December 6th, 2010 - North Campus, Vishwavidyalaya
"The only thing that ruined my learning was education."
I do not recall (I’m getting the hang of my job) experiencing something that I can define as a satisfactory day at university. More than that, I had not wished to start this blog post with such a cynical tone. Nevertheless, since we’re talking about university related issues and the “good ole days,” so here it is.
Be it Bachelors of Engineering, which furnished me with neither fun nor brains, or my supposed Masters of Arts, which gave me partial fun, and once again, with no brains; ironically perhaps, since it’s coming from someone who’s spent 19 years giving exams and assignments, but I have seldom had the opportunity or saying my college life rocked.
However, there has always been something about Delhi University that has enchanted me. And that is what this blog post is dedicated to, as well as the first friend I had, who, very excitedly, showed me around what these guys call as the “campus.” Nevertheless, I’m still against the heavy sophistication of calling it “campus”; “Vishwavidyalaya,” instead, highlights the Delhi-ness of it.
It won’t take much to figure out why Vishwavidyalaya is cut apart from the rest of the hustle bustle of Connaught Place; or the shopping outskirts of Lajpat Nagar and Sarojini Nagar being plagued by upscale ladies lamenting on the incessant heat; or the cheap rickshaw rides carrying fat and old men ranting about how the country is being sucked in a black hole that take them through the thinnest lanes of Chandni Chowk and Dilli 6.
So, once again, if you managed to have your morning cuppa tea in the Delhi Metro, there’s nothing more brilliant that can happen in your entire life. It is round about a 35 to 40 minute ride along the Yellow Line from Hauz Khas to Vishwavidyalaya, at a very surprisingly inexpensive cost of 18 bucks.
Once at Vishwavidyalaya, we walked along the street that connected St. Stephen’s on one side, and Hindu on the other, while glancing at all the popular Omlette wala, Chai Wala, Maggi wala, which significantly are the bread and butter of university students. As it’s known, one might not fancy an extraordinarily sauté dish prepared at home, spiced up with the best of everything that the word “delicious” has got, but when it comes to roadside Maggi, everyone, from the geeks to the beauties, are head over heels. We managed a bite of Bhelpuri, with amazingly stirred spices, herbs and chutneys; like the perfectly proportionated flavor or sweetness and spice. Like the need of something cool along with it, we purchased ourselves a couple of glasses of Banta; to describe it, it is a mixture of lemon juice, Indianised black pepper (it has flavor), a drink prepared from artificial lemon flavor and colours, and lastly, to quench the yearning of bringing your heat strokes down, ice!
Once we were done with our supposed brunch, we headed to the Delhi School of Economics, and checked out all the local adde. It was a more of my friend’s need to reminisce, therefore, I don’t think I could write much on how dazzling her experience was. After drinking her share of Banta, we went through the geography department and entered to the road that oversees Kirori Mal. By the way, as we sneaked out of a gate that was officially closed opening into the geography department, my friend’s university days kicking in served us well.
We’ve all heard about it at some point from a well experienced mother, but have you actually seen a kid drooling all over the place when he sees his favourite babysitter encoring for a weekend while the kid’s parents are away? Exactly was the expression on my friend’s face when she saw the college where he spent the thrilling three years of her life. Understandable.
Next, we walked along the road that was supposedly ruled by Kirori Mal students, and where, which was like a total stunner, you could get your photocopies done for something as minimal as 35 paise a page! Now that would make you regret living in posh colonies such as Malviya Nagar. Nevertheless, reaching Kamla Nagar, we decided to stop by this local restaurant who served “Tandoori Momos.” So there we had it, one plate of what was as bright orange as the setting Sun covered smeared with black tandoori leftover burnt soot at its bottom, and a plate of Crispy Chilli Potato. What can I say, Indians just love to experiment around with global food items.
To describe the flavor we let our tastebuds experience, honestly, there was not much of a difference between the regular Momos that you can have at stalls dispersed all over Delhi and the tandoori ones, but serving it with green mint chutney, as opposed to the red chilli sauce that you normally get that makes your hair scratch and nose to drip, was something that changed the perspective altogether.
Post lunch, which, unarguably wasn’t enough, my friend restored her sneaky self. We sneaked in the college, eventually, through the back door, with the guard and his white crystalline moustache sitting on one chair, gaping at the crowd entering and leaving the college with his big fat stomach almost resting on his thighs. I don’t really understand how you can be a guard and not GUARD what he is meant to guard; but well, as long as it works for us.
I don’t know if returning back to this college campus gave me an overwhelming feel, or was it just generally seeing scores of students attired in a range of colour slip-ons, from funky jackets to artistic kurtas, to the regular mother type salwar kameez; but it felt rather pleasing to be in one of the colleges known to be Amitabh Bachchan’s education yard. Watching the students lined up outside the principal’s office, a herd of guys laughing their asses off while watching video on a petite cell phone screen, and some of the brightest brains running hither thither looking for their classrooms (as opposed to the rest running hither thither to bunk), was a refreshing blast from the past.
On the way back, we went across the Faculty of Management Studies, Law Fac, until we ended the day at the Metro Station, retreating back to our home bases.
Friday, 10 December 2010
Wednesday, 8 December 2010
Treading in its 59th
26th November, 2010 - Pragati Maidan
"Eating rice cakes is like chewing on a foam coffee cup, only less filling." - Dave Barry
I returned to the Trade Fair (59th it was, I guess) after three years, when I first paid a visit to it in the scorching heat; and after a year full of keeping away from all that India had to offer. More than the usual madness and the invariable hustle bustle that one would be a witness to while trying to find his way in Pragati Maidan on the (second) last day of the Trade Fair, it was more of an overwhelming welcome into the plethora of cultural diversity.
Only this time, getting in was easier than what it was three years ago, when I had to mind myself in a bus from Noida Sec. 37 to Pragati Maidan. Delhi Metro, like always, did the trick. As opposed to an unpredictable number of hours that you would otherwise spend in a bus, it took me (along with a friend) not more than 45 minutes before we tailed one of the four queues, which surprisingly very obediently remained intact, led to the opening where, once again, you could see people dispersed and desperately trying to get in. Security was amazingly organized, and it was good to see the non-ticket holders unable to get through (except for the gentleman whose family had excellent contacts with the commissioner of Delhi police).
I don’t have to mention feeling bad for the security guard who had to feel every guy’s butt that passed in front of him. However, homosexuality could’ve had the otherwise pleasurable result.
Getting back, it was impressive to see a huge piece of land drenched in, apart from scores of people pushing each other to see what they aren’t even interested in but want to for some unknown reason, cultural bliss; from food, accessories, dressings, footwear, wall hangings, handicrafts and artifacts. (Almost the) Best of every state splashed down in one place. From a wide variety of crafty exhibits, from colourful wall hangings, masterfully tailored lamps and authentic Bengali sarees in West Bengal; the exquisitely shaped map of Jantar Mantar, the welcoming mascot ‘Shera’ of the Delhi Commonwealth Games 2010 explaining what’s in store with a computerized voice running alongside a slow and consistent opening-closing-opening of his jaws that seems like nothing less than a cow relishing its grassy fodder; and the artistically designed entrance of Kerala, with a giant Sun in the middle and water waves illustrated by plastic that made it look more scarier than Kerala-stic. A separate line of Pakistani and Afghani food stalls selling the quintessential paranthas and the stylized kebabs of chicken and mutton added that relishing touch to the trip. To end it with a flavor that gives your mouth an exhilarating fizz of coolness that you can trace right down to the bottom of your stomach – Coke.
Naatak has always been a mode of entertainment for the local Indian audience. And, take my word on it, the sleazier a naatak, the larger the audience. Which reminds me of a naatak that was being played, followed with what can be called a devotional remix “dhin chik dhin chik” track that you normally hear playing in your religious neighbourhood’s room during the festival of Navaratras. You may call it whatever, but a group of guy actors drooling at the sight of the lone actress on stage, waiting to grope her at the slightest window of opportunity does not call to being devotional.
Among the other foodstuff, Bhelpuri, which is not worth mentioning, and a stick Kulfi, which was, again, not even close to what it should be, was the last supper. Let me describe the atrocity of such foodstuffs at the Trade Fair. The Bhelpuri, one of the most relished snack items in, especially, Mumbai and Delhi (since both of them have their different ways of preparation), which has to be made with just the right amount of spices and sweet chutneys, properly cut onions, green chilli, tomatoes and potatoes, was, at the Trade Fair, prepared with what I would call as “dried” chutneys. The stick Kulfi, which to many, including me, reminds me of the Friday nights when the local Kulfiwala would come around the house and the whole family would bask in its flavour, did not have the rich cream it’s meant to; and the carefulness with which dry fruits that ought to be added, well, let’s just say they weren’t there. Perhaps one of the very few instances when you feel like clawing back to your childhood.
With the pride every Delhiite would feel with the advent of Metro, ironically, we took the bus on our return journey. And then, like every other Delhiite would tell you, the ordeal of being in Delhi began precipitating. We had to walk round almost twice the distance to reach the nearest bus stop, then the journey being plagued by the incessant traffic that refuses to ease away, and lastly, I never got to sit inside the metro! From Pragati Maidan, I dropped off at South Ex., from where bus no. 500 led me to Begampur. I won’t say the return journey was tormenting, like some of the other journeys I’ve had in bus no. 500; on the other hand, getting a seat is always a bliss.
"Eating rice cakes is like chewing on a foam coffee cup, only less filling." - Dave Barry
I returned to the Trade Fair (59th it was, I guess) after three years, when I first paid a visit to it in the scorching heat; and after a year full of keeping away from all that India had to offer. More than the usual madness and the invariable hustle bustle that one would be a witness to while trying to find his way in Pragati Maidan on the (second) last day of the Trade Fair, it was more of an overwhelming welcome into the plethora of cultural diversity.
Only this time, getting in was easier than what it was three years ago, when I had to mind myself in a bus from Noida Sec. 37 to Pragati Maidan. Delhi Metro, like always, did the trick. As opposed to an unpredictable number of hours that you would otherwise spend in a bus, it took me (along with a friend) not more than 45 minutes before we tailed one of the four queues, which surprisingly very obediently remained intact, led to the opening where, once again, you could see people dispersed and desperately trying to get in. Security was amazingly organized, and it was good to see the non-ticket holders unable to get through (except for the gentleman whose family had excellent contacts with the commissioner of Delhi police).
