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Yes, it absolutely is as real as anything else in this universe - do not let the incompetence of amateurs lead you astray. That is on the one hand.On the other hand, just like anything else in this universe, this or that feature of any language, not necessarily Russian, can be contrived, bent, exaggerated, mocked, travestied, artificially blown out of proportion, derided or made cruel fun of. By doing so, however, there is nothing to be gained academically or otherwise.If you do not know how to fly a Boeing-777, it does not mean that flying Boeing-777 is somehow not right or bad. If you do not know how to whip out a Paganini caprice on a violin, it does not mean that peppering out a Paganini caprice on a violin is somehow not right or bad. If you do not know how to compute certain integrals, it does not mean that computing certain integrals is somehow not right or bad.All of the above means one thing only: you do not know how to correctly fly a Boeing-777, you do not know how to correctly render a Paganini caprice on a violin or you do not know how to compute a certain integral. But, with effort and proper guidance, you can learn.So if you really want to know the quiet truth about the cursive writing in Russian then there is no mystery behind it - only the pedagogical objective.Between September 1-st 1976 and May 25-th 1986, Monday through Saturday, six days a week, like millions of other kids of the time, rain, lots of snow or sunshine, I attended the specialized school number 15 in Moscow, USSR, located at 17, 1-st Kozhoohovskiy Proezd, metro station Avtozavodskaya:My school has the red balloon right over it in the image above.While the red-brick 5-story building, erected in 1956, still stands, the school has been renumbered to 1272 in 1987 or thereabouts, after I graduated.Our school’s curriculum was designed in such a way that a number of soft subjects such as Biology, Geography and Literature were partially taught in English, which we studied starting from the first grade onward.The school number 15 was considered to be privileged in the sense that all of its faculty were top notch, highly recommended, professionals hand-picked by our talented, smart and shrewd school principal Meleshenkovskaya Evdokiya Semenovna:You had to pass a light-weight examination to be admitted - late in August of 1976 I was verbally interrogated by Ms. Meleshenkovskaya in her cabinet on basic arithmetic, academic aptitude and language skills, with my mother anxiously waiting behind the door. As you can tell, I stood my ground and passed my first verbal exam at 7 years of age - my grandma was an economics professor at one of the institutes in Moscow; she was a part-time inventor and problem-solver and she mentored me from the early age.In addition to standard exams on all the other subjects taught, we had the mid-terms and finals on the subject of the English Language with an absolute zero tolerance for failures. If you flunked just one English Language exam then you were dismissed from the school, regardless of the social standing of your parents. Read more about this system in this Quora answer. The attrition rate of my school was: 13 kids in 10 years.As such, all the written exams were done by us strictly in cursive - Literature (compositions and essays), Russian Language (dictations), English Language (compositions, essays, dictations), Biology, Geography, History, Mathematics, Physics and Astronomy.All the teachers across all the subjects wrote text only in cursive with chalk on the blackboard at all times.If and when you were called to the chalkboard, the standard practice of the time, to carry out some written exercise in front of the entire class, regardless of the subject, you were expected to show your rendition of the matter in cursive also.Some documental evidence.Back in the day we had these rather thin books called Dnevnik or Дневник in Russian. A reasonable approximation of the Russian dnevnik in English may be a singular masculine for a daily log book.The purpose of such a dnevnik was twofold:to keep track of the academic schedule, projects and homework assignments andto communicate your academic progress back to your parent(s) via the grades and special messagesI still have two dnevniks that survived the move - one from the second and one from the third grade.The front of my second-grade dnevnik was filled out by my mother in cursive:In English the above image reads, more or less literally: the daily log book of the student of the class 2B of the school number 15 of the city of Moscow by the name of Andronov Roman, the academic year of 1977-1978.The spelling of my last and first names is subject to the concept