remembrance of a thing past

As far as I can remember my childhood, I had always been amidst prayers and piety. All elders in my family were deeply religious; both my grandfathers would wake up early and conduct a full length puja in the prayer-room before going to work. It was convention that the eldest member in the family had to perform the puja and therefore my dad filled in my grandfather's role when the latter used to be away or ill. It was on weekends and holidays that I experienced the smell of my house in the mornings - the incense and camphor were so strong that I used to be woken up by their smell. When I was with my maternal grandparents, I would be woken up by my grandfather's chants. His voice was stentorian, passionate and pious but his way of recitation had also a deep sense of melody and meter. In contrast to my paternal grandfather who recited his prayers in a colourless monotone my mother's father used to sing his verses rather than chant them. I believe the tunes were his own compositions but what is remarkable is that they could easily diffuse into the memory of even a casual listener like me. I confess that I have never said a prayer sincerely throughout my life whenever I was asked to offer one either at home or in a temple. Post some recent reading, deliberations and introspection (more about them later) I consider myself an atheist and have successfully removed the last vestiges of God and the associated notions of intelligent design from my mind and my heart. But I was surprised today to hear myself singing out Kalidasa's Shyamala-dandakam that was one of my grandfather's favourite shlokas that he set to his own tune. Though I don't remember it in its entirety I still find it remarkable that these three-four verses flowed out of a long abandoned memory cave. The poetry sounded beautiful and the meter was perfect. I don't know the meaning of the words (indeed why would one bother to find out the meaning of a song which hitherto one did not even know existed in one's memory) but I confess that the words have a beautiful sound. Legend says that Kalidasa, India's most famous poet of the classical era was a dim-witted and illiterate simpleton who fell in love with a beautiful princess. When he expressed his love to her, she mocked his ignorance and humiliated him in front of the courtiers. He then went and cried at the feet of the village goddess and asked for redemption. He wept and cursed himself for a full three days at the goddess's feet. All of a sudden a flash of light appeared in the sanctum sanctorum and Kalidasa felt invigorated. Then, as if it were a miracle, he found that he could compose poetry. Shyamala-dandakam was his first composition that he dedicated to the goddess whose benediction had endowed him with the talent and the language that he had longed for. My grandfather, among all his stories that revolved around gods and their miracles told me this one too, enunciating that the Shyamala-dandakam was a symbol of knowledge that came from divine provenance. Reciting it daily, he said, would bring one intelligence and forbearance. My maternal grandfather is a remarkable man (every grandson would say this way about his grandfather but I wont say the same about my other grand-dad whose life and times have never taught me anything that I particularly treasure) and there is possibly no family member whom I respect and revere as much as him. Notwithstanding that I confess that I never believed in what he said about Shyamala-dandakam then or now or ever. But although he was unsuccessful in indoctrinating me with his piety, he did unconsciously manage to show me that beauty need not buttress itself on the stilts of faith.

Remedial math

I went to campus school sharp at 5:15 to find the other volunteers waiting for me. I was immediately informed that I would be teaching 9th and 10th class students in two back to back one hour lectures. This was supposed to be a math remedial class, primarily doubt clearing and problem solving sessions. I told them immediately that it would not be possible for me to commit to two hours every weekday and that I would like to take it slow. Sunita, the senior volunteer smiled a face that expressed both helplessness and deference, an subliminal way of saying that we are desperately short of volunteers but if you cannot do this, we'll respect that. I finally agreed to take math classes from 5 to 6:30, the first half for the 9th standard students and the second half for the 10th standard students.