I don’t have to mention feeling bad for the security guard who had to feel every guy’s butt that passed in front of him. However, homosexuality could’ve had the otherwise pleasurable result.
Getting back, it was impressive to see a huge piece of land drenched in, apart from scores of people pushing each other to see what they aren’t even interested in but want to for some unknown reason, cultural bliss; from food, accessories, dressings, footwear, wall hangings, handicrafts and artifacts. (Almost the) Best of every state splashed down in one place. From a wide variety of crafty exhibits, from colourful wall hangings, masterfully tailored lamps and authentic Bengali sarees in West Bengal; the exquisitely shaped map of Jantar Mantar, the welcoming mascot ‘Shera’ of the Delhi Commonwealth Games 2010 explaining what’s in store with a computerized voice running alongside a slow and consistent opening-closing-opening of his jaws that seems like nothing less than a cow relishing its grassy fodder; and the artistically designed entrance of Kerala, with a giant Sun in the middle and water waves illustrated by plastic that made it look more scarier than Kerala-stic. A separate line of Pakistani and Afghani food stalls selling the quintessential paranthas and the stylized kebabs of chicken and mutton added that relishing touch to the trip. To end it with a flavor that gives your mouth an exhilarating fizz of coolness that you can trace right down to the bottom of your stomach – Coke.
Naatak has always been a mode of entertainment for the local Indian audience. And, take my word on it, the sleazier a naatak, the larger the audience. Which reminds me of a naatak that was being played, followed with what can be called a devotional remix “dhin chik dhin chik” track that you normally hear playing in your religious neighbourhood’s room during the festival of Navaratras. You may call it whatever, but a group of guy actors drooling at the sight of the lone actress on stage, waiting to grope her at the slightest window of opportunity does not call to being devotional.
Among the other foodstuff, Bhelpuri, which is not worth mentioning, and a stick Kulfi, which was, again, not even close to what it should be, was the last supper. Let me describe the atrocity of such foodstuffs at the Trade Fair. The Bhelpuri, one of the most relished snack items in, especially, Mumbai and Delhi (since both of them have their different ways of preparation), which has to be made with just the right amount of spices and sweet chutneys, properly cut onions, green chilli, tomatoes and potatoes, was, at the Trade Fair, prepared with what I would call as “dried” chutneys. The stick Kulfi, which to many, including me, reminds me of the Friday nights when the local Kulfiwala would come around the house and the whole family would bask in its flavour, did not have the rich cream it’s meant to; and the carefulness with which dry fruits that ought to be added, well, let’s just say they weren’t there. Perhaps one of the very few instances when you feel like clawing back to your childhood.
With the pride every Delhiite would feel with the advent of Metro, ironically, we took the bus on our return journey. And then, like every other Delhiite would tell you, the ordeal of being in Delhi began precipitating. We had to walk round almost twice the distance to reach the nearest bus stop, then the journey being plagued by the incessant traffic that refuses to ease away, and lastly, I never got to sit inside the metro! From Pragati Maidan, I dropped off at South Ex., from where bus no. 500 led me to Begampur. I won’t say the return journey was tormenting, like some of the other journeys I’ve had in bus no. 500; on the other hand, getting a seat is always a bliss.
Friday, 24 September 2010
To the University, after a University.
Post-Cardiff, and so shall every post from now be - Hauz Khas metro station, Vishwavidyalaya.
“‘Cause it’s a bittersweet symphony, this life…” – The Verve.
Have you ever come across an unfortunate scenario where the bus you took got hijacked? That didn’t really happen to me; my intention to give this blog post an intriguing head start, something that arrests the readers and swallows them in like a black hole.
Nevertheless, today was the first time I for a chance to blog one of my excursions, after the likes of Cardiff met its closure. And the enthusiasm of travelling in the Delhi metro for the first time was indescribable! I mean, sure, the crowd and the perpetual hustle bustle (which, by the way, does become a concern after you’ve spent a year in one of quietest places under the sun – Cardiff – where empty streets become the trend of the hour following 10 pm each night), are some of the many presupposed fragments of torment you need to prepare yourself with; but the advent of metro has surely given Delhi an altogether different dimension, which, as I said before, is indescribable.
Today’s excursion started with a brief walk till the Hauz Khas metro station. The walk, perhaps the first one after coming back, had a touch of nostalgia in it. No, it did not remind me of my school/college/social days, but the sight of watching the trees along the road taking a turn in the near distance covered in partial haze (contributed largely by the traffic smoke) reminded me of some of the times I spent in Delhi, walking through roads aimlessly on crisp winter mornings, where the haze was a factor or large god deposition in the atmosphere. The cloudy weather added the charm.
Any embarrassments that I observed in the entire day? Yes sir, a notable one. While I was walking along Laxman Public School, I met an unexpected friend of mine. Like any person would’ve done, I yelled out her name to call her. She turned, waved rather lethargically in response to my emphatic wave, and then after I approached her, she says: “You remember my name?”
I needn’t say much about what followed, because not being recognized, as opposed to your impressive memory that perhaps stores a photographic image of everyone you’ve ever met, is rather a disturbing response.
Continuing, the metro station was air conditioned right from the point of entrance till I exited at Vishwavidyalaya. This impressed me, for during peak summers, where the sun is reluctant to exonerate you from a torturous 45 degrees Celsius plus, the stations can be a comforting haven. The ticket line was surprisingly not long; however, wanting to decide my destination took more time. Keep in mind that my trip was purposeless, and it was only at the counter I decided that I wanted to go to Vishwavidyalaya.
A price of 20 bucks (and I shall happily use the rupee sign once it’s design is implemented in all keyboards), along with a time margin of 35 to 40 minutes was all that you require to reach the other end of the capital city. I was in no mood to hear incessant ranting about the Commonwealth Games coming from my fellow passengers whom I could overhear, and I deeply regret going against my intention to plug into my iPod to save myself from how the capital is defaming itself on the international front. Rather, and through some semi-religious/spiritual way, I was able to resist all that and still enjoy my ride. And of course, it wouldn’t have been without two women (college going girls, to be honest) whose presence made it worthwhile being in the train. You know what I mean.
A huge crowd inside the chambers of the train isn’t a big surprise, when you know you’re in the capital of the country whose population growth is on its way to rip through the Chinese, and clinch the torch. Travelling along the yellow line (the entire metro route map is divided into 5 to 6 definite lines, and it’s through these lanes you reach your respective destinations), made it relatively easier for me, since Vishwavidyalaya lied on the same line, and I didn’t have to get down on one station to switch trains.
And yes, a large portion of the metro web is “underground”, so Londoners will definitely feel at home.
Like I said, my purpose of visiting Vishwavidyalaya was, well, basically, there was no purpose. So after dropped in my token, which seemed to be quite an arduous task since the first two counters where I was repeatedly to drop my token in weren’t meant to be the ones where you drop tokens, I set foot into North Delhi, after almost a year. I remember going there once with a friend, when the metro only ran from CP till Vishwadyalaya.
And then my aimless walk commenced. There isn’t much to say of the walk. Despite my destination being Vishwavidyalaya, I could only site two colleges – the Department of Social Service, which brought in a funny feeling to me since I recollected one of my friends studying there, and Music and Fine Arts College. Some of the roads were clocked, owing to the CWG mania (or fiasco, you get to decide).
I would’ve walked more had my feet allowed me to. An hour of a walk, where the only notable spots I observed have already been mentioned, and I was back to the metro station. One thing you need to learn, standing at the ticket counter, is to produce change. The man sitting in his uniform, with an embarrassing golden stud pierced in his ear that accentuates itself in contrast to his dark complexion, will suck the last droplet of blood in your body if you try to convince him to give you 81 bucks in return for a 100 note. It’s the capital city, so don’t keep your hopes high. And then, getting abused by the people standing behind you (apparently because here, everyone gets late) is something you don’t want to be subjected to.
And then the inevitable happened. I say inevitable because, well, as one my friend says, “it’s me”. I got on the wrong train. Fortunately, this time, I realized the train was running only from Vishwavidyalaya till Central Secretariat.
So I got down and boarded the right one, and with that, I became “it isn’t me”. However, the rush in this one was unspeakable. A woman came and stood next to me, and everytime this guy, with a weird smelling oil garnished on his hair, threw himself at me because of the abrupt brake application, i would get pushed. That would make my hand brush through the woman’s, which led to a powerful glare coming from her end. And you wouldn’t want to be stuck in such a situation with her boyfriend/husband standing next to him.
So after 10 stops (and a couple more), with the crowd refusing to let go, I was barely able to squeeze myself through at out of the exit doors at Hauz Khas. And with it, came to an end of the bittersweet day.
“‘Cause it’s a bittersweet symphony, this life…” – The Verve.
Have you ever come across an unfortunate scenario where the bus you took got hijacked? That didn’t really happen to me; my intention to give this blog post an intriguing head start, something that arrests the readers and swallows them in like a black hole.
Nevertheless, today was the first time I for a chance to blog one of my excursions, after the likes of Cardiff met its closure. And the enthusiasm of travelling in the Delhi metro for the first time was indescribable! I mean, sure, the crowd and the perpetual hustle bustle (which, by the way, does become a concern after you’ve spent a year in one of quietest places under the sun – Cardiff – where empty streets become the trend of the hour following 10 pm each night), are some of the many presupposed fragments of torment you need to prepare yourself with; but the advent of metro has surely given Delhi an altogether different dimension, which, as I said before, is indescribable.
Today’s excursion started with a brief walk till the Hauz Khas metro station. The walk, perhaps the first one after coming back, had a touch of nostalgia in it. No, it did not remind me of my school/college/social days, but the sight of watching the trees along the road taking a turn in the near distance covered in partial haze (contributed largely by the traffic smoke) reminded me of some of the times I spent in Delhi, walking through roads aimlessly on crisp winter mornings, where the haze was a factor or large god deposition in the atmosphere. The cloudy weather added the charm.
Any embarrassments that I observed in the entire day? Yes sir, a notable one. While I was walking along Laxman Public School, I met an unexpected friend of mine. Like any person would’ve done, I yelled out her name to call her. She turned, waved rather lethargically in response to my emphatic wave, and then after I approached her, she says: “You remember my name?”
