Can You Love a Nanobot? Vol. 1, Chapter 4— Growing Up

Creativity is not the finding of a thing, but the making something out of it after it is found. — James Russell Lowell

Cambridge, Mass.
Cambridge in the warm months is green and people like to get out after brutal New England winters. A collegiate & techie place, it sits across the Charles River from Boston. Home to some of Massachusetts’s oldest families since long before the Revolution, Cambridge is the 5th largest city in the state and the center of a growing technology hub.

The land nourished families long before Europeans arrived. The Naumkeag people fished the river banks, shucking oysters and clams for centuries. Incorporated by European settlers in 1636, Cambridge grew from a quiet farm town into the home of the Fireside Poets, among other figures. Oliver Wendell Holmes, James Russell Lowell, and Henry Wadsworth Longfellow composed verse for those with only a fireplace to warm them on long winter nights.

Among the old homes and new technology firms sits a world-renowned school named after the state. Source of some of the world’s great tech innovations, this research institution forms the nucleus of modern Cambridge. Professors once occupied old homes within walking distance of campus. Today, faculty can hardly compete for such properties with entrepreneurs, venture capitalists and programmers. Only a few tenured professors still walked to the campus.

Growing up in his uncle’s home full of books and knowledge, young Jonah Gernsback always felt secure. There were friendly neighbors, college students, and professors plus Lynch park nearby. Living with a respected professor with a well-groomed beard, was definitely cool. UncleG was his nickname for Physics Professor Hugo Gernsback, Emeritus. Hugo cared for Jonah like a child he never had.

UncleG was the only family Jonah knew since his mother left him here, many years ago. Not seeing her all that time was a bummer. His mother or Maan now a distant memory. Brief flashes of her smiling face against the backdrop of some dusty Deccan city. Always carrying her Nikon. Few vivid memories remained. He remembered riding in the backseat of a taxi reeking of incense, going someplace in a hurry. Sandalwood incense still reminded Jonah of his dear lost Maan.

Lynch Skate Park
Back up to the top of the ramp, jump up on the rail and down into the bowl. Landing on his board without a wobble. Lynch Skatepark was his escape, wearing his new Vans Half Cabs on his Orchard deck. He wasn’t truly a sneakerhead, the folks at Orchard just gave him deals. Lynch Skatepark a place to forget about UncleG’s encroaching illness.

Back down the ramp, failing to complete a hospital flip. Nearly taking a tumble. The irony of both of them in a hospital not escaping him. Jonah broke his wrist a few years back. Knocked himself out skating, more than once.

UncleG was the only name he ever called Hugo. Now his uncle was lost in dementia, Alzheimer’s, for at least 9 months.

A backside 180 ollie with a kick flip. Easy. Pros with sponsorships sometimes performed tricks here. He landed a Backside Flip next. Other boarders stopped to watch Jonah, a regular at Lynch.

UncleG didn’t know him or anybody else now. Having his only relative forget him demoralized Jonah, like it would anyone. Robbed his spirit like it stole his uncle’s brilliant mind.

Before his uncle got sick, students regularly stopped by his warm home. They knew Professor Gernsback always welcomed questions. Student visits typically occurred early in the semester and again near exams. Unlike others, their professor tutored and lent them books. Physics, robotics, and nanotechnology are not easy subjects.

The extra tutoring benefited everyone. Hugo did everything possible to bring clarity to complexity by maintaining one of the most interesting private libraries in all of Cambridge.

Springer Handbook of Robotics
Jonah was responsible for putting the returned books back on the correct shelf. One day an undergrad showed up to return 2 heavy books, the Giancoli and one about robotics, the Springer Handbook. He remembered her from his uncle’s lectures.

She always sat in front, completely focused on Professor Gernsback and nothing else. Originally from Kerala, India; her name was Vritti. During his lectures his uncle called on her regularly for a carefully considered, and usually correct answer.

Young Jonah could barely take both heavy volumes from Vritti. She seemed comfortable clutching the books, “I’ll carry Springer, you carry Giancoli. I know you know where that book goes.” She suggested, wanting to be certain the books reached the correct shelf in the Professor’s house.

“Yup. But I want to see where you put that robot book. I wanna read it later.”

Navigating the creaky wooden spiral staircase, she talked about how wonderful a professor his uncle was, how much she appreciated his help.

When she was an undergrad in India her teachers were always too busy. When they reached the bottom she got an idea, “Why don’t we place the Springer Handbook of Robotics on this old lectern? That will make it easier to read. I’m writing 692.892 on this sticky note. That’s where it goes on the shelf. 600 aisle.”

He listened carefully.

“Giancoli is 530, 500 aisle, but you know that.” She pointed out.

“Sure.” He carried the book to the correct shelf from memory.

Vritti As Tutor
At some point she made an offer to Professor Gernsback, she would help Jonah with his schoolwork and gain valuable teaching experience. Vritti became one of a several tutors Hugo hired to provide math, science, and English lessons to his nephew. They taught Jonah all through high school.