I was told that the 9th class students are awaiting me in the classroom and I immediately requested one of the volunteers to brief me on the topics to teach and give me a copy of the textbook. He gave the usual sheepish smile of smug unpreparedness and told me that I could borrow a textbook from a student. With a sip of exasperation I stepped into the class to find a whole flock of chirpy 9th class students waiting for me. They were 15 girls and a mere two boys, all of whom got up and chanted "Good evening, Sir" as if it were an evolutionary response to the stimulus of seeing an authoritative figure entering the classroom. I was introduced by the volunteers as an expert in 'macs' who will teach them to solve all relevant problems in the textbook. They were reminded that it was their responsibility to ask me to solve all the 'hard problems' in the textbook. Once the volunteer left thrusting a bunch of blackboard chalks in my hand, I borrowed a textbook from one of the students. I admitted to the class that I had come unprepared and asked them for their choice of lesson for the day. There were shouts of 'Chapter 1' and 'Chapter 2' and I was most dejected to find that they were 'Set Theory' and 'Real Numbers' respectively. The venn diagrams and the number lines gave me a most tiresome feeling and I flipped on to chapter 3. It was on 'Surds' and I told the class that I would teach them chapter 3 since chapter 1 and chapter 2 were very 'easy' (Cantor and Dedekind would be turning on their graves for sure but I assure the reader that my reference was only to the way these two subjects were exposited in the textbook that lay in my hands). I glanced at the first few pages of the chapter and was just about to begin my lesson with the customary definition of the subject of the chapter when I realised that I had to tell them about rational- irrational numbers in order to define surds. I ended up telling them about numbers in general and also platitudes like "All surds are irrational, but all irrationals are not surds" (While chuckling silently the beautiful pun associated with the first half of the sentence). Then we went on to surds and I realised that they needed a recapitulation on the laws of indices too. The kids pressed me to solve problems on the board - converting mixed surds into pure surds and back, problems that applied laws of surds (I found it pretty difficult to convince that these were the same as the laws of indices. The silly educational board reverts back to using the antiquated square, cube, nth root signs in the 9th standard after teaching them indices using the standard and convenient one-half, one-third and one over nth power of numbers. Talk about falling over backwards!) - problems that absolutely made no sense and taught you nothing but nonetheless had to be worked out as drills. I felt they were reasonably smart kids who had unfortunately been brainwashed by the ritualistic approach of their school teachers and hence found it difficult to think and solve the problem. I gave them a couple of problems to solve on their own and could immediately discern by their struggle that they were desperately trying to follow each ritualistic rite from memory and hope that they would arrive at the magical answer.

Half an hour into the class, my volunteer friend knocks on the door and tells me that there a bunch of sixth standard kids whose teacher has bunked today's class. He asked me if it would be 'okay' if they just sat in the back benches and solved their exercises silently while I taught and posed their doubts to me in short intervals while I was instructing the 9th class directly. I said so long as they wouldn't get disturbed by my loud voice I dont have a problem. One small girl in that batch called me over meekly and showed out a problem in the textbook which demanded the expression of 3401 in powers of ten. I had only a minute to attend to her while the 9th standard class was busy copying down a solution I had wrote down on the board and I found myself helplessly explaining her the mantra for the solution - "Move rightward from the first digit to the units digit. Express the number as additions of that digit multiplied by ten raised to the power of the place". She seemed happy and satisfied and I kept wondering about the ordeal I'd have to go through if I started explaining bases to this little one.

When it was 6:00 I bid goodbye to this class and went to the 10th standard class. They were four boys who told me to teach them simultaneous linear equations in two variables. The textbook described a most tiresome and stupid method by sketching the lines on a graph and checking for their point of intersection. I decided to disregard it and explain the simple method of elimination of variables which was straightforward and consumed a lot less paper. I explained the principle in Hindi and gave them a sample problem to solve. They displayed struggle at the very first step and I finally yielded to the yoke of my patience and showed them how to eliminate x from the two equations. What remained was 4y - 5 = 0 and I looked at the four of them for an answer. Confidently one of them tells me 'y=9'. I was agape for this was something I would have expected my 9th class students to be very comfortable with. It was then that I realised I had taken for granted the aptitude of these kids and I felt bad about it. As if 'y=9' was not enough, another boy announced that it was actually 'y=20' with an air of pedagogy while simultaneously correcting his friend as he gave me the answer. A little probing made me realise that these guys had their basic arithmetic completely fucked up. And I now realise its going to be tougher teaching mathematics to these guys than it was to teach English to those kids from the vernacular medium.

Eternal Sunshine of the spotless mind

It was no matter of serendipity that the gorgeous Eloisa had fallen in love with her charming and erudite teacher Abelard. He was the most renowned philosopher in Paris, a man of high intellect, a man respected in academic circles for his mastery over the Latin and Greek scriptures. One may be inclined to think that men endowed with such sublime intelligence are not men who possess bodies that are objects of a woman's fantasy. But Eloisa found that Abelard possessed both - a corporeal confidence that brought her the much needed assurance of protection as well as the polish of a highly refined intelligence that appeals to a woman of finer taste. Their love burgeouned and broke through the walls of classroom etiquette. Philosophy became synonymous to studying the aphorisms of love penned over centuries by master poets, natural science became an excuse to sneak out of the confines of the palace and make love in the woods and art was learnt by the sensation and perception of each other's bodies that had been destined to meet by divine providence.