I needn’t say much about what followed, because not being recognized, as opposed to your impressive memory that perhaps stores a photographic image of everyone you’ve ever met, is rather a disturbing response.
Continuing, the metro station was air conditioned right from the point of entrance till I exited at Vishwavidyalaya. This impressed me, for during peak summers, where the sun is reluctant to exonerate you from a torturous 45 degrees Celsius plus, the stations can be a comforting haven. The ticket line was surprisingly not long; however, wanting to decide my destination took more time. Keep in mind that my trip was purposeless, and it was only at the counter I decided that I wanted to go to Vishwavidyalaya.
A price of 20 bucks (and I shall happily use the rupee sign once it’s design is implemented in all keyboards), along with a time margin of 35 to 40 minutes was all that you require to reach the other end of the capital city. I was in no mood to hear incessant ranting about the Commonwealth Games coming from my fellow passengers whom I could overhear, and I deeply regret going against my intention to plug into my iPod to save myself from how the capital is defaming itself on the international front. Rather, and through some semi-religious/spiritual way, I was able to resist all that and still enjoy my ride. And of course, it wouldn’t have been without two women (college going girls, to be honest) whose presence made it worthwhile being in the train. You know what I mean.
A huge crowd inside the chambers of the train isn’t a big surprise, when you know you’re in the capital of the country whose population growth is on its way to rip through the Chinese, and clinch the torch. Travelling along the yellow line (the entire metro route map is divided into 5 to 6 definite lines, and it’s through these lanes you reach your respective destinations), made it relatively easier for me, since Vishwavidyalaya lied on the same line, and I didn’t have to get down on one station to switch trains.
And yes, a large portion of the metro web is “underground”, so Londoners will definitely feel at home.
Like I said, my purpose of visiting Vishwavidyalaya was, well, basically, there was no purpose. So after dropped in my token, which seemed to be quite an arduous task since the first two counters where I was repeatedly to drop my token in weren’t meant to be the ones where you drop tokens, I set foot into North Delhi, after almost a year. I remember going there once with a friend, when the metro only ran from CP till Vishwadyalaya.
And then my aimless walk commenced. There isn’t much to say of the walk. Despite my destination being Vishwavidyalaya, I could only site two colleges – the Department of Social Service, which brought in a funny feeling to me since I recollected one of my friends studying there, and Music and Fine Arts College. Some of the roads were clocked, owing to the CWG mania (or fiasco, you get to decide).
I would’ve walked more had my feet allowed me to. An hour of a walk, where the only notable spots I observed have already been mentioned, and I was back to the metro station. One thing you need to learn, standing at the ticket counter, is to produce change. The man sitting in his uniform, with an embarrassing golden stud pierced in his ear that accentuates itself in contrast to his dark complexion, will suck the last droplet of blood in your body if you try to convince him to give you 81 bucks in return for a 100 note. It’s the capital city, so don’t keep your hopes high. And then, getting abused by the people standing behind you (apparently because here, everyone gets late) is something you don’t want to be subjected to.
And then the inevitable happened. I say inevitable because, well, as one my friend says, “it’s me”. I got on the wrong train. Fortunately, this time, I realized the train was running only from Vishwavidyalaya till Central Secretariat.
So I got down and boarded the right one, and with that, I became “it isn’t me”. However, the rush in this one was unspeakable. A woman came and stood next to me, and everytime this guy, with a weird smelling oil garnished on his hair, threw himself at me because of the abrupt brake application, i would get pushed. That would make my hand brush through the woman’s, which led to a powerful glare coming from her end. And you wouldn’t want to be stuck in such a situation with her boyfriend/husband standing next to him.
So after 10 stops (and a couple more), with the crowd refusing to let go, I was barely able to squeeze myself through at out of the exit doors at Hauz Khas. And with it, came to an end of the bittersweet day.
Wednesday, 7 April 2010
Dumb-nut retraces.
Day 17: South Ex., Part I and II; Bus Route 540 (Kendriya Terminal to Tara Apartments) - Check.
“If you’ve never gotten lost, you need to live your life more aggressively.”
Trust me, if it wasn’t for the bus ride today, this piece wouldn’t have held any credibility for being pinned up.
The first stop was South Extension Part I. The market seemed to look the same, sharing the gratitude of not being counted as a Metro victimized area. I travelled the length of the market, absorbing in a distinctive feel of the market, and a small inlet through the market that leads to the Aakash Institute.
Aakash Institute and I share a long story – one that began 7 years ago, and lasted for a year. The same year where I scrubbed off my youthful exuberance at the price for a petty ‘medical’ teaching. It’s depressing, so I’ll save it.
Experiments can turn out to be unexpectedly amusing, even if it’s a casual sip at Barista. Amongst the three of us, we ordered a Watermelon Mojito, a Lemon Ice Tea and a cold coffee. Now, as customary, the experimental bit, the Watermelon Mojito, fell in my share. And ironically, it turned out to be the best. Served with watermelon flavoured drink, in a glassful of crushed ice and a hint of lemon, nourished perfectly by a mint leaf, Mojito exceeded in its taste against the standing contenders on the table.
The Lemon Ice Tea was pretty usual, and although I find the Mc Donald’s the best, the one my friend had was nowhere close to it.
The cold coffee was again, a disaster. In simple explanation, it seemed like a splurge of coffee beans, without being beaten, were stirred in a glass of cold water with thick unmixable chocolate swimming at the bottom. And to top it up, there was definitely no milk in it because of the liquid’s inexplicable thinness.
The subsequent stop was over at South Ex. Part II, on the other side of the road. A plateful of vegetarian Momos, which are steamed balls of flour stuffed with vegetables, a specialty particularly in Tibet. However, there are numerous stalls in Delhi that run their business by selling Momos. Along with vegetarian, there are paneer (cottage cheese) and non vegetarian (with an option of chicken and very seldom, mutton). Next stop, was the typical Aloo Chaat, which are basically pieces of friend potato tossed in a splash of lemon juice and various chaat masalas.
The last eating stop was again, across the road, at South Ex. Part I; and god knows why we kept switching. Gol Gappa, which by the end of today, seemed to have become my staple meal. I’ve shared the recipe of it before, so I’ll save it this time.
Apart from the overwhelming meet up that was stuffed with disastrous experimental drinks and discussing my inability to find a girlfriend in the UK, the bus ride on my way back home spiced the day up.
Bus route 540, which runs from Kendriya Terminal to Tara Apartments; I got on to the bus at South Ex., this being one of the routes I hadn’t tried before.
(One thing that should be understood, before I go on glorifying my embarrassing escapade, is that people who’re not so good with directions can turn vulnerable when it comes to judging ways and routes in a place being visited the first time in 7 months.)
So after sitting in the bus, while I’m merrily plugged into the guitar crashing riffs of Green Day, I skipped my own stop. Green Day was a spoiler for having me distracted from the conductor’s scream that my stop had arrived. As a result, I was driven till the end of the bus route, after which the conductor asked me to buy another ticket because the ticket I help in my hands was for South Ex. till the completion of the journey.
Unknowingly, after sitting at South Ex. and having crossed my stop, I went on till Chittaranjan Park, Greater Kailash until the bus reached it terminal stop. There, being the only person sitting in the bus, I realized my idiocy upon an epiphany – an epiphany that dawned as a reason of hilarity and amusement for the conductor when I asked him the time it’ll take for my stop to come.
At the end of it, with an entertained, yet completely puzzled for stumbling upon my dazzling sense of directions, he saved me from an extra ticket. The only fresh of breath air I sighed was after getting down while the bus rode on its way back.
“If you’ve never gotten lost, you need to live your life more aggressively.”
Trust me, if it wasn’t for the bus ride today, this piece wouldn’t have held any credibility for being pinned up.
The first stop was South Extension Part I. The market seemed to look the same, sharing the gratitude of not being counted as a Metro victimized area. I travelled the length of the market, absorbing in a distinctive feel of the market, and a small inlet through the market that leads to the Aakash Institute.
Aakash Institute and I share a long story – one that began 7 years ago, and lasted for a year. The same year where I scrubbed off my youthful exuberance at the price for a petty ‘medical’ teaching. It’s depressing, so I’ll save it.
Experiments can turn out to be unexpectedly amusing, even if it’s a casual sip at Barista. Amongst the three of us, we ordered a Watermelon Mojito, a Lemon Ice Tea and a cold coffee. Now, as customary, the experimental bit, the Watermelon Mojito, fell in my share. And ironically, it turned out to be the best. Served with watermelon flavoured drink, in a glassful of crushed ice and a hint of lemon, nourished perfectly by a mint leaf, Mojito exceeded in its taste against the standing contenders on the table.
The Lemon Ice Tea was pretty usual, and although I find the Mc Donald’s the best, the one my friend had was nowhere close to it.
The cold coffee was again, a disaster. In simple explanation, it seemed like a splurge of coffee beans, without being beaten, were stirred in a glass of cold water with thick unmixable chocolate swimming at the bottom. And to top it up, there was definitely no milk in it because of the liquid’s inexplicable thinness.
The subsequent stop was over at South Ex. Part II, on the other side of the road. A plateful of vegetarian Momos, which are steamed balls of flour stuffed with vegetables, a specialty particularly in Tibet. However, there are numerous stalls in Delhi that run their business by selling Momos. Along with vegetarian, there are paneer (cottage cheese) and non vegetarian (with an option of chicken and very seldom, mutton). Next stop, was the typical Aloo Chaat, which are basically pieces of friend potato tossed in a splash of lemon juice and various chaat masalas.
The last eating stop was again, across the road, at South Ex. Part I; and god knows why we kept switching. Gol Gappa, which by the end of today, seemed to have become my staple meal. I’ve shared the recipe of it before, so I’ll save it this time.
Apart from the overwhelming meet up that was stuffed with disastrous experimental drinks and discussing my inability to find a girlfriend in the UK, the bus ride on my way back home spiced the day up.
Bus route 540, which runs from Kendriya Terminal to Tara Apartments; I got on to the bus at South Ex., this being one of the routes I hadn’t tried before.
(One thing that should be understood, before I go on glorifying my embarrassing escapade, is that people who’re not so good with directions can turn vulnerable when it comes to judging ways and routes in a place being visited the first time in 7 months.)
