विज्ञान तारा Bigyan Tara

We Are Not “Nothing”

As our knowledge of the universe grows, a popular line follows: we are tiny, a pale blue dot, basically nonexistent. It sounds deep and theoretically beautuful. However, it is also misleading, and sometimes even harmful.

Yes, physically we are small. Galaxies are huge. Time is vast. We all get it. But people quietly jump from this to a different claim: therefore, we don’t matter. That is not science. It is a confusion between size and significance.

As far as I am personally concerned, my brain is my universe. Everything you will ever experience—love, fear, boredom, ambition, pain, music, meaning—exists as activity inside about 1.3 kg of tissue. Andromeda does not regulate your mood. Saturn does not care whether you slept well (I guess except if you take astrology seriously). Scale does not create value. Experience does.

There is another uncomfortable truth: knowledge cannot override autonomic state. You can know and repeat all day long that emotions are chemicals, stress is evolution, and attachment is mammalian wiring. Still:
• your heart races
• your stomach tightens
• motivation rises and falls
• desire appears on schedule
Understanding the machinery does not switch it off.

Take s*x. We know it is a naturally selected chemical signal to ensure reproduction. Fine. Now tell that to your hormones. You can discipline, delay, redirect—but you cannot delete the program. A sailor can steer. He cannot repeal the ocean.

The “we are nothing” narrative often does three things: it invalidates real suffering, confuses size with importance, and creates fake detachment—people claim not to care while their nervous systems care very much.

A more honest view is rather simple: meaning is local. It is generated by nervous systems under biological constraints. We are cosmically small and biologically enormous. Both are true.

And that is enough to matter.

A really cool and accurate demonstration.

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Diabetes Is Not a Sugar Disease — It Is an Energy Mismanagement Disease

Diabetes is commonly described as a disease of “high blood sugar,” but this framing hides the real problem. High blood sugar is a symptom, not the cause. The true malady lies in a failure of the insulin system — the body’s mechanism for distributing energy safely and efficiently.

Insulin’s job is simple: after we eat, it helps move glucose from the bloodstream into cells, especially muscle, where it can be used or stored. When this system works well, blood sugar rises briefly and then returns to normal. Problems begin when cells — particularly muscle and liver — stop responding properly to insulin. This condition is called insulin resistance.

One of the strongest protections against insulin resistance is muscle. Muscle tissue is the largest glucose-absorbing organ in the body. The more muscle you have — and the more often you use it — the more efficiently glucose is cleared from the blood with minimal insulin. This is why physically active, muscular individuals can tolerate carbohydrates far better than sedentary ones, even when eating similar foods.

Exercise does more than “burn sugar.” It improves insulin signaling, reduces fat accumulation inside muscle and liver cells, lowers chronic insulin levels, and reduces inflammation. In short, it keeps the system responsive.

When blood sugar remains high for long periods, glucose begins to chemically damage blood vessels, nerves, kidneys, and eyes through oxidative stress and abnormal protein modification. In extreme cases, very high sugar can disturb fluid and electrolyte balance, thicken the blood, and trigger fatal events such as diabetic coma, heart rhythm disturbances, or stroke.

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When people ask questions like "At what point in history did humans become humans from monkeys?” or “Why are there still monkeys?”, they are unknowingly imagining evolution as a straight ladder—a process where one form replaces another.

A better way to understand evolution is to look at something familiar: the evolution of Mercedes-Benz (see pictures attached).

In 1885, the earliest Mercedes looked like a motorized cart. By 1925, it resembled a refined carriage. In 1950, the automobile had a clear identity—enclosed, reliable, purposeful. By 1975, comfort and engineering sophistication dominated. In 2000, electronics and safety systems transformed cars yet again. And by 2025, Mercedes represents cutting-edge design, software, and electrification.

Now, some of you might say, “But this is human-made stuff—how can you compare that with nature?”
Well, I say this is an analogy, my friend, and a pretty good one if you ask me. The best part? Both are evolution. One is driven by natural selection, the other by artificial selection (or more precisely, artificial selection for manufacture). The mechanism differs, but the logic—variation, selection, retention—remains the same.

At no point did an old Mercedes turn into a new one. Nor did older models vanish when newer ones appeared. Designs diversified. Different models coexisted, each adapted to different needs, technologies, and environments.
Human evolution works exactly the same way.

Humans did not evolve from monkeys. Humans and modern monkeys share a common ancestor, just as different Mercedes models share earlier design roots. One branch led toward upright walking, large brains, language, and culture. Other branches led toward traits that still work extremely well in forests, canopies, and social troops (see pictures).

If evolution replaced older forms, old cars and monkeys wouldn’t exist—but both do, because evolution branches instead of upgrading.

Living by Probability in a World Without Certainty

People often ask me two questions when I talk about science, hypotheses, or how I make decisions.
The first is:
“Isn’t your acceptance of science sometimes faith-based, since you can’t personally verify everything?”

The second is more pointed:
“Why do you treat some unverified ideas as if they were true instead of waiting for solid evidence?”

Both questions assume that certainty should come before action. That assumption is wrong.

First of all, I trust science not because it is infallible, but because it has earned trust over time. It has a strong track record of being sincere, logical, consistent, and open-minded—willing to change its conclusions when better evidence appears. That self-correcting nature matters more to me than the illusion of certainty.