absent from English - declension.The inside of the dnevnik, however, is filled out mostly by me in cursive also. For example, a typical entry for Saturday, March 11-th 1978 reads:On the second line from the top, for the subject of Матем. or Mathematics, you can see my grade, which is 5, which is a US equivalent of A. The word in the rightmost column there reads ответ or answer in English - apparently I was called to the blackboard to perform.On the second line from the bottom, for the subject of Рисов. or Drawing, you can see my grade, which is 5, which is a US equivalent of A.On the bottom line for Saturday, in the middle, you can see in cursive my grade for the elusive idea of Поведение or Behavior - in Russian it is abbreviated to удовл., which in English means satisfactory or a US equivalent of C (yes, I was hell on wheels and bad news during the recesses but I kept my grades up).Note how my teacher could have written just 3 for my grade for Behavior but, instead, she chose to show my grade in cursive.The front of my third-grade dnevnik was filled out by me in cursive:By now you should readily recognize what the above image says: I was transferred to the class 3B (one year senior), same school, same city, same name. The academic year reads 1978–1979. But I thoroughly messed up the declension of my name.Here is a typical entry from that dnevnik from Tuesday, May 22-nd 1979:You can see that for that day, on the first line, for the subject of Англ. Яз. or English Language I earned a 5 for the Gr. test or the grammar test. The signature of my English language teacher is next to the grade.Again, notice that we were filling out our daily log books in cursive, our teachers communicated with our parents by writing messages in these log books in cursive, our parents replied in cursive and so on.Fast forward to my, say, third year in college. Here is a snippet of my curriculum that shows:the subject name in the first columnthe number of lecture hours in the middle columnpass/fail result, if applicable, in the third columngrade, if applicable, in the last or rightmost columnall done in cursive:At the top of the above image, on the lines numbered 4 through 8, you can see the leftovers of my second year, which reads in English (зачёт = pass, отл is the abbreviation for отлично = excellent or an A in US):Series and Fourier Transforms, 30 hours, pass, AForeign Language, 30 hours, passPolitical Economics, 45 hours, passDifferential and Integral Equations, 60 hours, - , AMechanics and the Theory of Relativity, 60 hours, - , AThe next line reads 3-rd year 5-th semester:Computer Programming and Numerical Methods, 32 hours, AQuantum Mechanics, 80 hours, passSpecial Seminar, 32 hours, passForeign Language, 32 hours, passPhilosophy, 48 hours, passPhysics, 96 hours, - , AThe Equations of Mathematical Physics, 80 hours, - , AThe Theory of Functions of Complex Variables, 64, hours, - , AThe Field Theory, 80 hours, - , ANot only that but I showed the hours of the 45-minute lectures here for a reason - during all these lectures I was taking the real-time notes in cursive!I can still read the above cursive handwriting with no effort and I am sure that others can too.Now, I do not know which country you are from and I do not know how, why and where you are learning Russian, but back in the day the question of whether the Russian cursive is real or not did not even make any sense because writing in cursive was the norm.So why do it and why teach the kids how to do it?Back in the day it was thought that in connecting the hand-bone to the brain-bone there is a tangible positive benefit for the overall development of a child - the development of the micro-motorics, the patience and stamina, the sense of balance and aesthetics, the sense of beauty, paying attention, checking for, noticing and correcting errors, processing, memorizing, internalizing and comprehending the material and so on.We were taught how to write in cursive with the good old quill and/or fountain pens:with ink:Our notebooks had the light gray silhouette of the letters preprinted and we, first, traced over them and then we wrote the letters without any guidance or help:You had to learn how to not pick up too much ink with the quill pen or how to not move the piston of a fountain pen too deep inside the containing cylinder.And if you messed up and made an ink blot then we had this special paper called promokashka, which is a singular feminine for blotting paper.If I were asked to jot something down in Russian these days then I would mechanically do it in cursive with zero effort - such is the power of the habit.The bottom line here is this: choose the right tool for the right job and do know how to use each tool properly.