So after sitting in the bus, while I’m merrily plugged into the guitar crashing riffs of Green Day, I skipped my own stop. Green Day was a spoiler for having me distracted from the conductor’s scream that my stop had arrived. As a result, I was driven till the end of the bus route, after which the conductor asked me to buy another ticket because the ticket I help in my hands was for South Ex. till the completion of the journey.
Unknowingly, after sitting at South Ex. and having crossed my stop, I went on till Chittaranjan Park, Greater Kailash until the bus reached it terminal stop. There, being the only person sitting in the bus, I realized my idiocy upon an epiphany – an epiphany that dawned as a reason of hilarity and amusement for the conductor when I asked him the time it’ll take for my stop to come.
At the end of it, with an entertained, yet completely puzzled for stumbling upon my dazzling sense of directions, he saved me from an extra ticket. The only fresh of breath air I sighed was after getting down while the bus rode on its way back.
Tuesday, 6 April 2010
Gleefulness riding on exhaustion.
Day 16: Lajpat Nagar; Central Market – Check.
“This is an Indian man convincing their shit: Sir, I’m telling you. Best price, take it and go. Take it... and go. Take it and go.” – Russell Peters.
It was day 16 of my Delhi trip, and being my 12th post, I’m being nourished with this overwhelming sense of pride. Absurd may be, and many people may concur that roaming around markets with open rooftops in blazing Indian summer isn’t really the best idea, but then that is what travel writing is all about, isn’t it?
Laid out in what seems to be more or less like a grid, with the streets occupying the interlaced lines and the shops and stores aligned on the inner segments, Lajpat Nagar’s Central Market is an unparallel shopping hub. Crowded by a healthy population of women, all shops welcome bargaining with arms wide open. From clothing wear to accessories, leather belts to bags, there is every room for a sliding price tag. So, don’t be astonished if, after recurring negotiation trials, you manage to bring down a Rs. 300 product to a mere price of Rs. 50.
And the best part, for commodities like hand bags and handkerchiefs, you don’t even have to look for a definite shop. There are mobile shops, a term which I suppose has been introduced in a post before. It’s basically a one man shop, who holds huge packets of handkerchiefs with him and walks throughout the market, trying to sell them off at negotiable prices. After a certain point of time, you feel there’s a virtual obligation that he’s holding onto, because although he may start pinning the price at an unaffordable scale, but won’t take much time to get him well below what you asked for.
It gets funnier when you come across a young man trying to sell sunglasses; they won’t approach you with a customary smile, or even an attractive tone in their voice. They come up, wearing a godfather like personality and slipped into a tight leather shirt, sparklingly designed jeans and brimming with self confidence, putting on a suspecting look on their faces as if they’re trying to slip packets of nicotine in your bag.
The next thing on my shopping list was shoe laces. But how is it appropriate to set the rates in a shop that has only a torn umbrella as its roof with the owner sitting on a rag, equivalent to what you can expect to get in a high end store. 20 bucks for a pair of laces! Well, I bought five, and being grateful to my mother’s incredible skills at bargaining, I got them for 75.
Food, as we go again, was the customary gold dust. We began with a bite at Mc. Donald’s where, after engaging myself in an exhausting feast with chips at Cardiff, I again fed myself those long potato sticks. Not really much to talk about that. Nevertheless, the one thing I have failed to comprehend is the sudden fall of relish I used to have for Chaat, which now I don’t. Throughout the trip, the only fodder I relied on was a glassful of heavenly Banta (a bottle of lemon drink with an addition of a slash of lemon juice and masala) that rejuvenated my lungs, Chhole Bhature at Rozy restaurant (I know the name sounds bogus, but apparently the place has been a popular eating joint for many people, and is running in its 25th year), and a Pan flavoured stick kulfi (the normal stick kulfi, with the exception of its green ‘pan’ colour , a distinct flavour and some pan pieces that replenish your breath in its last bite).
Monday, 5 April 2010
Fret machine.
Day 10: Amity University, Route 493 (Amity Chowk Sector 44 to Nehru Place) – Check.
“Aal iiz well” – 3 Idiots
There cannot be qualms in relating to the quote with this column. Here’s the preview: engineering college, not really knowing why I got, swinging my line of study after acquiring a degree.
More than collecting my degree, it was about revisiting the place I spent four strenuous years, seeing and touching ups and downs, going to as far as suicidal notions and clawing back with anything but insatiableness, and practicing the method of study that fetches a 70% with a one night stand with books.
But as the saying goes, if at all there is, Amity would still give me enough reasons to fret than to praise its association to the IPL as a university partner – that, being my first dope. Alright, so what is a ‘university partner’, as a definition, again? Throughout the campus, I saw banners of Delhi Daredevils hanging from roof tops. It won’t surprise me if the authorities just may start hoisting the Delhi Daredevils flag in anticipated morning assemblies.
As glad I was to be back, walking through the corridor that has shared my anxiety and fears over my revaluations and supplementary examinations, there was a definite surge of inexplicability. I use the word inexplicability to refer to a mixture of feelings of anticipation, nostalgia, curiosity and a hint of vexation.
Some of the spots inside the E2 building I revisited, or to say, was made to revisit were Batra’s office, the corridor connection E3 to E1 and the examination department. I know it sounds a bit off the hook, for a corridor to bring back surges of nostalgia, but surprisingly it did. All the more I recognized the fear I held the last time I entered Batra’s office, in hopes for preponing my viva.
But then, nothing completes an Amity visit unless you’re made to sit for hours and walk around two diagonally positioned buildings multimillion number of times. Firstly, I do not understand why I have to pay Rs. 500 for my own degree. Secondly, why would the college authorities have my name categorized in a totally different course, after I’m done with the course; just certain things that although you might want to stand elusive towards, but it just doesn’t seem to surface.
Enough with the fretting, I suppose. The most wonderful part, apart from meeting a friend in the campus (if she’s reading this) was the journey back to Nehru Place. This time, I didn’t take the bus; probably as a tribute to my increased inabilities of bearing the heat, and the bus rides. Taking the same route for four years, again, reprised the echoes of the days I spent desperately looking for a seat in the bus. Yamuna bridge, Kaindi Kunj, Sarita Vihar, Apollo, Okhla and Nehru Place – all looked exactly the same, with the only exception of the widening of the road margins at Kalindi Kunj.
“Aal iiz well” – 3 Idiots
There cannot be qualms in relating to the quote with this column. Here’s the preview: engineering college, not really knowing why I got, swinging my line of study after acquiring a degree.
More than collecting my degree, it was about revisiting the place I spent four strenuous years, seeing and touching ups and downs, going to as far as suicidal notions and clawing back with anything but insatiableness, and practicing the method of study that fetches a 70% with a one night stand with books.
But as the saying goes, if at all there is, Amity would still give me enough reasons to fret than to praise its association to the IPL as a university partner – that, being my first dope. Alright, so what is a ‘university partner’, as a definition, again? Throughout the campus, I saw banners of Delhi Daredevils hanging from roof tops. It won’t surprise me if the authorities just may start hoisting the Delhi Daredevils flag in anticipated morning assemblies.
As glad I was to be back, walking through the corridor that has shared my anxiety and fears over my revaluations and supplementary examinations, there was a definite surge of inexplicability. I use the word inexplicability to refer to a mixture of feelings of anticipation, nostalgia, curiosity and a hint of vexation.
Some of the spots inside the E2 building I revisited, or to say, was made to revisit were Batra’s office, the corridor connection E3 to E1 and the examination department. I know it sounds a bit off the hook, for a corridor to bring back surges of nostalgia, but surprisingly it did. All the more I recognized the fear I held the last time I entered Batra’s office, in hopes for preponing my viva.
But then, nothing completes an Amity visit unless you’re made to sit for hours and walk around two diagonally positioned buildings multimillion number of times. Firstly, I do not understand why I have to pay Rs. 500 for my own degree. Secondly, why would the college authorities have my name categorized in a totally different course, after I’m done with the course; just certain things that although you might want to stand elusive towards, but it just doesn’t seem to surface.
Enough with the fretting, I suppose. The most wonderful part, apart from meeting a friend in the campus (if she’s reading this) was the journey back to Nehru Place. This time, I didn’t take the bus; probably as a tribute to my increased inabilities of bearing the heat, and the bus rides. Taking the same route for four years, again, reprised the echoes of the days I spent desperately looking for a seat in the bus. Yamuna bridge, Kaindi Kunj, Sarita Vihar, Apollo, Okhla and Nehru Place – all looked exactly the same, with the only exception of the widening of the road margins at Kalindi Kunj.
Three pair legs, two pair wheels – our small Delhi tour.
Day 9: Kailash Colony, Some road alongside Humayun’s Tomb, Khan Market, Greenpark, GK I (M Block market), Nehru Place; Bus route 764 (Nehru Place to Nizammudin Railway Station) – Check.
“And here we… Go!” – Heath Ledger, The Joker, The Dark Knight.
This package was by far the most interesting one. Not just did it include strolling around several spots in Delhi, but this time I had people accompanying me. Majorly, the trip was led by food, and so was the topic of discussion in most of our conversations.
The ride instigated from Bluebells School International, Kailash Colony. I would have loved to say it was fun, but standing in the blazing heat waiting for my friend outside the school doesn’t count as such. However, with the exception of having to stand on the road opposite LSR (Lady Sri Ram) College, which has been a sanctuary for exclusive bird watching in my 11th standard, partially lifted the heat off.
Other than the splendid view Bluebells has to offer, I was amazed at the Metro construction. The road wasn’t subjected to gravel clutter hampering the traffic flow anymore. Or to say, it wasn’t as worse as it was when I left. Nonetheless, it was one of those pockets that have made a definite progression.
From Kailash Colony, we headed to Mount Kailash; our cold drink station. Being only a pick up stop, where I conveniently lost the front seat (let aside the jokes), we headed to “a place”.
I can only describe our next stop as “a place”, because I hardly knew where we were. As a matter of fact, all that was to the place was a curved road, smooth enough to enjoy a hassle free drive without having to “push through”, or “break in”, or even “take over”.
On the left, the surroundings were governed particularly by wastelands with thatched roofed huts and a small room with walls that I can assume would’ve belonged to the medieval times (ironically, there used to be a college there a couple of years ago, but was sealed whilst the Delhi-sealing-rampage was at its peak).
