Career

If I could choose any career I wanted and support myself, I’d have been a full-time author. I’m not nearly talented enough or brave enough to risk it, so I became a civil servant. It makes logical sense this way. SWOT Analysis, I've since learned. I’ve always loved reading which is adjacent to studying and even though the latter isn’t remotely as pleasurable as the former, it has served me well enough for me to do well academically, so that’s a Strength. Weakness I got tons so let’s leave that be for now. Opportunity-wise, I got family that supports my academic inclination and I was in Delhi where I could pursue civil service coaching at my convenience. Threat-wise, I could not really afford to pursue most anything else.

So Civils it was for me.

I rant and bellyache, but at the heart of it, I know that if not for Civils, in this economy, and knowing myself, what else could I have realistically pursued? My interest is all related to the arts. I like painting and I like music and I am good at neither. I love stories and I enjoy writing but I don’t have the discipline to come up with my own stories and chase that dream. I adore Nature and hiking and trekking and I can barely stand up straight in a trail. So this is it. I never did a SWOT test on myself but I suppose my dad did for me and he chose Civils. And I just went along with it because it was a rational choice.

I mean, think about how lovely life would be to be a woman in a flower shop in Stars Hollow, going to work in a white bicycle with floral decorations on it, picking up a coffee from Luke’s on the way, wearing a pale blue frock and pink sunglasses, listening to Jewel in her florist paradise that also, let’s say for the heck of it, sells vanilla cupcakes and strawberry shortcakes? Divine. But that’s not real life.

I think about career options for kids a lot these days. Mizoram is changing fast and opportunities are not the same as it was in my day, which was not even all that long ago. Not even a decade. The economy now supports affordable living for local entrepreneurs like cutesy home bakeries, pretty beauty parlours, aesthetic barbershops, boutique-y seamstresses, fancy little cafés, customized crockery and what-nots, even aside from the traditional businesses. Of course, with recent events and ties to drugs-smuggling, the very term entrepreneur has come to be snarky and comedic in Mizoram context. Besides, there appears to be a number of these enterprises that spring up from people who have too much money and too much free time and Images on the line, not from being enterprising in and of itself. Nevertheless, the fact remains that these career options would have been unthinkable for many of us to follow it and still be considered not only respectable and honest work, but also a matter of quiet pride.

So now I no longer think of Doctor/Engineer, IAS, or pastor when people ask me of career advice. I give Civils advice if they specifically ask that of me, otherwise I volley back with: what interests you?

Which is what was on my mind when DC Hnahthial agreed to host a career awareness programme for kids. I was excited. I thought about age-groups and decided that High School (HSS too) kids are ideal because they’ve probably not thought about it much before and this is a good time for them to do so. I thought about who should speak to them and decided that the strength for this programme would rest on diversity. I thought: two government employees, two private business owners and two people from the digital age of content creators. I wanted the speakers to be people who could speak from experience. I wanted the programme to be multifaceted because I know from my own experience that as respectable as my job is, and as much as I do enjoy it from time to time, I know that it is not for everyone who cracks the exams, because if you don’t like the service, it hardly seems worth the status and the paycheck.

The day was dead humid and I was in formals all day. But I enjoyed the speeches of every panelist who spoke on that podium. I listened and took mental notes and I hope the kids did too. Even if all they got from that day was to do a SWOT test on themselves to figure out their next steps to be productive members of society, to abstain from alcohol and drug abuse, and to work hard in whatever road they ultimately choose, it would have been worth it. Those three were the recurring themes that day. None of us on the panel discussed our topics with each other beforehand; I myself as Host met some of them for the first time on that Hall on that day itself. But I suppose all of us thought those three things were important enough.

I learned about NEET exams and life as a government employed doctor in Mizoram from our CMO Dr R Lalsanglura. Of everyone else, I could relate to him the easiest because we follow a similar pattern – study, crack an exam, get a government job, be salaried. But I’d not thought of Science as a subject to study since I was in 10th standard; a lifetime ago. This was interesting.

I learned about following the route of family business and learning both from the job as well as enriching it further with formal degrees and building an increasingly illustrious social capital from Aaron Rosangzuala Ralte of RTP Holdings.

I learned about a small family-owned bakery that operated locally in 1961 when a couple learned from their white employers in Serkawn, building from that reputation using some good old elbow grease and learning to build a modern-day KT Bakery in 2018 from K Vanlalhruaia.  

