Time

Time stood still.

So I had to take my favorite wristwatch to the watch repair shop in the neighborhood for battery replacement. 

Fred, of Fred’s Watch and Jewelry Repair, took all of 5 minutes to do his job. I didn’t even have enough time to settle down with a magazine—an October 2011 copy of Motorsports that I picked up from a delectable menu of several neat stacks of various magazines that Fred has stocked. Not that I am into cars. But when I visit my dentist, or wait outside a pediatrician’s office, or at the DMV, I tend to pick up something—Golf Digest, Vogue, Men’s Health—that I am the least likely to read in the normal course of life. And when the magazine is a couple of years old, I get the delight of revisiting a slice of time that has passed. It is like turning the pages of an old album.

Fred calls himself an artisan of a dying art. Millennials hardly wear watches. But I am no millennial. Visiting Fred's repair shop gave me the feeling of stepping into some place sacred. The cleanliness of the floor. The meticulous organization of the shop. The showcases full of wristwatches and ornate table-top watches. The tick-tock of the standing grandfather clock. Did I say the neatly stacked magazines? I completely got into the perfect ‘Saturday-of-a-long-weekend-in-January’ mood for idle musing.

They say January babies have a special connection (or shall we say obsession?) with the concept of time. Yesterday a friend reached a milestone birthday. Also, yesterday I learnt that an elderly family friend recently got diagnosed with a serious illness. In situations like these, everyone to a certain extent thinks about time. How much time has passed. How much time is left. But we the Capricorns take it to another level altogether. We write blogs after visiting a watch repair shop!

In a desperate bid to try to fit everything that I am experiencing into a framework of time, I start (over)thinking. Did the stalled watch symbolize the specter of a terminal illness? Did I take my watch to the repair shop immediately because accepting the finality of a terminal illness is still difficult for me after losing my mom two years back? Could it be that reviving the watch reflects that I am embracing getting older rather than artificially trying to hold time at a standstill? Or could it be that unknowingly I have made a new year’s resolution this time? One that involves not avoiding doing things just because I can get around it? Like switching to another wristwatch without bothering to fix the one that stalled? Or may be ironing my clothes once in a while rather than buying only wrinkle-proof clothes?

Most likely it is the case of an unofficial resolution. Not doing certain things, and figuring out a way to go on living my life without doing those things felt great for a period of time. But now it is losing its charm. Now getting the wristwatch fixed feels nicer, because it leads to the inspiration of writing a blog early into the new year. May be the real resolution is getting back more to writing. I have been averaging two blogs a year for the last few years. May be finally I am tired of thinking of myself as someone who ‘used to write.’ Even if I write three blogs this year, that will be one more than last year. After all, it is still mid-January, and I am one down already. I have enough time left. Don’t I?

Fewer Words, More Pictures: Changing face of communication

I write for a living.

I am not an author, not even a dedicated blogger. This is only my second blog in all of 2014. But there is no denying that words earn me my livelihood. For almost a decade now, I have been writing about technological inventions. Through my writing, I try to persuade the Government why my clients' inventions are unique enough to merit a grant of a patent. Law school gives me opportunities to write about things other than patents. I get to write about complicated legal situations--sometimes hypothetical, sometimes real. I get to advocate why an investor purchasing the rights of someone else's life insurance policy at a discounted cash value is not necessarily a "shark." I get to write about the constitutional rights of an employee smoking herbal hallucinogens at work, citing First Amendment's religious protection grounds. My point is, words are my main mode of communication in my profession.

But I am noticing a changing trend in my personal communication. I am becoming lazier. That "a JPEG is worth 1024 Words" (Silicon valley version of the old adage) is proving true every time I upload a photo on Facebook with a rudimentary caption as my status update instead of bothering to 'write' about my status. And now I see myself doing that in my emails as well. Just this evening, my son's buddy came over for a sleepover. The two youngsters were having fun cooking their own dinner. I felt like sharing that with my friends--the parents of my son's buddy. Even a few months back, I would just write an email describing in words how much fun the kiddos are having in the kitchen. But what did I do this evening? I just took a picture with my iphone and instantly emailed that to my friends, barely adding any word. The act must have subconsciously troubled me enough to result in the birth of this blog post.

There is nothing wrong in using a picture to communicate. Visual mode is a very strong mode of communication. I am all for enhancing the effectiveness of sharing information when words are not enough. In fact I believe the optimum mix of words and graphics may be the most powerful mode of storytelling. An excellent example of that is an app like "Steller," which was judged as one of the top iphone apps of 2014. (See http://mashable.com/2014/12/08/apple-best-apps-of-2014/?utm_cid=mash-com-fb-main-link.)   But using pictures as an excuse to avoid having to use words? Is that a good thing? Perhaps not universally.