(Forgive me, for this was the first trip where my love for Delhi woke up from the dead, yet I did misspell Delhi in the above paragraph, and it took me a minute to figure out where I went wrong.)
On the right, from what my friend told me, was the Humayun’s Tomb; another site whose corners serve lovers’ secrecy. Again, we didn’t go in there, so I’ll save the details.
Khan Market: our next stop. What we had here were the Indian version of Mc. Donald’s burgers. I hate to repeat this, but British flavours cannot EVER find a place for the finest of Indian ones. And I’m not putting the Mc. Aloo Tikki on top of the ladder of my ‘scrumptious-Indian-delights’ list, but even the European burgers and pizzas – the indigenous food – aren’t ready to prepare its Asian versions.
I have to admit I am terrible with directions; terrible being only an underrated, underwhelmed undercurrent. Considering that, if I say I can guide from Malviya Nagar (where I stay) to Greenpark, it makes sense. However, if someone asks a person who is, by definition, dumb with directions and understanding roadmaps, then how exactly does he deserve being accused (and taunted upon) if he cannot steer the ship safely from Khan Market to Greenpark? (Just to let you know I’m talking of two completely different routes here.)
We drove through residential complexes, main roads, came across two markets which could never qualify to be the main Greenpark market, until finding salvage in an auto driver’s direction sense. It was amazing how people talk a great deal in a quick snap of words – “third left, second right”, was all that he filled us with – and we were there!
And then came in the real food. I really wish I could post pictures here (that being, if I had them), but the Indian flavours we had were nothing short of stupendous. “Evergreen” was our stop, a restaurant cum sweet shop that looms over its adjacent Madras cafes and takes twice their size.
The list was mouth watering: Pav Bhaji, Chole Bhature, Gol Gappe, Aloo Tikki and Papri Chaat. And for desert, which by the way no one shared, leaving me overwhelmed with gratefulness, I had the saffron flavoured Ras Malai. It is far beyond understanding the desperation I held towards these food items, being the perfect extension after last night’s fantabulous Mughalai feast.
So much so, owing to the plethora of food items we ordered, we even saved the bill. That is being planned to be pinned up on the board in our rooms.
Out of all, Gol Gappe is in particular, the dearest to me. Yes, food can sometimes be your lover! It’s quite intriguing to make your own set of Gol Gappe by filling it firstly with potatoes and sweet chutney, and then filling it up with cold, green, tangy flavoured water. If you ask my friends, food could perhaps prove to be the sole reason why I would want to stay back in Delhi.
I quite don’t understand why does the M Block market in GK I get the attention it does not quite deserve. If you’re asking for newness, there is none, apart from a fountain throwing out uneven streams of water from a considerable height. All that M Block engulfs in its rectangular framed market, with a par in the center that acts as a playground for toddlers, are international brands of clothing, restaurants and coffee shops; street shopping is an active facility for the shoppers, be it dirt cheap tee shirts, accessories or books; the mind numbing traffic.
The final drive was from GK I to Nehru Place. Nehru Place still retains the quintessential Delhi charm – crowdedness and street shopping. However, the part I covered was its bus station. Well, primarily because that is where I had to catch the bus from.
Route 764 – something that has served me for years. Right through my under graduation, to my training at HCL Noida, or being the not so quiet frequent visits to my friends; route 764, which originates from Nehru Place and drops me off at Sadhana Enclave, has been the nucleus of my commutation. Standing at the spot I normally would stand, with the Rs. 5 ticket in my hand, it was unimaginable how the journey, (which normally would be a tormenting 15 minute ride, hopping over three flyovers and trying to take over a million cars at one time) would turn out to be pleasing. Through Chittranjan Park, Chirag Delhi, Soami Nagar and finally Sadhana Enclave, there was no pain to be experienced, even in a bus where I stood surrounded by people emanating their sweat stink.
“And here we… Go!” – Heath Ledger, The Joker, The Dark Knight.
This package was by far the most interesting one. Not just did it include strolling around several spots in Delhi, but this time I had people accompanying me. Majorly, the trip was led by food, and so was the topic of discussion in most of our conversations.
The ride instigated from Bluebells School International, Kailash Colony. I would have loved to say it was fun, but standing in the blazing heat waiting for my friend outside the school doesn’t count as such. However, with the exception of having to stand on the road opposite LSR (Lady Sri Ram) College, which has been a sanctuary for exclusive bird watching in my 11th standard, partially lifted the heat off.
Other than the splendid view Bluebells has to offer, I was amazed at the Metro construction. The road wasn’t subjected to gravel clutter hampering the traffic flow anymore. Or to say, it wasn’t as worse as it was when I left. Nonetheless, it was one of those pockets that have made a definite progression.
From Kailash Colony, we headed to Mount Kailash; our cold drink station. Being only a pick up stop, where I conveniently lost the front seat (let aside the jokes), we headed to “a place”.
I can only describe our next stop as “a place”, because I hardly knew where we were. As a matter of fact, all that was to the place was a curved road, smooth enough to enjoy a hassle free drive without having to “push through”, or “break in”, or even “take over”.
On the left, the surroundings were governed particularly by wastelands with thatched roofed huts and a small room with walls that I can assume would’ve belonged to the medieval times (ironically, there used to be a college there a couple of years ago, but was sealed whilst the Delhi-sealing-rampage was at its peak).
(Forgive me, for this was the first trip where my love for Delhi woke up from the dead, yet I did misspell Delhi in the above paragraph, and it took me a minute to figure out where I went wrong.)
On the right, from what my friend told me, was the Humayun’s Tomb; another site whose corners serve lovers’ secrecy. Again, we didn’t go in there, so I’ll save the details.
Khan Market: our next stop. What we had here were the Indian version of Mc. Donald’s burgers. I hate to repeat this, but British flavours cannot EVER find a place for the finest of Indian ones. And I’m not putting the Mc. Aloo Tikki on top of the ladder of my ‘scrumptious-Indian-delights’ list, but even the European burgers and pizzas – the indigenous food – aren’t ready to prepare its Asian versions.
I have to admit I am terrible with directions; terrible being only an underrated, underwhelmed undercurrent. Considering that, if I say I can guide from Malviya Nagar (where I stay) to Greenpark, it makes sense. However, if someone asks a person who is, by definition, dumb with directions and understanding roadmaps, then how exactly does he deserve being accused (and taunted upon) if he cannot steer the ship safely from Khan Market to Greenpark? (Just to let you know I’m talking of two completely different routes here.)
We drove through residential complexes, main roads, came across two markets which could never qualify to be the main Greenpark market, until finding salvage in an auto driver’s direction sense. It was amazing how people talk a great deal in a quick snap of words – “third left, second right”, was all that he filled us with – and we were there!
And then came in the real food. I really wish I could post pictures here (that being, if I had them), but the Indian flavours we had were nothing short of stupendous. “Evergreen” was our stop, a restaurant cum sweet shop that looms over its adjacent Madras cafes and takes twice their size.
The list was mouth watering: Pav Bhaji, Chole Bhature, Gol Gappe, Aloo Tikki and Papri Chaat. And for desert, which by the way no one shared, leaving me overwhelmed with gratefulness, I had the saffron flavoured Ras Malai. It is far beyond understanding the desperation I held towards these food items, being the perfect extension after last night’s fantabulous Mughalai feast.
So much so, owing to the plethora of food items we ordered, we even saved the bill. That is being planned to be pinned up on the board in our rooms.
Out of all, Gol Gappe is in particular, the dearest to me. Yes, food can sometimes be your lover! It’s quite intriguing to make your own set of Gol Gappe by filling it firstly with potatoes and sweet chutney, and then filling it up with cold, green, tangy flavoured water. If you ask my friends, food could perhaps prove to be the sole reason why I would want to stay back in Delhi.
I quite don’t understand why does the M Block market in GK I get the attention it does not quite deserve. If you’re asking for newness, there is none, apart from a fountain throwing out uneven streams of water from a considerable height. All that M Block engulfs in its rectangular framed market, with a par in the center that acts as a playground for toddlers, are international brands of clothing, restaurants and coffee shops; street shopping is an active facility for the shoppers, be it dirt cheap tee shirts, accessories or books; the mind numbing traffic.
The final drive was from GK I to Nehru Place. Nehru Place still retains the quintessential Delhi charm – crowdedness and street shopping. However, the part I covered was its bus station. Well, primarily because that is where I had to catch the bus from.
Route 764 – something that has served me for years. Right through my under graduation, to my training at HCL Noida, or being the not so quiet frequent visits to my friends; route 764, which originates from Nehru Place and drops me off at Sadhana Enclave, has been the nucleus of my commutation. Standing at the spot I normally would stand, with the Rs. 5 ticket in my hand, it was unimaginable how the journey, (which normally would be a tormenting 15 minute ride, hopping over three flyovers and trying to take over a million cars at one time) would turn out to be pleasing. Through Chittranjan Park, Chirag Delhi, Soami Nagar and finally Sadhana Enclave, there was no pain to be experienced, even in a bus where I stood surrounded by people emanating their sweat stink.
Thursday, 1 April 2010
And I ate in the empire again.
Day 8: Pandara road, Gulati’s restaurant – Check.
“The perfect way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” so feed him!
It is unimaginable, if you adore Mughlai food, to see the atrocities that restaurants in Wales subject the north Indian restaurants to. Needless I say, the Paneer (or the cottage cheese) in the ‘Kadayi Paneer’ we had at an eating joint, which seemed like a desperate impersonation of Gulati’s at Pandara Road, was not only swimming in a rich blend of artificial colours, it totally blew apart the taste as well!
And really, I think it makes sense if no one gets me started on the way those people respect the ‘Butter Naan’ (which in lay man’s terms is a flat bread made from flour) – it’s disguised as a loaf of pita bread! I mean, seriously, out of every Indian impersonation, please do not manhandle the taste.
One of the things on my list for my Delhi trip was to have a ‘proper’ north Indian, Mughlai meal; one that does not include artificialness or ingredients that overdo its texture. And this is where she makes an appearance: the beautiful, mouth watering and scrumptious meal at Gulati’s.
