A Time Traveler
When I stand on the sidewalk, I feel an uncanny sense of being a 17th-century time traveller. I watch as humans shielded within sleek pods transport from one location to another in mere seconds while motorways hang like ribbons suspended in time. To accomplish real time travel, however, one must travel at nearly the speed of light.
At the impressionable age of 9, I watched "The Fabric of the Cosmos" by Brian Greene with my dad. Despite grappling to understand the fine details of the documentary, I was mesmerised by Albert Einstein’s Theory of Relativity, a concept that presents time as an ever-changing and fluid entity. The central principle of the theory, time dilation, is that the faster you move through space, the slower time moves for you. The ultimate limit is light speed; at it, time is so slow that it stops. You are not going through time anymore; you are going with time and, therefore, time-travelling. At age 10, in Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum, I proudly clutched Einstein’s arm as if he were my own father.
When I travelled from New Zealand to Nepal a couple of years ago, I journeyed back in time 6 hours and 15 minutes. It was a risky feat because, as countless books and films have warned us, a time-traveller’s interactions can affect the timeline, potentially rewriting history. While there, I assumed a role as both a teacher and time-traveller, working to empower kids from all over Kathmandu through STEM and the IoT. I was altering the timeline by not only contributing to a future of modern and sustainable development in Nepal but also in surrounding nations that our young innovators will eventually reach. By travelling even further back in time, I brought back the wisdom of my ancestors through an ancient mathematical technique, Vedic Ganit (Mathematics), which Nepali students I have taught will spread far and wide in the present time. While a permanent mark will be left on history, I bear no regrets.
Time dilation can be observed in transformative experiences, like my time at the Vipassana meditation camp in Budhanilakantha, where reading, writing, speaking, eye contact, and external communication were prohibited. In alignment with Einstein's theory, rapid internal development made the external world feel slower; one week felt like one year. During extended periods of silence and rigorous meditation practices, a lesson stood out to me: the law of impermanence, i.e., everything in the world is constantly changing.
This art of adaptation has helped me in many aspects of my life, such as dealing with rejection, moving schools, and even enduring my car being set on fire. I realised from my journey of adaptation and impermanence that our understanding of the cosmos changes through the prisms of time and perspective. What I thought to be true today, might not be true tomorrow. My discovery and learning opportunities are boundless!
Adaptation also led me to one of my hobbies: tramping. Carrying overnight gear and contending with the elements might not sound like a celebration, yet with impermanence in mind, it’s deeply rewarding.
Time dilation is not simply a scientific concept. It’s a metaphor for the ever-changing, malleable nature of human experience and perception. In pointe shoes, I dance on planets, and with bare feet, I sway to the rhythm of ancient Nepali melodies on the mossy Kathmandu earth. I use my Dad’s binoculars to examine the landscape of my goals, and in time, I’ll procure a telescope and survey the galaxy of impacts I’ve made in this world. I embody the flexibility, adaptability, and transformative potential of time dilation. My ability to learn and grow can extend and compress just like time can.
On the 28th of June 2009, Stephen Hawking hosted a party for time travellers, offering an open invitation to those who can journey through time. In the future (or past), I would quite like to attend such parties.