The Supreme Court of the United States still does not allow cameras during the oral arguments. (And hence memes like 'Dog Supreme Court' become wildly popular on the Internet.) The lack of visual access forces us to focus on the spoken words when we hear the audio-only versions of the arguments. To me, this enhances the 'purity' of my study of the argument, as I am not distracted by the body language of the judges and attorneys in the courtroom. But I know an equally strong case can be made for the benefits of multi-sensory (audio-visual) feed from a courtroom.

Going back to words versus pictures as the mode of communication, I strongly believe that the ubiquity of cell phone camera and the user friendliness of the technology of sharing photos have permanently shifted the paradigm of self-expression and communication. People are communicating more because they are no longer limited by their ability to express their thoughts in words. I am eagerly waiting to see how this changes the practice of law, which is still dominated by people with a gift of expressing their thoughts in words. If judiciary is more welcoming to the use of visual tools for legal communication, are we going to see people from more diverse backgrounds becoming lawyers? Are we going to see legal briefs that use fewer written words and more alternatives, like graphics or even multimedia? Faced with a page limit of five pages, a lawyer brilliantly used a cartoon to make a complex legal argument (http://www.abajournal.com/files/AppleAmicusBrief.pdf). I am sure we will see more of these path-breaking uses of communication modes challenging status quo in the legal field. Exciting times ahead!

Memorializing 1L year in six-word stories

Today was the last official day of classes for my first year of law school (affectionately known as 1L). While there are still four formidable final exams lined up between me and summer, I felt like writing something about my 1L experience. While I was nurturing that itch to write a blog, I bumped into a link forwarded by a friend about "stories" told using six words or less. Somewhere the inspirations collided, and here's my 1L "stories"...in no particular (chrono)logical order.

1. All seven 1L professors were female.

2. Only 36 tweets since school started!

3. Spring break in mid-life? Not bad!

4. Going to office never felt better!

5. Friends noticing excessive use of disclaimers!

6. Learnt how to legally cite tweets!

7. Page limits against right of expression?

8. Watching “Suits” counts as professional training?

9. Overslept. Was cold-called that very day.

10. Some Acts were hard to follow!

11. Bought a non-textbook. Book report awaited!

12. Relied on jet-lag to finish assignment.

13. “Battery charge?” Lawyers/Engineers interpret differently.

14. Can finals earn ‘extra’ credits only?

15. Who’ll turn 800 when 2L starts?

Well, I guess the last one demands a bit of explanation. My first day of orientation as 1L (first semester) was on August 13, 2013, the day my son turned 8. The second semester started on January 13, 2014---the day my dad turned 80. You get the drift.

And now that I am feeling the cathartic effect of finally writing my 1L "stories," another completely unrelated six-word story just jumped out . . .Blackbox dead. Can you hear me?

Ode to Boredom

July 1, 2013

Kalyani, India

I suppose at least a few of the following factors, in no particular order, need to converge for a blog about boredom to materialize: randomness of remnant jetlag, turning forty (and being in a protracted state of introspection), a solo trip to one’s childhood hometown for the sole purpose of spending time with a recently-widowed parent, a cable scorched-out-of-action by a formidable lightning (it is the season of Monsoon in India) ensuring there is no Internet connection at home, and, a palpable unfamiliarity with what to do with a very large chunk of time suddenly becoming available to you when your domestic and professional responsibilities are halfway across the world.

When I am in California, the days pass by before I can even blink. I crave for solitude and freedom from the to-do list. I feel the pangs of guilt when I talk to dad over telephone and he sounds feeble and I long to teleport myself instantly to India to see how he is doing. Now that I am in India, dad is at the best of his health to the point that he does not even want to go for a routine checkup, stubbornly citing the reason that the doctor might take him as a hypochondriac —“Dad is on an emotional steroid”, according to my brother. I guess everything that they say about the positive health effects of having your near and dear ones close to you is true, but the result is that I am jobless after finishing a 500-page book in 4 days. If you must know, the just-finished book is Fifty Shades of Grey by E. L. James. And now I have moved on to revisiting the Bengali classics by Sarat Chandra Chattopadhya. The breadth of the spectrum that is needed to cover both these genres is not insignificant, and you need a spectacular sense of complete boredom to undertake this kind of a lazy project and enjoy everything about its ‘no-deliverables, no-constraints’ aspect. I think part of me is becoming a fan of boredom. If not anything, it is the undeniable proof that if you are bored, and you are not only acutely aware of it, but you are actually starting to relish it, then you are finally free of all the stimuli that you must process constantly when you are in the momentum of your usual daily routine.

Creativity must have these pregnant phases of nothingness to retool its cradle, i.e., your brain.

