sakhakkale Munnottu..., (Forward, comrades...), while the Congress campaign vehicles blare out Shakira's Waka waka.."