Sometimes the tutoring sessions were interrupted when Vritti received Skype or FaceTime calls from family in south India. Amazingly, Jonah often understood Vritti’s end of the call, spoken in Tamil. He didn’t tell her at first, but he let something slip out once, offering sympathy on the death of her uncle.

Vritti wondered why he understood any spoken Tamil, one of the oldest languages in continuous use. He only told her he knew somebody in India that spoke it. She took family calls in another room after Jonah’s unusual revelation.

Memories of India
It made him uncomfortable to think about those years before Massachusetts. Back when he knew his mother and lived in places rarely visited or spoken about by anyone in Cambridge. The smells, the flowers, spices, peacocks wandering among walled-in homes, so many languages, everything different from life here. Vritti’s presence served to remind him of better times.

Sister’s boy has what it takes, his uncle told friends while still uncertain tutoring made a difference. Hugo knew exactly where his nephew’s Tamil skill originated. Vritti reminded Jonah of his nannies.

His uncle taught him upon arrival to be careful about discussing his Indian memories with strangers. “They wouldn’t understand.” Odd thing to insist on but Jonah completely trusted UncleG. A teacher so smart must have a good reason for keeping his childhood in India a secret; Jonah initially had no idea why. She was a photojournalist, wrote science articles, what’s the big deal?

Memories flooded back. Those pungent places where he played on the floor with sweet Tamil nannies always close: cooking, cleaning, and incessantly chattering in a now familiar tongue.

Old rooms in huge Asian cities with the smells of curry, diesel buses, and life wafting through the air. Palm trees everywhere, like the Keys. Calls to prayer and Mollywood show tunes heard all day, every day. So many people living so close.

Their 14th manjil flat had a baalakanee though he was only permitted on it with his mother. There were metal bars, screens and windows that cranked open. His nanny never allowed him out there and scolded him when she caught him. The smells alone made the balcony irresistible to his young nose.

When nobody was looking, he slipped behind the balcony curtains to look out at the city. Rows of satellite antennas cluttered the balconies of 1,000s of flats. Colorful saris hung out to dry. Always at least one person looking directly back at him. That man in the flat directly opposite their place, never smiling. Jonah preferred to look in other directions. To this day he could not forget all those remarkably different faces, singing, smiling and dancing together on their balconies.

Taxi rides to the train station or airport were a sea of sights and scents. Little kids begging at the car window, in later years the orphans went unseen. His mother said they weren’t all orphans.

Always looking out the windows of cars, planes, and apartments for someone like him. Rarely able to go outside and play by himself. Many friends at each birthday party but he seldom saw them at other times.

As the years passed most memories faded, not the smells but the faces. He kept a fading photo of him with his mother, taken at a park along the waterfront in Madras (His uncle reminding him to say Chennai).

Once Jonah mentioned his mother lived in India to a friend at school. They taunted him, saying his father must be Gandhi. He never knew his real father, but he didn’t look like he was from India. That was the last time he brought up India or his mother.

Because he never talked about it, Jonah forgot details, along with his mother. He could barely remember her now, only when he looked at her photo or listened to her voice. Now he was losing his uncle. He left the skatepark, no longer able to focus on his tricks when tears welled in his eyes.

Credit Union
Jonah walked into the school credit union, unfolding a paycheck from his pocket. “Hey Shawnté, could you please cash this for me? Thanks!” He asked, handing his friend an expired Massachusetts ID card. All show for the bank cameras. Jonah was well-known at this branch. His friend always cashed his paychecks.

“Sure, Jo. No prob, birthday boy. 24, huh? What’s this?” Shawnté looking at his folded, wrinkled check with a frown. She glanced at his signature on the back, then carefully fed it into her document scanner. “You still cleaning up the school? I thought you got laid off a while back?”

“I did, couple months ago. I held on to my last check, to keep from spending it too fast.”

“Only person I know don’t go right to the bank with a paycheck.” Shawnté observed.

“I know, Shawnté, I know, it works for me,” Jonah countered. “Yard work, weeding gardens, and snow shoveling till I find something else.”

“Not for me. Junior does all that. How do you want your bills?”

“Three 100s, six 20s, and the rest in one-dollar bills. Please.”

“How’s Hugo doing?” She cautiously asked while counting.

“Still up in Tewksbury. Healthy, clueless, no cure in sight. Doesn’t remember me anymore; OK physically, for 64 his doc says. He plays bridge with the other residents. Still loves classical music. Sometimes goes to the symphony. Buys tickets for everyone. Shares my letters, calls me his kooky friend. Everyone knows I’m really his nephew.”

“That’s too bad. Hey, we’re hiring, you should come work here.”

“Uh, thanks Shawnté! I’ll keep it in mind.” Jonah replied, knowing how tricky it would be to get hired at a bank without any ID. He’d used his uncle’s credit union account since he was old enough to reach the counter.

“Maybe I’ll see you later at the coffee shop? During my set?” Shawnté referring to a place where everyone hung out and she sometimes played guitar. She slowly counted his money a second time.

“You playing tonight?”

She nodded.

“Awesome! I’ll be there.” Jonah said, holding up his fan of crisp, new bills.

• *******
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