I learned about expanding on particular interests and sticking to that with dedication, unmoving of criticisms and developing thicker skins to combat online trolling, seeking new ways to be even more innovative, learn from the audience and emerging from it all with a growing sophistication in online content creation from Ramboss.

I learned about taking an art form such as comedy which is not usually seen as a formal trade among the Mizo, studying it with deeper interest, realizing what the people wanted, creating stories that deliver punchlines at a pace that increasingly limited attention spans of today could consume, and delivering exactly that to them in a format that is digestible from Mastea Rinkson.

I don’t know what the others learned but I liked what I learned. And this is my deepest thanks to the people who responded so positively to my request to have them on my panel. I learned from them a good deal. Interacting with them over lunch and a cold coca-cola later was enriching. I believe they expanded my worldview and that was wonderful.

Careers are boring shit that are always necessary evils, whatever paths we ultimately take. But for what it was worth, I am grateful for the event DC Hnahthial hosted on May the 27th 2025, the people who made it successful and the lessons I learned from it.

Kingmakers

My debut into MCS was unceremonious, to say the least. It was a baptism. Of fire or water or hailstones I don’t know but it was one nonetheless. I had no time to pretend to be shy or nice. It was October 2018, 6 years ago October 3rd. A day all Mean Girls know what date it is annually. Preparations for MLA Elections was underway. They said ‘oh good you’re here’ and gave me jobs. The first time I gave training to polling personnel, I had never even seen a polling station in my life, is how unprepared I was. And yet how professional I had to be. Nuff said.

It was all about long, sleepless nights when the Champhai election office buzzed with energy interspersed with long yawns, the smell of coffee from a Nescafé vending machine, loud arguments and/or laughter over the various interpretations of Handbooks we carried like they were holy. Very occasionally, a shout of “Pi Kawlte!” would sail through the air; she was usually the referee for any disagreements regarding election matters.

I like to complain. Which turned out to be an acceptable thing during elections because everyone complained all the time anyhow. There were complaints about materials that did not match the mark, materials that could not be sourced locally (and could we buy them from Myanmar? No?), materials that were not enough, materials that were just simply wrong, materials that were in surplus and materials that made a bunch of officers stand around a table and ask this important question: what is this? There were complaints over being requisitioned for election duty. There were complaints about health, weddings, deaths and the election dates that clashed with them. There were complaints over not being served food, being served bad food and also being served good food in small quantities. There were complaints about people who were too demanding and people who were too blasé. There were complaints about long hours, insufficient compensation, irregular file works and shortage of time, energy and resources. There were complaints about headaches, backaches, lack of sleep and an ever-growing flab around the gut from an unhealthy lifestyle.  

Election stories are gold. Some of them might be too colourful for polite society and decent dinners, perhaps, or maybe a touch too sensitive for public consumption. Which is a pity because they are the best ones. If you think about it, the very best stories really do begin with: “This one time, someone was so drunk…” In Mizo humour, you can also work with, “Tualte Vanglaiah chuan…” I bet the updated version for this in a 21st century Indian government servant’s life is, “This one time during Elections…” 

Anything works.

This one time during Elections, we added 10 to 283 and somehow got 296!

This one time during Elections, there was a ghost in our PS that kept calling out our names.

This one time during Elections, a sock and an empty beer can fell out of the gunny bag handed to me by a grinning PrO at the Reception Desk!

Ah. Good times.

It is an uncanny but infallible routine that every time you think you’ve mastered an art, the Election Commission of India would come up with an addition that will stump you. Something like playing a video game where every time you defeat a boss, a tougher boss shows up. Which makes you want to lowkey maim the wiseacre at your training hall who always says: wE diD iT aNotHer wAy laSt tiMe i wAs On eLecTion dUty. I don’t know about everyone else but it makes me want to count to ten but throw a punch at eight.

In the 2023 General Elections, I found myself drafted into the Postal Ballot Team in Aizawl. The first time the team met together, I was given this general warning: PB Work doesn’t stop until a new government is formed. That gave me pause because I had picnics scheduled into my month because I’d just learned swimming a couple of months before and I needed the practice. In case I drowned.

Our PB Headquarter was the general area around the Addl. DC’s chambers in Aizawl DC Office. It seemed to me like most of the time we were making Lists. Frequently, as we approach midnight or thereabouts, our PB Leaders would say things like: “Pi Es, List Making work is basically Christian work. You can only enter Heaven if you’re on the Nunna Bu List. And you can only vote by post if you’re on Our List”. The constant Nunna Bu equivalency to Electoral Roll still amuses me today.