I am solving the daily Scrabble in the Leisure section of a print newspaper---slightly damp from the humidity hanging heavy in the air--- sprawling on my mom’s daybed, admiring her black and white framed picture that we put on her dressing table, now that she herself is gone. A basket full of fresh white flowers plucked from our garden is making the air fragrant. It is 12:30 PM. I already had two rounds of sumptuous home-made snacks and yet to have a late lunch with dad, to be followed by a siesta and then maybe an evening walk. No agenda to achieve anything today, or tomorrow, or the day after. It is boring no doubt, but how deliciously so!

Cinderella

5:45 PM. I am all smiles...totally in the networking mode. It has been a relatively slow day at work. No deadline. I can actually enjoy this networking event with prospective future collaborators.

6:15 PM. Spot another attendee surreptitiously looking at his watch. A fellow Cinderella, I think to myself. The clock would strike 6:30 PM, and we would lose our 'glass slipper', a.k.a. the liberty to pretend that we don't have to care about our children's dinner and homework tonight. The gloss of the business suit and charming conversation would morph into domesticity--sometimes blissful, sometimes tiresome.

6:30 PM. Mad dash towards the parking lot. Fellow Cinderella drives past---waving, acknowledging, "See you around!" There's a pride in recognizing that the ability to be there at home to tuck your child in is mighty empowering!

The Seven Year Itch

Today (May 16, 2012) marks the seventh anniversary of my switch to patent law from academia. This ability to remember these little anniversaries--arguably a predominatly 'girly' thing--is something that I am rather fond of, because it doesn't need any extra effort to remember these dates, but you still get a chance to bathe in nostalgia. If the word 'itch' in the title is clashing with your mental imagery of the soothing foam bath of nostalgia, worry not. The 'itch' was caused by the need for web-mortalizing the seven-year journey in some form, and with each letter being typed here, the 'itch' is actually diminishing. So may be a better title for this blog is "The seven year(s after the sw)itch," but let's not get carried away too much.
The most frequently asked question that I answer when I talk to someone who used to know me as an engineer-gearing-up-for-academia is "Why did you make the transition into patent law?" Coincidentally, even today I had the same conversation with a junior from the University of Maryland. The answer seems simple now. It was the pregnancy. Contrary to the myth that pregnancy may cause 'brain fog,' it actually made me see very clearly what I wanted to do with my engineering degree while capitalizing on my analytical skills and love of writing. It probably helped that an old friend happened to pay a social visit at the right time when I was naturally in an introspective phase, thanks to being first-time-pregnant. During a casual conversation, our friend revealed how he made the transition from academia to patent law. At that time I didn't pay enough attention, but a few weeks later it started to make a lot of sense, as I wanted to stay in the DC Metro area, where the patent law ecosystem is enviable (It is a different story that now I am in the silicon valley, and loving it here). Fortunately, landing the first legal job as a technical advisor in an intellectual property boutique firm was quite painless, and after that, it was just a matter of learning to be progressively comfortable with the law firm culture.
Seven years later, I can confidently state that even the hardcore engineers devoted to bench work should never underestimate the flickers of 'love-like-feelings' if they recognize those accidentally during a 'desk assignment'. I now know that those afternoons of being immersed in multiphysics modeling in between lab experiments during my post-doctoral stint was the prelude to my career in patent law.
Looking forward to many more seven years!

Lost and Found

Raising a human being is an enriching experience. Period. Yes I know it is not always fun, and it can be back-breaking work at times, and there would be moments when you would question your ability and willingness to continue to be available for them 24/7, but I am pretty sure you discover something about yourself in the course of parenting (or grandparenting, or spending time with a kid even if it is not yours--you get the drift).


I meant to write this blog last Sunday, just after coming back from a refreshingly unplanned but uniquely memorable trip to San Francisco. Quite coincidentally, my immediate last blog in May of this year was also inspired by San Francisco (the graffitis of the city). Though I am not saying I haven't been to the city in the last four and a half months (which merely proves the fact that I don't end up writing a blog every time I go to the city), I am probably more enamored with the city than I consciously think I am.