Secondly, when I cannot secure certainty, I live my life based on probability.
There is no other rational way to operate in a complex world.

I am limited—by my qualifications, my time, and my attention. I cannot personally verify black holes, medical trials, climate models, or particle physics. No human can. Knowledge today is collective by necessity. So instead of demanding certainty, I ask a better question: How likely is this to be true given the evidence we have right now?

This is not faith. It is probabilistic reasoning.

Science itself works this way. It does not wait for absolute proof before acting. Strong hypotheses are taken seriously when they emerge from reliable theories, explain existing observations, and make testable predictions. Black holes were treated as real long before they were seen—not because scientists believed blindly, but because acting on a high-probability model was rational.

This leads directly to the third popular question: What if you’re wrong?

Here’s the part people overlook. The real comparison is not being right versus being wrong. The real comparison is acting under uncertainty versus refusing to act until certainty arrives.

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सिंगाने: Know Thy Mucus

Everyone knows ChatGPT is no doctor.
But when you ask properly, give detailed context, and think alongside it instead of outsourcing your brain, it can be a life changer.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been the victim of my own hyperactive immune system. One dust mite enters my nose and my body opens the floodgates of mucus like it’s defending the last city on Earth. Seven parts per million of SO₂—or whatever the culprit is—in the air, and my immune general screams INTRUDERS! Deploy everything. Soldiers, tanks, water cannons. Collateral damage? Acceptable.
The result is familiar to anyone like me: congestion, sniffing, flushing, and a quiet sense of embarrassment.

For years, the standard solution was antihistamines. Shut the system down. Silence the alarms. Calm the dog. And sure, it works—temporarily. But it always felt intellectually dishonest to me. Like taping over the “check engine” light instead of fixing the engine. Or worse, yelling at the guard dog for barking instead of fixing the broken fence.

Then one day, instead of blindly popping pills, I asked ChatGPT why this happens.
Not “How do I stop sneezing?” but Why does my body overreact in the first place? Is it spending a lot of energy doing this? Is it somehow making me weaker?

ChatGPT explained—patiently and convincingly—that my immune system wasn’t broken or weak. It was simply risk-averse. From an evolutionary standpoint, it would rather overreact than underreact.

Mucus, I learned, is not some tragic failure of the body. It is a cheap, effective, front-line defense. Producing mucus costs very little energy compared to mounting a full immune response. I had worried for years that my body was exhausting itself, burning precious calories on endless secretions. But no—mucus is economical. It’s like throwing up a temporary barricade rather than mobilizing an army. That reassurance alone lifted a long-standing anxiety I was carrying unknowingly.

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The Evolutionary Hunger to be "Viral"
-by Bigyan Tara

In recent years, the world has developed a strange new ritual. With the urgency of a migrating herd, millions of people now race toward a single goal: to “go viral.” When I scroll through TikTok and see men and women shaking their bodies in increasingly desperate displays, I feel a quiet anxiety—not because it is immoral or shocking, but because it exposes something ancient in us that has been forcibly transplanted into the modern world.

Human beings did not evolve for anonymity. For hundreds of thousands of years, we lived in groups of fifty to a hundred people, where reputation was everything. If your tribe knew your name, you were useful; if they admired you, you were safe. Being invisible meant no food, no allies, no mating opportunities. Our brains therefore wired themselves to treat attention as survival. A compliment, a laugh, even a curious look from a tribesmate was enough to signal: You matter. You belong.

This survival software did not disappear when smartphones arrived. Instead, it collided with a world of eight billion strangers and algorithms designed to exploit our ancient circuitry. A like is no longer a nod from a tribesmate—it is a micro-dose of dopamine. A million views is no longer respect from your valley—it is a random explosion of attention from people who neither know you nor care for you. But the brain, naïve and loyal to its evolutionary design, cannot tell the difference. It only feels: I am seen. I exist.

What makes this tragic, and sometimes absurd, is that fame once required achievement. In the past, if society compared you to Homer, it meant you had crafted an epic that would outlive empires. If they compared you to Ashoka, it meant your leadership had altered the moral and political direction of an entire civilization. If they uttered your name alongside Leonardo da Vinci, it meant you had mastered arts and sciences in ways that still astonish humanity. Today, someone may believe they are Homer, Ashoka, or da Vinci because a 12-second dance earned 2 million views. The attention is real, but the meaning is counterfeit.

This is the evolutionary mismatch of our age: the desire for recognition stayed, but the pathways to recognition became hollow. Our ancestors earned admiration by contributing to their tribe. Today, one can go viral without offering anything of value—no wisdom, no craft, no contribution beyond the fleeting spectacle. And yet the brain celebrates it as if it were ancestral glory.

The deeper issue is not that people create such content, nor that millions consume it. The issue is that many confuse visibility with worth. Viral fame feels like a shortcut to significance, but it rarely leads to belonging, purpose, or inner stability. It is applause without a tribe, admiration without understanding, a spotlight that does not warm.

Perhaps the healthier path is not to suppress the desire for recognition but to aim it wisely—toward our real communities, our craft, and our long-term contributions. Virality will always be tempting, but meaning was never mass-produced. It was earned, slowly, like Homer’s verses, Ashoka’s reforms, and da Vinci’s sketches—one deliberate act at a time.

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