There was no calendar in the ADC office. No wall clock. And just the one standard red-and-blue office ballpoint pen. A bit barebones, I said. Perfect place to handle postal ballots as it turned out, because what did time matter when you have ballot papers to issue, registers to fill up, envelopes to organize, endless papers to fold, and, most importantly, lists to make? Because Nunna Bu, if you remember. 

Once the work went into full swing, not only did we not know the hour, we didn’t know the date either. Time doesn’t exist in a Postal Ballot HQ. On October 31, I left my house at 10AM; I never returned that month (which is to say I returned home from office at 2AM on November 1; my driver had a good chuckle over that sleep-deprived muse). PB work also required space for many, many trunks and gunny bags so all that space became quite invaluable!

At college, my roommate and I would wait for English Hour on FM Rainbow at 1AM. We did this for no other reason than we did it. There was no rhyme to it, no reason. Perhaps we stumbled on it one night that we were awake and simply stuck to the schedule. Some nights we’d only be half-awake but we’d wait for 1AM for an hour of English pop music on our phone. This was a time just before Smartphones so perhaps there was some rhyme there, I no longer know. What I do know is that the time surrounding midnight is really dicey and your mind becomes hazy and conversations have a weirdness to it. But if you stick through it, around 1AM your mind is clear again; you can even dance if Back Street Boys plays on the radio. The haze settles around 3AM again, by the by; witching hour, indeed.

During election season in 2023, I noticed this once more. The musings around 12 midnight become slightly unreal. We would often sit around holding cups of red tea and marvel at the logistic humour ingrained in say, AVES. Some nights, someone would mumble something about how it didn’t matter if we did or did not do something because a lot of postal ballots end up dead anyway. Or a wise nod about how the grandma we just buried had availed of Home Voting system so there’s some success story there [her nail was painted indelible ink black in the coffin, ofc]. Or discussions over how we were going to get the policemen stationed outside Mizoram who wanted to vote get to vote just in case they died without voting. It was always something very final. The AVES team brought back quirky stories too. A few someones said they wouldn’t vote because they’ve prayed to God about it and there was no need to vote ‘as though I don’t believe in God’; perhaps SVEEP should do a sweep on the elderly population. Or someone had died before poll day; very morbid, AVES.

Another thing I found really interesting was how much people would shout at you when you handle manual registration for voting. My experience up to that point in this regard was Roll Revision exercises. I had braced myself for that exercise and was good by then. Postal Ballot registration was slightly different because they were already in the roll; a lot more temporary but a lot more urgent. I was told to just hear people out. Difficult exercise for my temperament. There was a seeming desperation to vote which felt like a wind of change of sorts; a political awakening, perhaps. After a bit, I began to think, though, that a lot of them were only ultimatums just to get out of poll duties. Even so, it was interesting to speculate how well the turnout would be. 2023 was a few units lower than 2018, as it happened.

The days before and during Elections, you meet all sorts of people. The range is amazing. Some you work with, some you check, some you play nice with. In the end, someone announces the result and the cloud descends and business resumes as usual, except everything has suddenly changed. The King is dead, long live the King? Sunshine and midnight rain.

Sometime before I joined the service, I had been asked: why would you want to join MCS – all you’ll do is make kings of men to rule over you and then deal with land revenue? I haven’t really dealt with land overmuch. I am Election Officer and Settlement Officer in Hnahthial so that’s going to be interesting but I'm still only a couple months in at the moment. I have however been engaged in electing a new government a few times since 2018. Kingmakers of a different order, I suppose. Perhaps in the bureaucratic end. I realise this is honest, solid work. There is satisfaction, albeit sometimes grim, in the way we handle our business. I am sure the Kingmakers of the political order have new business now too. We all live to fight another day.

I dream of writing an article that makes me sound like a Statesman. But you can only write about what you know. And what I know is what I experience and what I experience is somehow always a little unhinged. Like attracts like? So I end up writing about slightly crazy things that make people question either my sanity or my veracity. (Veracity: a nice, responsible sounding word, that I never use in normal days.) Perhaps someday.

It is what it is.

Another Town, Another World

Comedy often gets lost in translation. So truly, I pity the people who won’t get the whip dry comedy of Pu Biaka as he talks about his hunting prowess. One hour straight of never cracking up as he drawls in this low, measured voice, recounting his many extraordinary experiences in the game? Transcendental experience.