One of the most fun and fulfilling experiences of my life.Something people often don’t talk about with the KVPY Interview is the self-appraisal forms we have to fill with it.These forms should not be taken lightly, as they are first impression you make on the interviewers even before they meet you. I can’t attach images of the same,as they are no longer available for download, but the contents go something like this:a) A self appraisal form that contains questions on why you’d like to study science and what topics interest you. It took me around 10–12 drafts to finally get a satisfactory result. It is also a great opportunity for self-enquiry, as you get to analyse what science is to you and why you are doing what you are doing. I wrote about how Feynman inspired me and about how I put up a science fair project ins school, among other things.b) A routine form asking for your 10th percentage, subjects you take,etc.c)A teacher recommendation letter. This is out of your control,so give it to a teacher who actually likes you xDDay of the Interview *Dramatic music*With all my forms ,admit card and pre-exam Led Zeppelin playlist in place, I set off for IISc Bangalore, the location of my interview.My interview was scheduled to start at 1:30. I got there by 12(I keep extra-large margins on exam days) and ate a light lunch, and bought some Kurkure from the IISc canteen.I reached on time, marked my attendance, gave my forms to the correct person and started listening to music to pass the time. In between Eric Clapton’s solo on White Room, the receptionist called my name. I went into the interview smiling, confident and excited, because I had heard from both senior and classmates that the panellists were encouraging and I would enjoy it.I greeted the professors, and they asked me about the science fair projects I’d done. I talked about the cycloid and its interesting properties and the working of a harmonograph(See, thanks to my Self-Appraisal Form I had made an impression even before stepping into the room) I was then asked to draw the graphs of Simple Harmonic Motion, in regular and damped scenarios. I was asked to derive time period of a pendulum. Then I was asked what would happen if the thread was replaced by a spring. I described it visually, but could not find the time period. I told them I couldn’t, and they just moved on to maths.The cycloid^In maths, the professor asked me for my favourite topic, and I told him it was Sequences and Series. he asked me if I knew about the Harmonic series, 1+ [math]1/2 +1/3...∞. [/math]I said I did, and he asked me to prove it diverges. I started the classic ‘replace with powers of [math]1/[/math]2’ proof’ but he cut me off when he realised I knew it. He then asked me some basic functions questions, and then asked me to define a function that was continous everywhere and differentiable at everywhere but 5 points. I did not get it initially, but after he told me [math]|x|[/math]is continous but not differentiable, I was instantly able to get an answer, a 5th-degree polynomial inside a modulus.In chemistry I was asked a simple question: before we had spectroscopy, how did scientists realise methane was tetrahedral in structure. I messed around with dipole moments of 1 and 3 degree chlorosubstituted methanes to get an answer, only to be told that there was a simpler way. Then I answered that for a dichlorination, a tetrahedral structure would present only one isomer, whereas a square planar would produce two. This was correct.I have not taken Bio in 11th-12th. Nevertheless, I took a risk and told them that I was comfortable answering Biology questions in Evolution and Genetics. They asked me why certain cicadas have 13 or 17 year life cycles. I HAD READ THE SAME FUNDA IN A MATHS BOOK ONCE, SO I HAPPENED TO KNOW THE ANSWER! I answered confidently, and with that my 20 minute KVPY interview was overNo, I will not tell you the answer to that question, find it out yourself.Qualified KVPY SA 2018, rank 203The Best Part:Interview marks were 95.5

Some people say when you meet a soulmate, you feel like you’ve known them forever. The conversation flows effortlessly, and you never want it to end.When I met Michael in the spring of 1994, it felt as if all the stars had lined up, and that hidden part of my soul — the piece that knows all the secrets of my past and future — opened up and whispered, “Its almost time.” There was a warm familiarity in those first moments, and all the voices and distractions going on around us melted away into nothing.It was an improbable and essential meeting — one that never would’ve happened if things had been only slightly different, but now feels an inescapable part of my destiny.An old beau had called to ask me out for a drink on a Friday night. “Don’t be late, Bobby,” I said, “you know I hate waiting alone in a bar.” And this would turn out to be an unanswered prayer, because Bobby was late. And if he’d shown up on time that night, I never would’ve met Michael. Later down the road, Michael would joke about wanting to send Bobby a ‘thank you‘ card.I wasn’t late that fateful night. I walked into the club at exactly 8pm. It was already crowded, so I did a slow orbit around the long, oval bar looking for Bobby, reached into my bag for my glasses, nodded to my friend Traci the bartender, pushed my glasses up my nose just as I neared the counter, and then I heard a man’s voice say: “Oh… you can’t hide your beauty behind those glasses.” It was corny, and really sweet. And being a relatively quiet type, he would