Helium

by Jaspreet Singh

  For P. K. Page

  1916–2010

  How I wished during those sleepless hours that I belonged to a different nation, or, better still, to none at all.

  – W. G. Sebald, Vertigo

  Contents

  1 Bubbles

  2 Drops

  3 Particles

  Acknowledgements

  A Note on the Author

  By the Same Author

  Also Available by Jaspreet Singh

  Chapter 1.

  Bubbles

  Now as I assemble my notes I recall the beginning of my sabbatical year, and my uneasy decision to spend some time in Delhi with Father, who was recovering from a serious surgery. It is still hard for me to picture his body on a bed, although I see clearly his face, and faintly unstable hands. Certain things, firmly connected to a body, can never be erased, especially hands. Papa sent an email without much sarcasm or hidden meaning: ‘worst is over’. As usual his words cut right through me.

  I didn’t fly directly. My secretary booked a necessary stopover in Europe, where I attended a previously planned event on rheology. That is when, following a partially understood mechanism, a complexity of uneven forces, the volcano Eyjafjallajökull erupted in Iceland. The unexpected event occurred on the very first day of the Brussels conference. The TV channels showed surreal never-ending clouds of volcanic ash. Eyjafjallajökull, we were told, woke up after a long slumber and released gritty plumes as high as ten kilometres containing particles as small as sixty microns in diameter, spreading southward. These (rock and glass) particles generated fears of aircraft engine failure and grounded almost the whole of Europe.

  Stranded, with every passing hour I felt as if through no fault of mine I had slipped into an uncertain in-between world. What made the flight cancellations particularly eerie was that they came into effect barely a few hours after a student presented an insightful, paradigm-shifting paper on the rheology of lava flows.

  Stuck in Europe, I recall now how I gave up all hope of departure. But a week later the ash cleared, and the moment the flight finally took off, the skies displayed a beautiful hue of lavender, and as I drifted in and out of sleep Eyjafjallajökull merged with Vesuvius, and with Hokusai’s many views of Mount Fuji, another volcanic calamity, and together the ensemble merged with ‘roots’ of an old shadowy memory of my father driving me for the first time to the engineering college, the IIT.

  Nine hours later we landed at the Indira Gandhi International Airport. The touchdown generated a near spontaneous applause from almost all the passengers aboard. No one was waiting to receive me. Because of the uncertainty I had not bothered to inform Father about the exact time of my arrival. Otherwise he would have sent the black BMW (as an overture to establish a truce between us). Nevertheless, I felt a strange sense of freedom arriving in the city of my birth as a mere outsider after a gap of nearly twenty-five years. It was dark; as usual the air of Delhi was heavy with nefarious gases. I took a taxi. Surprisingly the driver didn’t overcharge.

  The taxi zipped through the highway to the heart of South Delhi. ‘You are my first customer of the day, and it is bad luck,’ he told me, ‘to overcharge.’ The driver, an elderly man with a two-day stubble, spoke in a candid no-nonsense manner, although the unnecessary laughter that followed puzzled me. ‘Is it OK to overcharge the second or the third customer?’ I said. He poked his short neck in my direction and stared as if I were a shadow of a figure from some imponderable era. ‘Sa’ab-ji, no one overcharges these days. The thirty extra rupees are merely the convenience fees.’

  So much time has passed by since that cab ride. I am gathering these notes five years after my volcano interrupted flight. It is important to clarify a few things about myself. Thirty years ago, after completing my undergraduate degree at the prestigious Indian Institute of Technology, Delhi, I proceeded with grad work in rheology at Cornell. Why Cornell? Because it was the only school that offered me a full fellowship. Ironically I teach at the same university now as a full professor. Once or twice during the Bush years I strongly felt like leaving my new life – carefully assembled in Ithaca – and starting all over again in a more enlightened European country, but my body responded strangely at the mere thought of it. Cornell, Ithaca, New York 14850–2488, for want of a better word, is ‘home’.