Alas! The lovers were seen together in proximate unity by a maid servant who reported the misconduct to the girl's family. Outraged and offended at the audacity of the teacher, they apprehended Abelard and tortured him into confessing his love. Upon extracting his confession, Eloisa's eldest brother, the sinister red-bearded Victor ordered that Abelard be castrated for his impudence. One chop, and the eunuch saw the bloodied vestige, of what had once made him a very desirable man, lay upon the ground. For all that was worth, the eunuch decided to spend the rest of his life away on the mountains and seek refuge in a monastery. He bade goodbye to his beloved one last time and blessed his seed that lay in her womb not with the intent of revenge but redemption. Eloisa gripped her stomach suffocating her tears before the horror that had befallen her life. The eunuch looked up to the heavens and thanked God for liberating Abelard from the throes of lust.

That night she dreamed of Abelard, the most handsome and desirable man she had yet known. She felt her anguish echo the still nascent unbearable sexual feelings for her former lover. Even the pity she felt for him seemed to arise from the lava of unfulfilled desire and longing for the man and his body. She knew that God was watching. She was disgusted by the naked callousness of her own lust. Knowing that the Abelard could no longer satisfy any of her desires now, she was still surprised how her mind was not willing to let go of her desires. She knew that if Abelard the eunuch were to come before her, she would not be able to contain herself from the erotic impulses that seemed only to intensify with the minute. But however true these feelings of mine for Abelard, she thought, must I not beg at his feet for forgiveness for the misfortune that has atrophied him? He who lost his dignity and self-respect because of me, does he not deserve my sincerest apologies? But how will I contain my desire, God, when it has not yet matured into the love and empathy that I am expected to feel for him? Therefore God, I cannot seek forgiveness for I cannot curb these urges that make me covet the impossible. Spare me from this ordeal, God and grant me forgetfullness for all its worth.

No, fly me, fly me, far pole as from pole;

Rise Alps between us! and whole oceans roll!

Ah, come not, write not, think not once of me,

Nor share one pang of all I felt for thee.

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd .

All the while I was watching the movie this afternoon, I kept reprimanding myself to not have watched it earlier. I had heard reviews saying the movie is incomprehensible and bounces from scene to scene changing the point of reference as frequently. The reviews are not entirely untrue but once I realised way the narrative was architectured, each scene was a delight. I shall not provide details of the plot here for the movie is just too good to miss and I fear I might give away too many spoilers. According to me this was Jim Carrey's second best performance till date (right below the wonderful "The Truman Show") but Kate Winslet was absolutely stunning. It is by far the best love story I have seen and I haven't had the patience for too may. Watch it watch it!!

Bollywood/Hollywood

Yesterday, I happened to chance upon a copy of Ek ruka hua faisla, the desi remake of the classic Hollywood drama 12 Angry men on the LAN. The latter is perhaps the most fitting example of a movie with a script whose maximal evaluation rests on the verdict of the movie watcher's intelligence. For those who haven't watched the film, here's an outline of the plot and a complimentary advice - Watch it immediately!

A 12 member jury team is all set to begin deliberations on the fate of an immigrant 19 year old boy accused of murdering his father with a switch-knife. At the start of discussion, a preliminary vote indicates that 11 of the 12 jury members think the boy is guilty. Only juror #8 (a most memorable role by Henry Fonda) votes not guilty, more so because he is not entirely convinced and considers it ethically wrong to send the boy to the gallows without discussing about the case properly. A much heated discussion ensues and the details of the case slowly emerge out. Each juror represents a distinct character and it gets really interesting to see how each character unfolds in parallel to the discussion on the case. One by one, Fonda argues each point of the evidence against the boy and gradually convinces the entire jury that there is indeed reasonable doubt in the evidence. The entire length of the film is set inside a single room and yet thanks to the intense dialogues and wonderful execution is a gripper from start to end. Each performance is memorable, from the boobyish juror #2, the most obnoxious and irritating juror #10, the curt and self-assured juror #4 and the old and wise juror #9. But the most memorable performance comes from Lee. J. Cobb, who plays juror #3. He initially starts of as a pleasant businessman claiming to be impartial in his analysis of the case. However, as time goes on he becomes more and more passionate and seems to be somehow personally involved with the case. He also starts to show some signs of slight mental instability which is revealed at the very end when he irrationally sticks to claiming the boy as being guilty. All in all, 12 angry men is top class cinema that is not to be missed.