later tell me it felt as if someone had dropped those words right into his mouth. I turned to my left and saw the most beautiful sage green eyes smiling at me, and I couldn’t help but smile back. “Would you like to sit down?” he said, as he stood to offer me his seat. “Yes, I would. Thank you,” I said.Our conversation was buoyant and filled with laughter, and the time seemed to fly, when forty-five minutes later I felt a tap on my shoulder. “Hey, come on. We’re gonna go across the street to the new bar,” said Bobby, unapologetically, flanked on both sides by his buddies. “That’s okay. You go on ahead without me. I’ll catch up.” “No, I’ll wait,” he said, warily eyeing the tall, handsome man beside me. “Okay,” I said, “but I don’t know how long I’m gonna be.”For about an hour Bobby would tap on my shoulder every 10 minutes or so, and then he would finally make his way across the street to that new bar, but only after extracting a promise from me to meet up with him across the street just as soon as I was done talking to my new friend.Michael & I talked a few more hours, exchanging numbers and agreeing to meet the next day at a juice bar for an early lunch. That lunch turned into a twelve-hour date that included Bloody Marys at the Hotel Laguna, sushi for dinner, and after-dinner dancing at Metropolis. It was the best first date I’d ever had, and neither of us wanted it to end.We moved in together a few months later, and got married in the spring of 1996. It was a first marriage for both of us, and we felt as if we’d been waiting for each other our whole lives.(Me & Michael in Maui with Lanai in the distance, mid-1990s.)(On our wedding day)We’d been trying to conceive, with no luck, ever since our engagement. In the fall of 1997 I underwent an exploratory laparoscopic surgery where it was discovered I had endometriosis. During the surgery they were able to do a procedure that temporarily opened a short window of fertility. My doctor told us this window would last approximately 3 months, afterwhich I’d most likely become infertile again, so we were thrilled when we conceived just three weeks later. The day before Thanksgiving we discovered I was pregnant, and we were so very thankful. Michael caressed and kissed my belly, and we called this our “miracle baby”.Everything seemed fine. The morning sickness was bearable, and I wasn’t suffering with other early pregnancy symptoms, but at 13 weeks I had some bad bleeding. Michael rushed home from work while I frantically called my doctor. She said not to come in, and that staying horizontal would be the best thing to prevent a miscarriage. It took three days for the bleeding to stop, so Michael took time off from work to take care of me.At my next appointment my doctor assured me it was only some minor bleeding and I shouldn’t worry about it. “Nothing to be concerned about” she said. I tried to tell her how much blood there was but she brushed it off. At 16 weeks I had an amnio and ultrasound. We found out we were going to have a boy, and the genetic tests all came back normal. However, because there was so much blood in the amniotic fluid, during the ultrasound the doctor said, “Did you know that you almost lost him?” He checked the attachment to my uterine wall and told us everything seemed “okay now”.My doctor never followed up on this at our next appointment. When I asked her about it she assured me again that it was just some minor bleeding, nothing to worry about. Years later I would learn I’d had a partial placental abruption which made not just my pregnancy high risk, but was also a risk to my life.Just a few weeks later, at 20 weeks pregnant, we got what I thought would be the worst news of my life. My husband was diagnosed with stage IV non-small cell lung cancer (NSCLC), the most common form of lung cancer for non-smokers. I remember my husband’s words reverberating in my brain as we walked down the stairs of the medical building: “I have a malignancy“. And I remember the feeling of my unborn child, my first child, my only son, moving in my womb as the nightmare unfolded before us.After a few months of unsuccessful chemo and radiation they told us there was nothing more they could do, that we should go home and prepare ourselves. The stress of caring for my dear husband as he endured the chemo was more than I could bear. At 5 months into my pregnancy I weighed four pounds less than before I’d gotten pregnant.I took care of Michael as best I could, but one night, at six and a half months along I sat down on our bed and my water broke. I knew it was too early. I also began bleeding. I lay awake all night having back labor in the hospital, trying to prepare myself for the c-section in the morning. After Sam was born they let me see him for just a second before placing him on the respirator and putting him inside an incubator. I remember hearing him cry out to me as we looked at each other for that brief moment. It would be the only time I would hear his voice.His lungs were so undeveloped. Maybe it was the stress Sam and I had both endured throughout the second trimester that added to the difficulty of being born early, I will never know….. Each day my husband and I stood by his incubator stroking his face and arms, holding his tiny hands, and talking to him, telling him how much we loved him and praying that he would live. But Sam lived for only six days.The morning they came to tell us he was gone I had just awoken from a horrible nightmare of a demon breaking into my house and destroying everything I