I won’t talk much about the jack that dad used to get us in while a flood of people were queued up on the waiting list, nor about the generosity the waiter showed after learning that currently I’m in the UK; we’ll talk about, THE FOOD!
Having Mughlai food after a tormenting 7 months of exposure to hideously presented north Indian food, the one thing on my mind was Butter Naan (and according to my sister, ‘Dal Makhani’, without which no meal becomes “complete”). After setting the base right, I decided to experiment a little. Among the vegetables, we ordered ‘Bhutta Palak Methi’, which when translated means Corn Spinach and Coriander, and Paneer dipped in thick gravy of vegetables and garlic.
It was a wholesome meal of exotic tastes to be honest. Picture this: a creamy layer of butter floating over the Dal’s surface, the sparkling glow of the gravy as you spoon it from the vessel and the ease and warmth with which it passes down your throat, flirting with your taste buds and seducing you like no woman can ever!
(Apologies for the overwhelming wave of words, but seeing heaven after that long can drive anyone crazy. Either that, or my friends rightly call me the drama queen.)
Out of the lot, the Bhutta Palak Methi contributed heavily to the aroma. Baby corn mixed with properly cooked coriander and spinach, to produce a smooth a thickly rich delicacy, served hot with cream on top.
The Paneer dish was again, an experiment, though it couldn’t level up to the spinach. Firstly, paneer, being given a chance to participate in every second dish on a Mughlai platter is inexplicable to me, and secondly, a heavy dose of garlic never does any good. It only ended up spoiling the romantic backdrop my taste buds were experiencing while engaging in a pleasant absorption of Dal and Bhutta.
Dal Makhani and Butter Naan – out of words for them; isn’t it magical when a curry, doped with an extravagant dash of butter and topped with cream, does not inflict your stomach with any heaviness? Can’t believe I overate.
Penultimate, and appropriately, a mouth freshener, or the “Sauf”. And no, you do not serve After Eight after a meal. Although nothing beats After Eight when it comes to replenishing the onion and garlic flavours left lingering in one’s mouth, but that is simply disrespecting the tradition!
Lastly, the perfection in sweetness was honoured by none other than a stick Kulfi. I have to agree it wasn’t the original stick kulfi, and pricing it at 40 bucks is upscale to click with Citywalk’s paradigm, and definitely nothing in comparison to the love I felt for it in Chandni Chowk. But having a Kaju Pista one and a Kesar one (both chosen by my mom and sister; I would’ve gone for blackcurrant) perfected the ‘yum’ of the yummiest.
“The perfect way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” so feed him!
It is unimaginable, if you adore Mughlai food, to see the atrocities that restaurants in Wales subject the north Indian restaurants to. Needless I say, the Paneer (or the cottage cheese) in the ‘Kadayi Paneer’ we had at an eating joint, which seemed like a desperate impersonation of Gulati’s at Pandara Road, was not only swimming in a rich blend of artificial colours, it totally blew apart the taste as well!
And really, I think it makes sense if no one gets me started on the way those people respect the ‘Butter Naan’ (which in lay man’s terms is a flat bread made from flour) – it’s disguised as a loaf of pita bread! I mean, seriously, out of every Indian impersonation, please do not manhandle the taste.
One of the things on my list for my Delhi trip was to have a ‘proper’ north Indian, Mughlai meal; one that does not include artificialness or ingredients that overdo its texture. And this is where she makes an appearance: the beautiful, mouth watering and scrumptious meal at Gulati’s.
I won’t talk much about the jack that dad used to get us in while a flood of people were queued up on the waiting list, nor about the generosity the waiter showed after learning that currently I’m in the UK; we’ll talk about, THE FOOD!
Having Mughlai food after a tormenting 7 months of exposure to hideously presented north Indian food, the one thing on my mind was Butter Naan (and according to my sister, ‘Dal Makhani’, without which no meal becomes “complete”). After setting the base right, I decided to experiment a little. Among the vegetables, we ordered ‘Bhutta Palak Methi’, which when translated means Corn Spinach and Coriander, and Paneer dipped in thick gravy of vegetables and garlic.
It was a wholesome meal of exotic tastes to be honest. Picture this: a creamy layer of butter floating over the Dal’s surface, the sparkling glow of the gravy as you spoon it from the vessel and the ease and warmth with which it passes down your throat, flirting with your taste buds and seducing you like no woman can ever!
(Apologies for the overwhelming wave of words, but seeing heaven after that long can drive anyone crazy. Either that, or my friends rightly call me the drama queen.)
Out of the lot, the Bhutta Palak Methi contributed heavily to the aroma. Baby corn mixed with properly cooked coriander and spinach, to produce a smooth a thickly rich delicacy, served hot with cream on top.
The Paneer dish was again, an experiment, though it couldn’t level up to the spinach. Firstly, paneer, being given a chance to participate in every second dish on a Mughlai platter is inexplicable to me, and secondly, a heavy dose of garlic never does any good. It only ended up spoiling the romantic backdrop my taste buds were experiencing while engaging in a pleasant absorption of Dal and Bhutta.
Dal Makhani and Butter Naan – out of words for them; isn’t it magical when a curry, doped with an extravagant dash of butter and topped with cream, does not inflict your stomach with any heaviness? Can’t believe I overate.
Penultimate, and appropriately, a mouth freshener, or the “Sauf”. And no, you do not serve After Eight after a meal. Although nothing beats After Eight when it comes to replenishing the onion and garlic flavours left lingering in one’s mouth, but that is simply disrespecting the tradition!
Lastly, the perfection in sweetness was honoured by none other than a stick Kulfi. I have to agree it wasn’t the original stick kulfi, and pricing it at 40 bucks is upscale to click with Citywalk’s paradigm, and definitely nothing in comparison to the love I felt for it in Chandni Chowk. But having a Kaju Pista one and a Kesar one (both chosen by my mom and sister; I would’ve gone for blackcurrant) perfected the ‘yum’ of the yummiest.
Just where the “City Walks”.
Day 7: Select Citywalk, Metropolitan, DLF malls – Check.
“People hardly notice things right in front of them, don’t you find.” - Leigh Teabing, The Da Vinci Code.
Honestly, there isn’t any association of the anecdote with the delightful visit to Select Citywalk, the only station of beautifulness at a distance of 10 minutes from my hut. Or even if there is, an aberration of it may show up at the end of this piece.
In fact, the place is a set of three malls built adjacently. However, being built the earliest and attracting the most number of people, the name “Citywalk” umbrellas this cluster of three malls - Select Citywalk, Metropolitan and DLF – in itself.
Moving on, strangely, Citywalk has always been one of the few places in Delhi that has brought peacefulness in my head. Yes, sounds definitely peculiar; especially since I’m talking about a spot that is relished by shopaholics, a hotspot for friends to meet up and play merry, and a sanctuary where birds are seen in a tantalizing attire of miniskirts and minitops. Yet, there’s been a definite atmosphere, which to date I’m still unfamiliar with, that gets me magnetized to the place.
It is undoubtedly a mall which is, by definition, upscale, classy and restores its quaintness despite shopaholics flooding the place. And it doesn’t seem devoid of any development. 7 months down the lane, which I hoped would seem like a lifetime, there’s been a load of advancement; and when I say advancement, I’m not making this piece familiarize with the socio-economic strata or the rich/poor ratios of bar graphs and statistics, although one can argue on it. I totally speak on what I observed.
A group of multiple fountains directed inwardly to produce amazingly shaped streams of water have opened in front of Citywalk, since summers have kicked in, of which, I do not intend to talk (or fret) anymore.
Things have shaken up with the DLF mall having been completely built. And to add to its already charming backdrop, it now accommodates The Great Kebab Factory and The Big Chill! Supported majorly by vacant gaps in between stores and a partial emptiness lingering in its corridors the last time I saw it, the DLF mall hardly attracted a crowd. In spite of its food court hosting brands of Mc Donald’s, Subway and Tikka Town, and the undisputed Hard Rock Cafe (where by the way I spent three and a half hours last year watching Delhi being assailed by Hyderabad in the IPL semi final), there was much more DLF had to achieve. As it turns out, that “much more” came in, swirled its magic wand and produced dazzles of incredibility.
The Costa Coffee is right at the centre, which makes it a “part of the mall” rather than being placed in a corner and standing elusive to the buzz. Two new artistic inclusions – a painting sale on the ground floor, and the Tantric tee shirt store – give it the artistic touch. I’d recommend a purchase from Tantric if you enjoy wordplay, ON YOUR TEE SHIRT; here’s a specimen – a tee shirt that had an illustration of Taj Mahal, with the accompanying caption, “Via Agra: the greatest male erection for a woman.” Moral: Think and purchase if your correspondence address matches with that of your parents’.
Clearly out of context, but I couldn’t resist stepping out of the store whilst checking out the tee shirts to listen to Amy Lee’s (whose name by the name is shared by my Irish flatmate too) track “Call me when you’re sober” playing in the corridor. Yeah, I got incredible ears.
An elegant, sensuously looking spa at the top floor ups the magic to another level. Predominantly illuminated by lights submerged under water bowls that produces a quintessential atmosphere relaxation, it seems to be set apart from titter and tatter of heels, weighty shopping bags and upscale purchases.
Out of all, I particularly liked the montage designed on the outside of its walls. Set on a red background, it seemed like a collage of every brand they were hosting.
“People hardly notice things right in front of them, don’t you find.” - Leigh Teabing, The Da Vinci Code.
Honestly, there isn’t any association of the anecdote with the delightful visit to Select Citywalk, the only station of beautifulness at a distance of 10 minutes from my hut. Or even if there is, an aberration of it may show up at the end of this piece.
In fact, the place is a set of three malls built adjacently. However, being built the earliest and attracting the most number of people, the name “Citywalk” umbrellas this cluster of three malls - Select Citywalk, Metropolitan and DLF – in itself.
Moving on, strangely, Citywalk has always been one of the few places in Delhi that has brought peacefulness in my head. Yes, sounds definitely peculiar; especially since I’m talking about a spot that is relished by shopaholics, a hotspot for friends to meet up and play merry, and a sanctuary where birds are seen in a tantalizing attire of miniskirts and minitops. Yet, there’s been a definite atmosphere, which to date I’m still unfamiliar with, that gets me magnetized to the place.