  Father was deep asleep by the time the cabbie dropped me at the gates. Our old sentry carried my luggage to the room allocated to me. For some reason I had no recall of that room, and the harder I tried to remember, the more I felt blocked. Twenty-five years of absence is enough to diminish and erase certain memories. So much time gets needlessly lost, or twists silently, circulating as minor eddies and vortices. Truth is that during the last twenty-five years I had met Father not even once. I was still repelled by the very idea of having to confront him in the morning. But how could I forget that the room I found myself in was actually my mother’s bedroom?

  The sixteen-metre by eight-metre room had nothing in common with its traces in my flickering memory. Even the smell was different. Certain irrevocable things, it was clear, had taken place during my absence. Almost half of the room was now filled with hunting trophies. Stags on the walls. For a while my eyes rested on the chiru, the endangered Tibetan antelope. Its shy upward gaze brought to mind the nimble baby pronghorn I had spotted not so long ago in the mountains in the US. Right across the newly varnished door I noticed a paralysed moth resting on the skin of a blackbuck. The hangul above the window had huge antlers, and Little Red Riding Hood was walking away from me, about to vanish again in the dense forest of its antlers. Such was the state of my mind when I arrived in Delhi.

  Thirsty, I poured myself a glass of ice-cold water and sat in the living room staring at framed photos of my children, who to this day have not visited India.

  Mother’s black-and-white portrait, high up on the wall, surveyed me as I surveyed my children. The blown-up photo had lost the original aspect ratio; as a result her high cheekbones and big youthful eyes appeared crooked. A moth had attached itself to the bottom right of the brown frame. This is not how I remembered my mother’s face. Sitting in the velvet armchair, I heard an echo of her voice. Softly she enquired about the well-being of my children, whom she never met. We held hands, and then she was gone. I missed her more now that I was in Delhi.

  She died before my kids were born. I could not come for the cremation. (I didn’t come.) For several days in Ithaca in the US, after I heard the news, I would experience her walk in my rooms, and hear her body rustle and crack bit by bit like a mechanical object. The only time I wept.

  But how could I forget her bedroom? Mother moved to this part of the house when I was still in high school. She found some solitude in the separate room, I remember. She used to call the room ‘my jahaz’ – my ship. Strange, I was convinced then that all her problems were really my fault. Often she would stare for hours on end at her shawl or voluminous sari. Unlike me she was less conflicted about Father. She avoided head-on collisions by using his words, and her own protracted silences.

  Before I describe him fully in flesh and bone, let me articulate one faint but significant detail, because sometimes the lost moments do return in a new form. Something within me, ever since my grad-student days, has always been curious about ‘change’ and the ‘mechanisms of change’. Or rather: the mechanisms of forgetting. How past becomes past. My work, to put it simply, deals with the memory of objects and materials. Most things in this world of ours change. Every substance transforms. I have come to this awareness not as a historian, but as a scientific observer. Although I never fail to admire the distilled beauty of the sentence: Everything flows. Rheology, my specialisation, is the science of deformation and flow. Even so-called ‘solids’ flow: stained glass in old churches is thicker at the b
ottom.

  My work focuses on the flow of ‘complex materials’, the ones with ‘memory’. Water, for instance, doesn’t have memory, but blood remembers its past. Volcanic lava flows and clays, too, carry within them some deep traces of unresolved past.

  In the morning I met Father. It was his first week back home from the hospital. The surgery had basically eliminated any chances for heated arguments or the usual hostility between us. For years I had dreaded the very idea of a reunion. And now I was standing no more than fifty centimetres away. We shook hands; his were sweaty. Father looked more fragile than I had imagined him during the flight. The only thing constant, immutable and unchanged was the small mole on his left cheek. His hair had thinned. It was clear he had dyed the strands black before losing faith in the project completely. Father’s sparkly eyes blinked like window shutters as he explained a few procedural details of the surgery, and quite unexpectedly, he asked the nurse to leave the room. Then in an extremely concerned voice, he enquired about things in Ithaca. ‘Everything is going as expected, in fact, better than expected,’ I lied. Worst is over. Carefully I avoided any talk about my estranged wife, or my failed/failing marriage. I did mention my sabbatical though, and my plan to edit an anthology on the deformation of bio-materials. I don’t think he understood.