loved. When I saw the doctor’s face, he didn’t have to say anything. I looked at him and said, “My baby’s gone…” and he nodded.I slipped into a deep, dark despair, but I had no choice but to go on caring for my dying husband. Three weeks after Sam died, our friends and family had gone back to their lives and families, and I hadn't slept in three days and began to hallucinate. Whenever I tried to fall asleep, I would see the grim reaper coming toward me with his menacing sickle. It felt as if I were holding onto the side of a cliff above a dark and bottomless abyss, and if my fingers were to slip, I would fall into an inescapable pit of insanity. Michael, seeing my condition, sent me home to rest, and my mother met me at our condo. That night I woke screaming several times, seeing images of the hospital, my baby, and my tortured husband’s face, in my persistent dreamscape. Against my wishes, my mother took me to the ER where they checked to make sure the crushing pain in my chest wasn’t a heart attack — it wasn’t — and gave me something to help me sleep. In two days my husband would come home for the last time.Those last few weeks were harsh, but they were also filled with love & intimate conversations. The night before he died we reminisced about all the trips we’d taken, and about how we’d met. We held each other and cried a lot, and spoke of how much we would miss each other. He made me promise that I would get married again, that I would try to have a happy life, and because he knew it meant so much to me, that I would try to have children. Then we put on our wedding rings and held hands, and he said, “Never forget… I love you, forever.“And the next day, six weeks after our baby died, we were alone in a hospital room. I was holding Michael’s hand, telling him how much I loved him, and thanking him for loving me. Our eyes were locked together till the end. And as I watched him take his last breath, it looked like he exhaled steam, or some kind of strange mist. And then, that was it — he was gone.I was 37 years old when I lost my family, and I knew with my history of infertility my chances of having another baby were slim at best. I lost my faith completely, and my heart vacillated between indifference and a seething hatred for God and life. Everywhere I went I saw pregnant women, smiling and happy, oblivious to what had happened in my world. Friends didn’t invite me to baby showers, and people kept making well-meaning but in my opinion, ridiculous remarks to me; “You know Jesus needed Michael and Sam more than you did”, “God measures us for a cross before we’re born”, and my favorite “You know right now they’re running through fields of clover”. Clover? Really? Are they running in circles, figure eights, a Möbius strip perhaps, or just one continuous line that goes for an eternity? I was so bitter and hopeless, and it was a dark, cold winter that year.Seven months later I put my profile on an online dating website. I didn’t feel ready to date, but I had a promise to keep. I thought it would be a good idea to at least start talking to men, and the internet seemed like a good buffer between me and the real world for the time being. I met a lot of men online, and things didn’t fall into place immediately, but I did end up meeting another soulmate. Rusty had lost his wife two months after my husband Michael had died. He was sensitive, intelligent, interesting, worked at NASA (he’s now a NASA Flight Director!), a commander in the Navy Reserves, and most importantly, my best friend. He could relate to my loss in a way no one else could. Four years after both our spouses had died, we were married in Maui.I was determined, but not overly optimistic about getting pregnant at the ripe old age of 42. We’d been to a fertility specialist at Stanford Hospital and she’d told us with my history of infertility, our chances of conceiving a child were, in her words, “not good.” Still, she said she’d do whatever she could to help us. And then, a miracle happened…Two months after that appointment, one-month after our wedding, and ten days before my scheduled laparoscopy, I found out that I was pregnant. With no help from the medical community I had somehow overcome all the odds. Making the call to cancel my surgery and tell the Stanford fertility specialist that I was pregnant was the happiest call of my life. She was thrilled for us. “I don’t get many phone calls like this!” she said.Now we are the happy, and somewhat tired, mid-life parents of a beautiful girl. She means the world to us, and she’s a miracle to me. And every day I’m thankful I got another chance to be a mother.(He’s wearing a work T-shirt here, but I still love this photo of us)Time does heal, and it’s not as painful as it was, but I’ll never forget my first family. And each year on Sam’s birthday and the anniversary of his death, I sit with his picture and remember the way it felt to touch his skin, and the color of his eyes, and his newborn smell. And I pray that some day when my time is over, I’ll finally get to hold him in my arms. Till then I can only hold him in my dreams.'It shall be cause of war and dire events,And set dissension 'twixt the son and sire;Subject and servile to all discontents,As dry combustious matter is to fire:Sith in his prime Death doth my love destroy,They that love best their loves shall not enjoy.'~ William Shakespeare, Venus and AdonisUPDATE: Wow! 66,000 upvotes! I’m overwhelmed with gratitude. Thank you to everyone, especially those who reached out to leave a kind comment or share.