It is undoubtedly a mall which is, by definition, upscale, classy and restores its quaintness despite shopaholics flooding the place. And it doesn’t seem devoid of any development. 7 months down the lane, which I hoped would seem like a lifetime, there’s been a load of advancement; and when I say advancement, I’m not making this piece familiarize with the socio-economic strata or the rich/poor ratios of bar graphs and statistics, although one can argue on it. I totally speak on what I observed.
A group of multiple fountains directed inwardly to produce amazingly shaped streams of water have opened in front of Citywalk, since summers have kicked in, of which, I do not intend to talk (or fret) anymore.
Things have shaken up with the DLF mall having been completely built. And to add to its already charming backdrop, it now accommodates The Great Kebab Factory and The Big Chill! Supported majorly by vacant gaps in between stores and a partial emptiness lingering in its corridors the last time I saw it, the DLF mall hardly attracted a crowd. In spite of its food court hosting brands of Mc Donald’s, Subway and Tikka Town, and the undisputed Hard Rock Cafe (where by the way I spent three and a half hours last year watching Delhi being assailed by Hyderabad in the IPL semi final), there was much more DLF had to achieve. As it turns out, that “much more” came in, swirled its magic wand and produced dazzles of incredibility.
The Costa Coffee is right at the centre, which makes it a “part of the mall” rather than being placed in a corner and standing elusive to the buzz. Two new artistic inclusions – a painting sale on the ground floor, and the Tantric tee shirt store – give it the artistic touch. I’d recommend a purchase from Tantric if you enjoy wordplay, ON YOUR TEE SHIRT; here’s a specimen – a tee shirt that had an illustration of Taj Mahal, with the accompanying caption, “Via Agra: the greatest male erection for a woman.” Moral: Think and purchase if your correspondence address matches with that of your parents’.
Clearly out of context, but I couldn’t resist stepping out of the store whilst checking out the tee shirts to listen to Amy Lee’s (whose name by the name is shared by my Irish flatmate too) track “Call me when you’re sober” playing in the corridor. Yeah, I got incredible ears.
An elegant, sensuously looking spa at the top floor ups the magic to another level. Predominantly illuminated by lights submerged under water bowls that produces a quintessential atmosphere relaxation, it seems to be set apart from titter and tatter of heels, weighty shopping bags and upscale purchases.
Out of all, I particularly liked the montage designed on the outside of its walls. Set on a red background, it seemed like a collage of every brand they were hosting.
Refreshment in antiqueness.
Day 6: Chandni Chowk – Check.
“Old is definitely gold.”
The most anticipated place to visit on my list – Chandni Chowk. A part of Purani Dilli (Old Delhi), popularly termed as Delhi 6 with credits to Ramprakash Mehta for reviving the name, it stores in itself the heart of one of the oldest shops and stores, enough to fill your wardrobes with traditional clothing treasures, tantalizing aroma of delightful food stuffs, and a sight of the impeccable Red Fort.
At first, let me paint a picture of Chandni Chowk from the lens of a spectator: the streets remain over flooded cycle rickshaws and vehicles desperately trying to make their way in or out, and to add to the painful rush, pedestrians have a way of walking along the same paths; there are more shop employees working outside the shop than inside, with every one of them marking their territory and attracting people, and since most of the businesses involve ladies’ suits and sarees, their targets become marginally specific; and people sleeping under the scorching heat of the sun.
That’s not just it, by the way. Chandni Chowk, although being in the heart of a piece of land that breeds stereotypes, does spring out many surprising incidents. The first category is what I call the roofless shops – a one man staff that runs the entire business with his desk being not more than a mere stool and all his products of sales displayed on it, all without a roof on their heads.
Some noticeable examples I found were of a woman selling what she claimed to be ‘foreign strawberries’ on one hand, and the desi ‘Daatun’ (a branch of the Neem plant, used in the Indian tradition as a toothbrush and toothpaste.) on the other. (To me, that totally explained the Indo-western fusion concept.); a woman selling tobacco and cigarettes, and although I do not intend to indulge into any stereotypes, but yes, that seemed astonishing.
The second category involved the colourfulness of the Indian subcontinent’s lifestyle. Even in the sweating heat, where the mercury had climbed over 38 degrees, people took pride in dressing themselves up with bright and extravagant colours. From what I interpreted, it seemed out of all places, over here people do consider making themselves look good before stepping out of the house. Be it green, blue, yellow, red or violet, you’ll see women attired exclusively in their sarees and Indian suits without being anxious about the climate, and men dressed up in their crisp Punjabi and Lucknawi Kurta Pyjamas.
So our visit was basically all about roaming around, eat Paranthas (a thick stuffed Indian flatbread prepared from wheat) at the immensely popular ‘Paranthe Wali Galli’, visit the Gurudwara, have Falooda Kulfi, roam about a bit more and finally revert back.
The Paranthe Wali Galli was the gold dust of our trip. Currently being run by its 6th generation, the shop dates back to almost 100 to 120 years! When you talk about ambience, let me assure you, there is none. The person frying the paranthas sits at the entrance, and there are limited number of piers (without a backrest, mind you). Regardless of the ambience and a very distinctively repelling flavour of ghee squirming in the air, the paranthas are a sheer incredibility. Served with cooked and curried vegetables of pumpkin and potato, sweet chutney and pickled radish and carrot, our list of paranthas was huge.
I desbribe ‘huge’ here with reference to three stomachs, by the way.
So our list of pranthas included potato, onion, paneer, daal, parat, bhindi, rabdi, and mixed. It's quite amazing how one can have food which is not just fried in pure ghee, but is served with accompaniments that share high volumes of chilli in a traumatizing wave of heat outside.
Out of all, bhindi (lady finger) was particularly the best. It had a definite crispness, crunchiness to it, which the other didn’t. Besides, potato and onion paranthas form the household for housewives, so they weren’t much of a surprise. I would’ve loved to try the cashew and almond parantha though, but then nothing can beat a full stomach, can it?
The visit to the gurudwara was nothing extraordinary though. Forgive me for not being a God admirer, but there wasn’t much to a gurudwara that I could express. Nevertheless, I particularly liked the way Sikhs worship.
Before entering a gurudwara, I was supposed to deposit your footwear in a small room, since it is disrespectful to be wearing any footwear inside a place of worship. Just when I was climbing the stairs leading to the inside of the gurudwara, I had to dip my feet in the water that constantly keeps flowing in a depressed floor. As I climbed the stairs and step inside, I was asked to cover your heads with a piece of cloth; I do not know the exact historical reason for it, but I guess that particularly explains Sikhs’ turbans.
Inside the gurudwara, there is a very surprising wave of cool air blowing across the room, and for a second, an inexplicable surge of reverence seemed to mainline me. Kneeling down in front of the Lord, with the head touching the ground as a way to pay tribute, people come in here and sit for hours to seek peacefulness and serenity amongst the soft words of chanting being sung by what can be called the priests of the gurudwara.
On way out, prasad (equivalent to holy water given in a church), was handed. Steaming ‘Suji ka halwa’, which by the way I detest, was given; had to hand it over to ma and masi.
Not just all that, there always seems to be air of celebration throughout the streets of Chandni Chowk; be there any occasion or not. Not being accustomed to crowded places in Cardiff, and visiting a place where one can purchase anything but a quiet walk in the park, the air smelled of the festivity of Diwali.
“Old is definitely gold.”
The most anticipated place to visit on my list – Chandni Chowk. A part of Purani Dilli (Old Delhi), popularly termed as Delhi 6 with credits to Ramprakash Mehta for reviving the name, it stores in itself the heart of one of the oldest shops and stores, enough to fill your wardrobes with traditional clothing treasures, tantalizing aroma of delightful food stuffs, and a sight of the impeccable Red Fort.
At first, let me paint a picture of Chandni Chowk from the lens of a spectator: the streets remain over flooded cycle rickshaws and vehicles desperately trying to make their way in or out, and to add to the painful rush, pedestrians have a way of walking along the same paths; there are more shop employees working outside the shop than inside, with every one of them marking their territory and attracting people, and since most of the businesses involve ladies’ suits and sarees, their targets become marginally specific; and people sleeping under the scorching heat of the sun.
That’s not just it, by the way. Chandni Chowk, although being in the heart of a piece of land that breeds stereotypes, does spring out many surprising incidents. The first category is what I call the roofless shops – a one man staff that runs the entire business with his desk being not more than a mere stool and all his products of sales displayed on it, all without a roof on their heads.
Some noticeable examples I found were of a woman selling what she claimed to be ‘foreign strawberries’ on one hand, and the desi ‘Daatun’ (a branch of the Neem plant, used in the Indian tradition as a toothbrush and toothpaste.) on the other. (To me, that totally explained the Indo-western fusion concept.); a woman selling tobacco and cigarettes, and although I do not intend to indulge into any stereotypes, but yes, that seemed astonishing.
The second category involved the colourfulness of the Indian subcontinent’s lifestyle. Even in the sweating heat, where the mercury had climbed over 38 degrees, people took pride in dressing themselves up with bright and extravagant colours. From what I interpreted, it seemed out of all places, over here people do consider making themselves look good before stepping out of the house. Be it green, blue, yellow, red or violet, you’ll see women attired exclusively in their sarees and Indian suits without being anxious about the climate, and men dressed up in their crisp Punjabi and Lucknawi Kurta Pyjamas.
So our visit was basically all about roaming around, eat Paranthas (a thick stuffed Indian flatbread prepared from wheat) at the immensely popular ‘Paranthe Wali Galli’, visit the Gurudwara, have Falooda Kulfi, roam about a bit more and finally revert back.
The Paranthe Wali Galli was the gold dust of our trip. Currently being run by its 6th generation, the shop dates back to almost 100 to 120 years! When you talk about ambience, let me assure you, there is none. The person frying the paranthas sits at the entrance, and there are limited number of piers (without a backrest, mind you). Regardless of the ambience and a very distinctively repelling flavour of ghee squirming in the air, the paranthas are a sheer incredibility. Served with cooked and curried vegetables of pumpkin and potato, sweet chutney and pickled radish and carrot, our list of paranthas was huge.
I desbribe ‘huge’ here with reference to three stomachs, by the way.