I mean how in the world does someone talk about if all the monkeys I’ve killed came back to life, they’d fill up the football stadium for the World Cup finale and then top it off with but I don’t really consider monkey as game? Hilarious. Or, I don’t have much experience fishing but I guess the biggest fish I caught was the catfish I shared with 300 people and when it rained, we propped its mouth up and took shelter in the cave of the mouth? Hi-fucking-larious.

Of course, people seem to know him best for the wildly beautiful Lasi – nymphs, maybe, I don’t know; or elvenfolk in the manner of LOTR and not Harry Potter – he has supposedly known. Biblically. I’ve heard of many people who claim to have Lasi lovers but I’ve never heard of a Lasi college! Also I’ve never heard of castes of Lasi. That wit was blazing sharp.

In another world, another town, he could be famous. He could really cash in on this. When I met him, he told me people have indeed suggested he take up comedy as a vocation. That he could possibly earn decent money from this routine.

I agree. I think he has great potential. I am a fan of dry comedy. Always have been. My favourite authors have been known for their razor-sharp wit. Douglas Adams, Bill Bryson, KC, JK Rowling, Terry Pritchard, Neil Gaiman, Andrew Kaufman, Marian Keyes, Mindy Kaling, Jug Suraiya, Richard Ayoade, Khushwant Singh… all amazingly witty. I don’t know how rich they all are but going by how I have had access to them before the explosion of social media, I think they have a pretty penny each to their names. Assuming fame and fortune go hand in hand. And I’m guessing they do. To a certain point, at least.

This is a problem with living in a shitty economy. I know a senior in my service who would be aces as a CEO of a big-ass company but they’re not because we’re in Mizoram and as Mizoram economy goes, being MCS is stable, secure, decently-paid, powerful enough, in short, dream job. I’ve often thought about how it would be grand to do something else but in this economy, what I have is good. Which sucks. Because I think sometimes that if I were in a richer economy, I’d be trying out for something else than government service. I’m not saying I’d excel, but I’d try out. In Mizoram, it’s harder to be brave, career-wise. Especially when you know you lack tenacity.

Moving on.

There are Mizo people who are so witty they amaze me. I often watch youtube clips of Mastea (a current favourite) and earlier Mapuia (Zephyr/FTH, I guess), and earlier still listened to Thangkura and Leikhi Miss. Comedy changes with time. The people and material do, too. However, these people are usually of a different make than Pu Biaka, though. While a grand variety of the best of Mizo comedy is slap-stick or at least physical, Pu Biaka’s brand is bone dry, sedate and yet, this world-building he does on the spot is truly the mark of a sparkling wit, and proves he’s not just a dazzling wordsmith. For that, I’d marvelled and extolled. This was why while I have no real drive to meet any of the professional comedians, I’d wanted to meet Pu Biaka in person. I’d wanted to shake his hand, let him know his wit was appreciated. I’d wanted to sit and have tea with him and chat with him, listen to him chat in person. And thankfully, I did get to shake his hand and take a picture with him.

Which is a good story in itself! The day I got transferred to Hnahthial and I realized Pu Biaka was a resident of Hnahthial district and not far from the town at all, I was very excited. I made plans to locate and meet him. I eagerly waited for the first weekend so I could go look for him. I was fully prepared to use my office as a means to get to him. Which I did. I got the name and number of the village council leaders and asked around. Interestingly, his house was right across the village council president’s. And even though the monsoon road was not ideal for a weekend joyride (there were three major landslides and at one location, half the road have caved in), I went. He was not home.

I tried again the following weekend. He was again not home. But the third time I pestered the village council people over his whereabouts, they could locate him. But in the middle of nowhere on a jungle road. He was caked in mud, from cheeks to boots, I might add. Very fitting manner to meet a Great Hunter, I should have known.

They say you should not meet your heroes. Because they disappoint. Not Pu Biaka. That meeting was not disappointing. At all.

Ex-BDO Girl

Dear Reader, 

Of the life experiences I was exposed to during my tenure as BDO Aibawk, there were few things that have stood out that I want to share with you.

One, I used one gas cylinder for 13 months straight and it is still heavy. Once while I was in Champhai, one cylinder had lasted me 7 months and everyone who knew laughed at me for it. But this one lasted even longer.

Two, I participated in not one, not two but three elections while I held office; they took me away from office a bit longer than I’d have liked.