This time the trip to the city was fueled by the desire to dazzle my six-year-old son Gogol, showing off how he can have a rocking time with mom in a weekend while daddy was saving the world (in more practical terms, daddy was offering a workshop at a conference in Europe.) We had two complimentary tickets to the Exploratorium since Easter, which we never ended up using. I thought the single-parenting weekend was the perfect time to utilize the tickets. But I guess we started a little too late in the afternoon, and underestimated the time required to reach there, meandering through all the detours due to the Presidio Parkway construction project. After missing a turn and realizing that we didn't have enough time to explore the museum before it closed, I started thinking of an alternative amusement, because, remember, I was on a mission to 'dazzle'? I had to maintain a calm exterior, as I could sense Gogol was getting anxious, but trying his best to keep it to himself. I don't know the city well enough to decide on the fly where to go. I needed to park somewhere to be able to access my smartphone to search for kid entertainment options, preferably outdoors, since the indoor stuff were likely to close shortly. I took a random turn into one of the side streets. Fortunately, I ended up finding a parking on Lake Street in front of a cute condo (and got a chance to renew my appreciation for my Mini Cooper, which fits perfectly in a tiny parking space between two driveways, and lets me prove that I haven't forgotten parallel parking!), and to my utter delight, the sign "Mountain Lake Park" was right in front of me! Too bad my smartphone didn't get a chance to prove its utility this time around, because I was 'destiny's child' that afternoon!

The park is quite a hidden gem, tucked in the inner Richmond neighborhood. There are tennis courts, picnic areas by the lake (which is more like a pond than a lake, but who cares), walking/jogging trails, and of course, quite an expansive play area for the kids. Gogol was happy. I was happy. I was relaxed enough to indulge in small talks initiated by an energetic and chatty grandmother who was watching her 4-year-old grandkid, fashionably named Rhys (as in Jonatahn Rhys Meyers). He reminded me so much of Gogol at that age--precocious and all. Needless to say, there was an instant wavelength match between Gogol and Rhys, and parenting (and grandparenting, in case of Rhys' grandmom, whose name is, let's say, Ann) became easy.

After a while, Gogol came down from the play structure to have a little snack break, while Rhys was still up there. All of a sudden I heard Rhys shouting, "That little boy needs help!" I thought Rhys himself was the little boy. Who was he talking about? I looked up and saw another toddler, even younger than Rhys, was sort of stuck on a mini deck of the play structure, and couldn't come down by himself. I rushed. Almost at the same time another gentleman, who happened to be the baby's uncle, also rushed in there to the rescue. Then came running the mom and the dad of the baby, gasping and panicking. The baby was brought down to safety. We learnt that he managed to walk all the way from one of the picnic areas to the playground while nobody was watching!

After the baby's family left, Ann, understandably a proud grandma, exclaimed, "Now isn't Rhys an alert boy? He understood that the little kid was in trouble, and he himself is only four years old!" I nodded in agreement. I was genuinely impressed. Feeling encouraged, Ann started talking about Rhys and her own son, Rhys' dad. I didn't mind listening at all. Ann described how Rhys's dad was a naughty boy himself, giving the young Ann her share of scary moments.
"What does he do now?", I asked. "Oh, he is just twenty one, still trying to figure out what to do in life," Ann said.

And then there was the awkward moment of silence. Both of us realized that Ann had inadvertently disclosed something that she herself was uncomfortable with. To be twenty-one and to be the father of a four-year-old son--somewhere the math doesn't look good. I saw the fleeting sorrow followed by a steely determination in Ann's eyes. So what if her son became a father perhaps before he was ready for it! Her grandson is still brilliant, and she would do whatever it takes to raise Rhys the proper way. I think Ann and I connected the deepest at that moment--without uttering a single word.

The rest of the afternoon was like a dream. Ann suggested that we go to a dessert cafe called "The Toy Boat." She was my newly-discovered friend and city guide. While Rhys and Gogol walked hand-in-hand, I learnt that Ann used to live in the DC area, when she was young, just a few miles from Greenbelt, where we lived till 2008! There were more things in common. She too worked at a law firm, and she too loves used book stores. We walked quite a few blocks to go to The Toy Boat. The store was not quite what I pictured in my mind, but the retro appeal of the all-American store bang in the middle of a heavily ethnic neighborhood grew on me soon. Rhys and Gogol rode on the mechanical horse and shared ice cream. I bought myself a coffee and treated my tour guide Ann with a lemonade. She sang songs from her childhood movies, inspired by the decorative toys (figurines of various movie characters) on the shelves and posters on the walls. The rest of the patrons at the cafe were being totally amused by the pair of odd couples that were us! It was truly magical.

Rhys and Ann left for their home after a while. Before going, Rhys declared, "I want a playdate with Gogol." Ann and I smiled at each other, and told him that we would try. Gogol is now mature enough to know that was not going to happen, because he didn't see Ann and me exchanging email addresses. But he chose to be silent for Rhys' sake.

I bought Gogol an old-fashioned magnetic toy. We walked back to our car. We didn't need to ask anybody how to get back to Lake Street. We got to know that part of the city by heart. We may have lost our way to the Exploratorium, but I was moved enough by what we found that day. I had to capture the memory in writing.

Good luck raising Rhys, Ann. Who knows, may be we will run into you guys again. Mountain Lake Park is not going anywhere.