  Right after breakfast I took a taxi from our house on Amrita Sher-Gil Marg to the IIT campus. Because of dense smog I was unable to notice any major alterations in the engineering campus. Or a large number of puddles and stray dogs. To my surprise the office keys were ready; all I had to do was sign a special form. However, the room looked a bit run-down, different from its picture, the one the Chair had sent me via email. I must explain. IIT gave me a tiny office for six months to facilitate my sabbatical. The office, a favour, like all favours, came with a price. The first thing they demanded nefariously on the day of my arrival was to help conduct a PhD exam.

  I was still dizzy, mildly feverish and foaming with jet lag. However, the student did an outstanding haze of a presentation. When I was his age, work as good as his was often described as ‘fucking good’. What I relished about the talk were the old-fashioned no-nonsense slides – helpful because I had not read the thesis. Hurriedly I flipped through the document and found he had even cited a paper of mine that had appeared fourteen years ago in Physical Review A. My colleagues asked the candidate questions about the assumptions of the model he developed and the data he generated. One of the key applications of his work was to help clean up soils in heavily industrialised areas, and damaged soils in areas like Bhopal.

  But these notes are not about tragic industrial disasters or Dow or Union Carbide. I am assembling material connected to an unspeakable event that took place barely a month before Bhopal. How those three or four days in the past ruptured my relationship with Father. Ruptured is the wrong word. With years a lot of dust has settled on our so-called relationship, but the passing of time has made little difference, or rather neither of us has changed or relaxed the way we expected each other to. He knows I know he is not innocent. Nevertheless he considers himself justified. My absence, now that I think about it, has been an immense loss; my long voluntary absence kept me from participating in the colossal transformation my country has gone through, making me a stranger to the city where I grew up. The gap of years has not even helped determine the ‘why’ of my troubled relationship with Father. Troubled, once again, is the wrong word. The word I would like to use doesn’t exist. But, to move ahead, it is essential to venture near the interstitial spaces of language. I must unravel the primary mechanism(s) of the problem. Gather evidence. How else would I figure out the mechanism of my own grand failure . . . ?

  There was a professor of mine who used to emphasise the difference between ‘dependent’ and ‘independent’ variables. If the population of human babies, for instance, starts falling (in a city like Bhopal) and the population of black dogs starts rising simultaneously, it would be wrong to jump to the flawed conclusion: the dogs are responsible for killing the babies. It would be erroneous to rely on simplistic cause-and-effect correlations, because we are really dealing with two independent variables here.

  During the PhD oral examination, for some unknown reason, my mind drifted to my own student days, and I could not help thinking, amid a jumble of stray thoughts, about the most harrowing event I ever witnessed. The event that made me stare directly into the dark face of history.

  On the morning of 1 November 1984, my professor, who taught us introductory courses in engineering, was killed brutally during the pogrom that followed Indira Gandhi’s assassination. I was nineteen years old then, a boy about to become a man.

  The professor was over six feet tall, in his early forties, and taught us Feynman’s Lectures and a class on failure analysis, and he had also screened 8mm films of collapsing structures. I recall now his lecture on Karmen Vortices, and the collapse of Tacoma Narrows Bridge, and phase diagrams of a major industrial accident.

  I first encountered him not in a classroom, but in the student residence. In 1981 my mother had accompanied me to the residence with two items of luggage (a black aluminium trunk and a roll of bedding) and she had ventured beyond the visitors’ lounge for she wanted to personally test the quality of the canteen, and there Professor Singh, the boys’ hostel warden, spotted her. Instead of getting mad, he walked up close (yellow tie fluttering in the wind) and asked if he could be of assistance. He reassured her and joked if your boy doesn’t like the ‘spartan’ food here he could always eat at my place. The warden’s accent and choice of words conveyed three or four crucial years spent abroad. British, American, Indian English, strands no longer distinct, fuzzy, like a superposition of sine and cosine waves. Even his majestic turban looked Westernised.