Three, we got two awards that I’m not sure how we got because we weren’t working towards any criteria. Perhaps a remnant of my predecessor’s. One was a little weird but we’ll take it. We got two.

Four, Cyclone Remal claimed five lives, several livestock, multiple houses and countless landslides, destroying crops and roads in its wake. If we were in pre-Christian days, we’d probably be sacrificing some large animal – a bovine or a swine probably – to appease some deity we didn’t know. I’d probably be heading the rituals. It really looked like Fury personified unleashed their anger on our hill range. Damn.

Five, in Samlukhai, I learned how to locate and check for aiawt, those bamboo thatched crab traps. Also found out in the process that it is illegal in Mizo customs to check someone’s aiawt. So don’t do as I did.

Six, again in Samlukhai, I learned how to identify and harvest bamboo shoots. This activity once more brought home to me how fortunate I am to be a salaried govt. employee because no way I am clever or strong or hard-working enough to survive on my skills and tenacity. I’d starve.

Seven, I learned how to make kurtai in Phulpui. This was very interesting because I had no idea how quickly and completely hmawngsawi turns into kurtai! If I may slip in a general advice here, if anyone asks you to make kurtai, turn up early. People work early to make kurtai!

Eight, I walked through the Sunflower fields of Sailam and my absolute faith in the majesty of sunflowers was redoubled.

Nine, I hoisted the National Flag twice in Aibawk. And received the salute in Sateek during Republic Day from the St Francis school contingents. That was a big deal. For me.

Ten, I attended Lo Zawh in Tachhip. That was a lot of fun.

Eleven, Sh. Kamlesh Pashwan, the Union Minister of State, Rural Development, Govt. of India was the last and most distinguished guest of the office during my tenure. He said the office and the area was really clean and tidy. He told me my staff was well-disciplined. He said our work was good. 

Twelve, I can’t remember the last time I’ve properly eaten roasted fresh butta with some syrupy sweet tea in the rain. I did that in the chayote gardens of Lamchhip. It was grand. 

Thirteen, some unseen being knocked on my door at 4AM one morning waking me up from my slumber. Spooky.

Fourteen, there were three births (all daughters) and two deaths (both men) among my staff during my tenure. Rather poignant.

Fifteen, a random man one day walked up to my quarters one day and asked me for glasses. As in spectacles. I was very confused. He said he’d lost his and asked if I had one for him. Quite aside from the optometrical issue, I remain confused if he was a bit mental or just drunk off his ass. This is quite aside from the fact too that he called me “ka pu”. Vanity took a nosedive! I was just happy I wasn’t wearing my glasses at the time or he might have asked me for it. And what could I have done? Give up the gift of sight? I don’t know.

Sixteen, come to think of it, I don’t know what it is about Aibawk RD Block but in the time I was here, I got deliberately called Sir, as in short for Officer by the VCP of Lungsei. This has both amused and delighted me and my staff. I don’t mind it. I rather like it. 

Seventeen, Aibawk has never had a female BDO so I guess there’s something there in as far as the gender confusion I faced.

Anyhoo. I joined office on May 26th, 2023 and left on August 12th, 2024. It was not a long stay. But it was a lot. Some good, some bad. As always, there are people who I have come to count as good friends, and perhaps even as non-blood family. There have also been people who have been excited and happy to see the back of me. It’s all right. I am warmed by the kind people who get outraged on my behalf. It’s like I always say: you can’t make an omelette without breaking a few eggs. You have to learn to appreciate the good and accept the bad. You just have to let the good outweigh the bad.

So Long, Aibawk. Till we meet again.

A Little Wednesday Existentialism

A policeman’s daughter, my designation plate at the moment being RD green gets my father smiling. He’d always wanted me to be in Civils.

I travel in a beat-up old Gypsy with the license plate MZ 01 F 6377 which is younger than my dad’s Maruti 800 which is MZ 01 E, but is in much worse shape than the latter. Public vehicles. There’s a lot to be said about this. But probably for another day. 

In any case, I see people reading my designation plate sometimes. Some of them look up and read my face. I don’t know if they can see my face, and I don't know what they think. What I know is how different we all are. Sometimes I see recognition in their eyes but I don’t know what to make of it. What is a BDO? When I was little, I certainly didn’t know who a BDO was, much less what a BDO did. I am a policeman’s daughter. All I knew was what policemen did. Different people, different lives, I guess.