Considering the pedigree of the source, I began to watch Ek ruka hua faisla with sincere interest and anticipation. This was not even mainstream Hindi cinema and had a cast composed of character actors. The wonderful Pankaj Kapoor played the role of Juror #3, which, as I said is arguably the most complex role in the film. The role of Juror #8 was played by K. K. Raina, who if you would remember, played the role of Sunny Deol's brother in Ghatak (Yes! I used to watch all hindi movies when in school. Now proceed with the reading!). But the movie was lacklustre and nor was Pankaj Kapoor as wonderful as he usually is. Raina was the only actor who tried to bring some meat into his role in a film that turned out to be comically melodramatic as opposed to the intellectual and dramatic intensity of its predecessor(which was made almost 30 years before this one!). Our directors sometimes forget that the intensity in an argument rests on the dialogue rather than the loudness of the speaker. Anu Kapoor who played the role of the wise old juror #9 was an ignominy and was wobbling like a door-knob as if he were desperate to miraculously age into his character. What was majestically accomplished in an hour and thirty six minutes in 12 anrgy men took almost two and a half hours in a remake as opprobious as this. What was even more belittling to the writers of this movie was that the script was an exact replica of the hollywood gospel it referred to. And they could not even translate word to word competently! And as was expected it was Ache ruka hua faisla by the time it ended.

Selfish to the core - Part 3

Many believe that the living world would have originated as a chaotic society of tiny molecules constituting what is referred to as the primeval soup. Among these molecules arose a particularly formidable character called the replicator (which we have referred to earlier) whose uniqueness lay in the fact that it could make copies of itself and spread through the primeval soup. The DNA of today, in character, is an example of a replicator that survived over the ages and functioned as the basis for the synthesis of higher organisms. There would have been many replicator molecules that would have fought each other over dominion of the natural world over the ages because common and limited resources for survival necessitated competition. Some replicators would have come together and recognised prudence in complicity against others in the soup thus forming even bigger replicator molecules. Indeed, the DNA that we find today in living organisms may be very much unlike these original replicators that existed and propagated in the primeval soup, but the principle on which it functions and propagates has not changed. As Dawkins puts it succinctly, the three characteristics that a replicator must possess if it has to survive in the natural world are longevity, fecundity and copying-fidelity. Is there a basic motive (purely functional in nature and nothing to do with consciousness, as defined in Part 1) at a more fundamental level of which the three aforementioned properties of a replicator are direct consequences? The DNA of any living organism in the world is a map of its psychobiological characteristics. Living beings have evolved over ages up the ladders of natural selection- able bodied organisms of today from the chaotic molecules of the primeval soup through extremely elaborate evolutionary processes over many millions of years - and it is known that it is the replicator (or simply put, the DNA) indeed that holds the masterplan over generations. Thus, can we identify a suitable 'motive' for these replicators that will unveil the process of evolution through the eyes of natural selection?

In this confessedly small exposition (though I realise now that it is far from that), I suddenly find myself juggling at a single place with a number of concepts that were developed over three elaborate chapters in "The Selfish Gene". But I have, to the best of my abilities, tried to maintain a logical chronology of thought in the way I that I received these ideas albeit putting them through a lot of condensation. Coming back to where we were, I had mentioned in my last post that a DNA was divided into sections called the chromosomes which in turn were further divided into genes. Thus, any modern replicator is nothing but a conglomeration of genes. A more enterprising and indeed interesting way to look at it is that it were these unitary genes that were the original replicators in the primeval soup. The properties of longevity, fecundity and high copying-fidelity that were mentioned earlier are indeed the properties that genes would desire if they were to pass the test of survival in nature. A gene, if it has to survive in the gene pool, has to ensure that its copies spread faster than any of its rival genes competing for the same resources. Complicity with other genes may be a really smart option and we shall come to this when we discuss 'survival machines' in the next paragraphs. Fundamentally though, the natural propensity of a gene must be to act for its own interests. Even complicity with other genes, that may seem altruistic at the surface are really acts of forwarding self-interest, if investigated more closely. This is, simply put, the principle of gene selfishness or the 'gene centric view of evolution' or 'gene selection'. The fundamental 'motive' that we were talking about in the last paragraph is indeed selfishness in the sense that a gene must try and propagate its kind in the gene pool at all costs. Let me repeat once again that this selfishness is not a conscious motive and that the reader should not make a conclusion that genes are ruthlessly malevolent entities. Nor is this statemet a harbinger for my crescendo statement where I would issue a coup de grace on humankind as being selfish thanks to the selfish genes that inhabit them. No , I am neither a devil's chaplain nor (or even worse) an evangelist in disguise.