  I recall he pronounced ‘ethane’ like ‘eh thane’ and skipped an ‘i’ in alumin(i)um. But it was really hard to pigeonhole him. Sometimes he would arrive without notes in the lecture hall, a bit unprepared (or so it seemed) in blue rubber hawai chappals, as if woken up in the middle of a research paper, and he would try a few partial differential equations spontaneously with a coloured chalk on the board, and then use his left hand to rub out those beautiful micro-symbols and try again and was not afraid of making mistakes. He rarely opened the thick textbook on the desk.

  Nelly and my place. A few months after joining IIT, the day I topped the class, he extended an invitation. A real invite in a soft-spoken voice. If you are free this evening you are most welcome to dine at Nelly and my place.

  Nelly and my place. The molecules of air around me vibrate still, gathering evidence. Come to our place. I still hear an echo of that ghostly voice, but am unable to foresee what fate is riveted to that cheerful face. Professor Singh’s actual area of specialisation was helium. The second element in the periodic table – ‘He’ – the so-called noble gas. Colourless, odourless, tasteless and monoatomic. The invisible ‘He’ atoms don’t interact much with each other (or with others), preferring ‘isolation’ or ‘solitude’. The gas doesn’t ‘burn’, no combustion reaction in the presence of oxygen. Slowly it keeps escaping our earth’s gravitational field. To this day I am able to quote his lectures. If we are not careful on Planet Earth, in thirty or forty years not many atoms of this ludicrously light element will be left behind. All our primordial helium has already vanished.

  Liquid helium, the coldest fluid, boils at extreme low temperatures, around minus 269 degrees Celsius. In the lab the professor, wearing a white lab coat over a tweed, would demonstrate a purple glow under very high voltages, purple like a jacaranda flower. Helium gas is also capable of altering the human voice radically, although this demo never took place in his presence.

  That day Professor Singh invited me to dine at Nelly and my place. I got delayed by a full hour, apologised. I could not reveal the real reason for delay. Accompanied by a bunch of classmates I had gone to Chanakya to watch my first adult film. The ‘obscene’ images involved two or three fully exposed breasts, nipples
longer than mulberries, enough to give me a huge hard-on. Simultaneous pleasure and pain of a kind I had not experienced before. Plus, the campus gift shop was closed to mark an optional religious holiday, and I felt embarrassed arriving empty-handed. Hesitantly, I rang the bell. The bookshelves and other objects in the house suggested this family was steeped in deep knowledge about the world. By now I have forgotten many details, but this I remember. Twelve or thirteen shelves in the living room. Books spilling all over. More, a flash distillation. Encyclopaedia Britannica. The Nobel laureates series. European, American fiction and poetry. Not a single science and engineering text (only one on ‘Bose–Einstein Condensates’ borrowed from the library, a monograph on the Dutch scientist, Onnes, and the first editions of Feynman Lectures.) This is Nelly’s territory, said Professor Singh.

  Nelly was perhaps the most beautiful woman I had ever encountered, a serene Sikh beauty, and the most refined. She would call him ‘Mn’ with a sense of ease that Indian wives of that generation didn’t normally possess. (Mn or ‘em en’ stood for Mohan and was the best chemical tease.)

  She greeted me with a sardonic smile. In fact, both Nelly and Professor Singh had the same sardonic smile.

  She had studied literature at a state college in Punjab, and was much younger, only eight or nine years older than me; they had married after he returned from the US. When I arrived at the house she was playing a musical instrument, a rabab. Her two children, a boy and a girl, were asleep in the bedroom. In our class she was known as Mrs Singh; everybody fancied the ‘khubsurat sardarni’. Until that evening I had only seen the enigmatic Nelly from a distance; I will never forget the bread pakoras she fried, not with dhaniya-tamarind but with what she called cranberry chutney. That was the first time I tasted cranberries. There was a layer of spicy potatoes in the pakoras. She served channa-kulcha as well and cashew burfi and chiki as dessert. The professor seemed more relaxed that night; he unfolded his beard, and loosened his navy-blue turban. Two or three strands of grey in his robust beard. Nelly had on Ella Fitzgerald songs and now and then she would step out of the house, and this seemed to annoy him but he didn’t express his annoyance properly.