If we make it work, we make it work. And we should be thankful for it. A lot of people don’t. A lot of times, we don’t. People are fighting battles we know nothing about. I think the only real thing we can take away from any situation is to be kind. Very difficult to do, of course. I know for a fact that sometimes I make up my mind to make things as difficult as I possibly can for some people. And I have, too. Because when you meet with rude disrespect, all the little metaphorical warrior cells get activated in your system and they strike hard. I am happy that this impulse is lessening with age. But some days… ya.

Some days it is hard to accept where I am in life. Is this what was always going to happen? Could things have gone a different way? 

Most days, it is hard to guess what goes on in people’s lives. Sometimes I meet people I’d met once in some duty or event and spent time with. I smile or wave if they seem to recognise me too. It feels nice. Like an acknowledgment that I’m alive in someone else’s lives. Because some dark existential days, it feels like I am the centre of the universe and people solely exist because I do.

Of course, this narcissism is fueled up by the prevalence of social media these days. We all have our platforms that boost up our perceived importance. We feel important. We feel seen and observed. It is like an IV feed right into our vanity. And unfortunately, our self-worth. 

It is becoming so hard to differentiate between what is real and what is not, AI not making anything easier at all. It is harder and harder to tell who is fake and who is not. We collect receipts like memories will fail us if we don’t; pics or it didn’t happen!

And to think, if I were in Arthur Dent’s world, I could hitchhike my way to Betelgeuse! For now, I’ll wait for December to watch for it in the night sky.

pH/PHED

While you guys were in church last Sunday, I learned a bit about our drinking water from Tlawng. Of course, after a nice, regular natural steam bath via R. Tlawng, they put me in a nice AC room and fed me tangy sweet fruit salad and I forgot my notebook there. Now this notebook cannot fall into the wrong hands. It contains state secrets. No, it doesn’t. I'm kidding. But it does contain a lot of what I've learned over the past few months. Esp w.r.t. RD. I learn by writing. That’s just how it goes. If I don’t write something down, chances are I will forget it. So I really can’t afford to lose the notebook.

Anyhoo. I nodded wisely and listened to talks about pH and alum... I'll even reproduce it for you!

1. Pump the water.

2. Control the sediment using alum. (I don’t remember the real chemical name; maybe ask a PHED officer if you want to know?)

3. Separate the water from the sediment; now the water is highly acidic

4. Control the pH level

5. Purify the water and make it safe for drinking

6. Supply it to homes

PHED is for health. It’s in the name: Public Health Engineering Department. But honestly, water distributor, amirite? No, I kid. There's a lot that goes into PHED – sanitation concerns being an easy top pick of PHED works. Provision of safe drinking water is, I suppose, technically, only a branch of their workload. Sometimes I think the rural population understands PHED better than the urban one but that might just be me.

Aside from all these lessons, I was impressed by the damage that water could cause. I’ve gone on a long soliloquy over water (check out an earlier blog here, very on-the-nose title, "Water") but I am nowhere close to being done with it. I checked the water level at the pump tower and I was easily submerged. I am a short girl, I reached my adult height of 5’2” aged 12. But even then, I think it is most impressive for water level to have climbed so high at the pumping stations that I could be buried under it. Even if I stood at 6’4” I would still have been fully immersed is how high the water level climbed. The pumping station at its ground level is already at 55ft from the river bed. The water really climbed up to the pumping tower and drowned the motors there at I think safely 10ft off from the tower floor. Scary.

So now PHED can’t pump/distribute the amount of water they once could. First off, that had never been enough, per capita. But now it’s only a fraction of what they once could. It seems so paradoxical that because there’s excess water, we are not getting enough water. The difference between flood water and safe water. It’s the same as an entire world covered in water but only 3% of it is fresh water and only 1.2% of it is accessible. Water planet and all that, but ya.

All of this got me thinking although that thinking got me nowhere. Until last night I was checking out IG reels and someone said: the p in pH doesn’t stand for anything! Or at least we don’t know. In 1909 when Søren Sørenson came up with a way to measure acidity, apparently he just said: we’ll use something called pH to measure acidity, 0 through 14, lower numbers more acidic, higher numbers more basic and the H in pH will stand for Hydrogen. End of lesson.

Apparently the top two hypotheses in the chemist world for the p in pH is potential or power. But we (they, I suppose) don’t know.

Maybe the p is silent in pH. As long as the P in PHED is not silent, we are good.