The terms selfishness and altruism that appear here are purely technical definitions- biological motives independent of consciousness and very similar to computer algorithms at the very basic level of the constitution of the living. Selfishness of a gene encompasses all those actions that enable it to spread its copies in the gene pool, even if this required it to inhibit the spread of other genes especially its rivals that are called alleles. Pure Altruism on the other hand refers to acts that demand the gene to facilitate the spread of copies of other genes (rivals or not) at the cost of inhibiting its own spread. There have been instances (the example of Jonathon Livingston Seagull in Part 1), where acts of seeming altruism by an organism on the surface is really selfishness at the core- gene selfishness. The basic statement of the theory of 'gene selection' is that at the fundamental level, genes are basically selfish and this selfish nature empowers them to serve as units of natural selection in all living beings along the evolutionary chain. Can we support this hypothesis with observable evidence from the natural world - observations that cannot be explained under the tenets of 'group selection' or 'individual selection' theories of evolution?( to be continued and concluded)

On Reading

I was eight years old, I think, when for the first time, a novel was gifted to me. It was an abridged version of 'The Count of Monte Cristo'. When I went and showed it to my father, his eyes twinkled and he said that it was one of the best books he had read while he was at college. The praise for the book however, did not spark any enthusiasm in me to sit and read it. The first feeling I felt on receiving the book was a joy of ownership and the first thing I pictured was how it would look on my little book-shelf, standing disctint amongst my ordinary schoolbooks. Further, I felt my age being acknowledged by that someone who felt it was fitting to gift me such a wonderful and famous book. It was a feeling of intellectual upliftment, the first one that I recollect from childhood, caused because of an imagined acknowledgement rather than a genuine accomplishment. But when my father praised the book, though the pride of ownership doubled, a feeling of complacency found its way in. Suddenly the book seemed intimidatingly complex, now that I knew my father himself had been capable of reading it only on reaching college. I flipped the pages of the book to see if I could rouse some interest in me by looking at the illustrations. There were very few in number and that too they were ordinary sketches which I must say looked pretty amateurish. However, to commemorate my ownership I took out the best pen out of my dad's briefcase, an original Mont Blanc and wrote on the front page just below the title - "This book belongs to Karthik Shekhar. Standard 3, Division C, Little Angel's High School". I would do the same for every other novel that I recieved or bought for the next 5 years or so. By the time I was 13 and in my 8th grade, I had bucketed quite a collection consisting of puffin classics, encyclopedias, hardy boys, enid blytons and others, so much so that I started keeping them on the fancy glass shelves where my dad kept his books. Each book bore the stamp of my ownership without fail before it was snugly placed in the shelf. The other fact being that I never bothered to read any of the books in those 5 years.

Given a chance, I'd still like to find out what prolonged the inertia in me so much, against reading. Though none of my peers were 'readers' per say and that was probably one of the reasons I did not find reading either the 'The Famous Five' or 'The Hardy Boys' or 'The Count of Monte Cristo' gratifying in any sense. It wasn't an expedient matter for me and could be conveniently left for the future. More importantly, it did not add to my repertoire of skills that assisted me in the kind of games I used to play with my friends, most of whom made it a point to show off their aversion to reading. Some of them were so effective in making a virtue out of it, that I believed them. Ineptitude at playing cricket and reading books used to be directly and confidently correlated and I did not want to be a labeled a sissy at any cost. Though at the same time, I used to enjoy it when guests visiting our house believed I had read those books and praised me for that. As I was introduced to them, they were told without delay that I always stood in the top 3 ranks in my class and from the look on their faces it appeared to me that they considered this knowledge important, subliminally promising to spread it around. Much often they asked me which books I had read and on hearing the words 'Alexander Dumas', 'Leo Tolstoy' and 'Mark Twain', the wife used to remark to the husband, "Now you know why he stands at the top of his class always!" None of this however, created any urge in me to go and read those books which I had conveniently claimed to have read. With the physical ownership of that books, I had assumed indirect ownership of the textual property that the books contained. Yes, I say textual property and not story, for a story is something that cannot be owned and I understood that then too. Nonetheless, I could never get myself to read any of these books because the textual property that these books possessed could never translate into a story in the language of my imagination in those days.

That is not to say that I did not read anything in those days or that I was convinced by the mantra that reading books and physical machoism never went together. In disguise perhaps, but being not so good at playing cricket probably rescued me from accepting that piece of wisdom that my playmates in the colony seemed to emulate with assumed confidence. I had, in my mind, formed notions of what a 'story' ought to be like and the all the books that faced rejection and subsequent refuge in that glass shelf had in some way or the other violated my regulations. I still remember as a small kid of four years, I used to sleep on my grandparents' bed every night and insist on hearing an animal story. The one about the thirsty crow was my favourite one and I never got bored or weary of listening to it every night. Of course, a story is only so good as the storyteller himself and hats off to my grandfather who was a master raconteur! He made the crow in the story seem like an epitome of intelligence, a reverend creature who had so articulately instructed humankind on a scientific principle through an ingenious solution to a predicament. Though repeated listenings failed to tire me, my grandfather's subsequent encores used to capitulate into deep slumber as he always dozed off into his mighty snore before he could finish of the story with his favourite punchlines.

The crows flew away and these bedtime stories transcended onto different levels. My grandfather, a devout hindu, started telling me stories from the Hindu mythology. He told me those stories with a voice that was half piety and half fervour, as if he were dictating verses from a prayer book. He used to fold his hands in reverence and close his eyes in devotion whenever Goddess Durga appeared on her ferocious tiger to slay the demon Mahishasura or Krishna let his disc upon Narakasura who tried to run to the end of the world but was nonetheless hunted down and decapitated. These bedtime sessions succeeded in whetting my appetite for Indian history and mythology but more importantly they passed on a perspective that I would carry in my subconscious through my childhood. Stories were meant to be shared with the ones close to you - narrated and listened to - and the stories that I couldnt share with my family and friends then were the stories I wrote off without second thought in that glass shelf of my father's.

It was impossible for me to share 'The Count of Monte Cristo' as a bedtime story in the same way as a fable from the Panchatantra or an episode from The Ramayana with anyone who was close to me in those days. Even if I had made an attempt to read it, I think an Edmond Dantes would have seemed terribly limited in flair and panache as compared to an Arjuna. My upbringing was fairly cosmopolitan and urbane, so this fraternal comfort that I had with our native stories had nothing to do with a family induced cultural indoctrination. Our stories were relatively easier to comprehend (thanks to the Amar Chitra Katha comics) and assimilate and though this was one reason behind the aforementioned comfort, it was certainly not the only one. (to be contd..)

Opus

Project work these days is getting a lot frustrating. It is long since I realised that I am in a Catch-22. There are times when things are working fine, but that is when I know that I am but swimming in waters of mediocrity. But when things aren't (like right now) it gets extremely frustrating to wake up every morning and remember that what I seek is to be able to swim in waters of mediocrity.

To rub salt on the irritation, there are people who come and ask me about my project work. Not that they mean any malintent but the prospect of being answerable to every inquisitive bugger is hardly a very pleasant prospect. However, being an amiable and reasonable man, I cannot therefore be predisposed to shrug every poor bugger off, one who unwittingly asks me about my project. Therefore the best I can do is to humour him/her by putting myself up for public ridicule as follows:

Bugger: So what is it that you're working on these days? How's it going?

Me: I'm concerned with the application of Penetration theory. These days are real bad for I'm experiencing Stiffness problems. Too stiff.

Poor Bugger: What the fuck?

Me: He he (007 smirk)...too bad your major wasn't chemical engineering.

Note: For the innocent, 'Penetration theory' is a theory of solute diffusion in a solvent. It was proposed by Higbie, a man who was ostensibly good at certain things and liked to carry over his panache to work too. Now when this theory (of diffusion) is applied to the system that I am working on (oxidation of cyclohexane), it results in a system of five coupled differential equations in the concentration variables that need to be solved together. Because of bad scaling and non-linearity (if you are really 'innocent' then don't bother reading further), the concentration variables vary in different orders of magnitude. This makes the equations 'stiff' and difficult to solve.