So our list of pranthas included potato, onion, paneer, daal, parat, bhindi, rabdi, and mixed. It's quite amazing how one can have food which is not just fried in pure ghee, but is served with accompaniments that share high volumes of chilli in a traumatizing wave of heat outside.
Out of all, bhindi (lady finger) was particularly the best. It had a definite crispness, crunchiness to it, which the other didn’t. Besides, potato and onion paranthas form the household for housewives, so they weren’t much of a surprise. I would’ve loved to try the cashew and almond parantha though, but then nothing can beat a full stomach, can it?
The visit to the gurudwara was nothing extraordinary though. Forgive me for not being a God admirer, but there wasn’t much to a gurudwara that I could express. Nevertheless, I particularly liked the way Sikhs worship.
Before entering a gurudwara, I was supposed to deposit your footwear in a small room, since it is disrespectful to be wearing any footwear inside a place of worship. Just when I was climbing the stairs leading to the inside of the gurudwara, I had to dip my feet in the water that constantly keeps flowing in a depressed floor. As I climbed the stairs and step inside, I was asked to cover your heads with a piece of cloth; I do not know the exact historical reason for it, but I guess that particularly explains Sikhs’ turbans.
Inside the gurudwara, there is a very surprising wave of cool air blowing across the room, and for a second, an inexplicable surge of reverence seemed to mainline me. Kneeling down in front of the Lord, with the head touching the ground as a way to pay tribute, people come in here and sit for hours to seek peacefulness and serenity amongst the soft words of chanting being sung by what can be called the priests of the gurudwara.
On way out, prasad (equivalent to holy water given in a church), was handed. Steaming ‘Suji ka halwa’, which by the way I detest, was given; had to hand it over to ma and masi.
Not just all that, there always seems to be air of celebration throughout the streets of Chandni Chowk; be there any occasion or not. Not being accustomed to crowded places in Cardiff, and visiting a place where one can purchase anything but a quiet walk in the park, the air smelled of the festivity of Diwali.
Saturday, 27 March 2010
Central Perk – not exactly.
Day 3: Connaught Place, Janpath – Check.
“Home is where the heart is.”, or vice versa, whatever.
I don’t know till what level is the aforementioned statement justifiable, but it certainly does not cast absolute comprehensibility when it comes to my case. Coming to Delhi had always meant a nostalgic experience for me; Citywalk, Chandni Chowk and Connaught Place – predominantly, the three ruling C’s in the city.
And most importantly, when shifting from one place to the other, no matter how tiny the time of stay is, replacements become inevitable – adjustments are the requirement of the hour.
Of course Delhi still holds its charm, especially on its architectural front. Meticulously structured stacks of ancient bricks that tower along the length of the city, Delhi’s beauty, as seen from the eyes of me, still remains undefeated.
It’s always fun to experience certain things that have been lifted from their indigenous holds and made to sit on a totally bewildering ground. As is the case, when I compare Delhi with Cardiff; 7 months, is not really a long time to forget about one’s hometown. The scorching blaze of heat, the succulent hustle bustle that runs throughout the road map of Delhi and a flowering exhibition of, by definition, cheap clothes has always been an integral organ of the city. However, NOW, doesn’t seem to be the case.
The map’s been, or should I say, is being reformed into a technically equipped arena of underground trains, or to say, the Metro. My first sauntering in the city – Connaught Place; not really what I anticipated. The maddening hustle bustle, the crazy bus ride, all kept aside, the city seemed devoid of its own charm! Honestly, any of following reasons could be descriptive: Being a Tuesday Palika Bazaar was shut, the inner and outer circle were being fed more by cranes and lorries than shoppers, and the Metro boards ran throughout the circumference of the Central Park that demolished the “view”.
And as an addition to the insult, it pricks me more than my parents, who’ve stayed here all the while I was enjoying the relish of a developed nation.
Having stopped at Wenger’s initially, ideally it should not have been hard to figure out the way to the inner circle. But owing to the incredible reformation that the city is being subjected to, with digging machines scooping out chunks of soil out of the ground, eating up the entire lane connecting the outer and inner circle, it got me lingering helplessly in my own city. The heat, for that matter, didn’t heal my wounds either.
The nucleus of Connaught Place, inner circle namely, was actually no nirvana as well. (By the way, whatever judgments I make have been seen purely through a relative lens, comparing them with the way I saw it 7 months ago. And more importantly, that was before I was exposed to conditioned temperatures and cleanliness.) Once again, the circle, as it’s shaped, was dominated by skeletons of rods and all the architectural jazz. A Metro board covering the Wimpy’s restaurant had to force its managers to flag a streamer crying aloud its name on its top, announcing to the people of its existence. Palika Bazaar has gone from being an easy to find market to being a virtual hidden treasure whose path, fenced by Metro boards on both its side, is a code breaking feast for all maze lovers.
Central Park remained the way it used to be – kids playing around, aunties hanging out with the sole purpose to bitch about the envelope of relatives around them, and people refueling their exhausted souls with a quick nap under the streaming rays of the sun.
Nevertheless, it was a short trip indeed. I somewhat regret for not going treating myself with the Kaventer’s flavoured milk; partially because I am anticipating another visit there soon, when I’d be covering Barakhamba as well.
I sincerely don’t know how much development can a nation like India, which has proven to be one of the fastest “developing” nations among the third world countries. But I do not expect a cyber café to shoot me with a bill of 60 bucks for spending 62 minutes, to be precise, to surf the internet. Moreover, a glass bottle of Mirinda has been upped by 3 bucks – from 10 to 13. AND, water sells as a more expensive commodity that aerated drinks – 15 bucks!
All roads may lead to Rome, but nothing is upbeat unless the wheels are DTC’s. And, there’s definitely nothing more enthralling than getting a corner seat at the end of the bus, with the window glass having been completely naked off so one can experience the overwhelming blast of an evening Delhi breeze slapping through your face. Without any intended offence, the bus ride remains to be the best part of the day. The “unaccustomed” car horns, watching AIIMS and Dilli Haat flying past and appreciating a bus rider’s skills for operating the opening and closing of doors on a busy road.
Wish we had that luxury in Cardiff.
“Home is where the heart is.”, or vice versa, whatever.
I don’t know till what level is the aforementioned statement justifiable, but it certainly does not cast absolute comprehensibility when it comes to my case. Coming to Delhi had always meant a nostalgic experience for me; Citywalk, Chandni Chowk and Connaught Place – predominantly, the three ruling C’s in the city.
And most importantly, when shifting from one place to the other, no matter how tiny the time of stay is, replacements become inevitable – adjustments are the requirement of the hour.
Of course Delhi still holds its charm, especially on its architectural front. Meticulously structured stacks of ancient bricks that tower along the length of the city, Delhi’s beauty, as seen from the eyes of me, still remains undefeated.
It’s always fun to experience certain things that have been lifted from their indigenous holds and made to sit on a totally bewildering ground. As is the case, when I compare Delhi with Cardiff; 7 months, is not really a long time to forget about one’s hometown. The scorching blaze of heat, the succulent hustle bustle that runs throughout the road map of Delhi and a flowering exhibition of, by definition, cheap clothes has always been an integral organ of the city. However, NOW, doesn’t seem to be the case.
The map’s been, or should I say, is being reformed into a technically equipped arena of underground trains, or to say, the Metro. My first sauntering in the city – Connaught Place; not really what I anticipated. The maddening hustle bustle, the crazy bus ride, all kept aside, the city seemed devoid of its own charm! Honestly, any of following reasons could be descriptive: Being a Tuesday Palika Bazaar was shut, the inner and outer circle were being fed more by cranes and lorries than shoppers, and the Metro boards ran throughout the circumference of the Central Park that demolished the “view”.
And as an addition to the insult, it pricks me more than my parents, who’ve stayed here all the while I was enjoying the relish of a developed nation.
Having stopped at Wenger’s initially, ideally it should not have been hard to figure out the way to the inner circle. But owing to the incredible reformation that the city is being subjected to, with digging machines scooping out chunks of soil out of the ground, eating up the entire lane connecting the outer and inner circle, it got me lingering helplessly in my own city. The heat, for that matter, didn’t heal my wounds either.
The nucleus of Connaught Place, inner circle namely, was actually no nirvana as well. (By the way, whatever judgments I make have been seen purely through a relative lens, comparing them with the way I saw it 7 months ago. And more importantly, that was before I was exposed to conditioned temperatures and cleanliness.) Once again, the circle, as it’s shaped, was dominated by skeletons of rods and all the architectural jazz. A Metro board covering the Wimpy’s restaurant had to force its managers to flag a streamer crying aloud its name on its top, announcing to the people of its existence. Palika Bazaar has gone from being an easy to find market to being a virtual hidden treasure whose path, fenced by Metro boards on both its side, is a code breaking feast for all maze lovers.
Central Park remained the way it used to be – kids playing around, aunties hanging out with the sole purpose to bitch about the envelope of relatives around them, and people refueling their exhausted souls with a quick nap under the streaming rays of the sun.
Nevertheless, it was a short trip indeed. I somewhat regret for not going treating myself with the Kaventer’s flavoured milk; partially because I am anticipating another visit there soon, when I’d be covering Barakhamba as well.
I sincerely don’t know how much development can a nation like India, which has proven to be one of the fastest “developing” nations among the third world countries. But I do not expect a cyber café to shoot me with a bill of 60 bucks for spending 62 minutes, to be precise, to surf the internet. Moreover, a glass bottle of Mirinda has been upped by 3 bucks – from 10 to 13. AND, water sells as a more expensive commodity that aerated drinks – 15 bucks!
All roads may lead to Rome, but nothing is upbeat unless the wheels are DTC’s. And, there’s definitely nothing more enthralling than getting a corner seat at the end of the bus, with the window glass having been completely naked off so one can experience the overwhelming blast of an evening Delhi breeze slapping through your face. Without any intended offence, the bus ride remains to be the best part of the day. The “unaccustomed” car horns, watching AIIMS and Dilli Haat flying past and appreciating a bus rider’s skills for operating the opening and closing of doors on a busy road.
Wish we had that luxury in Cardiff.
And the wheels roll down.
Day 1: IGI touchdown – Check;
Day 2: PVR Saket Anupam Market – Check.
“The minute you land in India, you get this overwhelming blast of shit smell right up your nose.” - Russell Peters
I could never understand my fascination with the IGI Airport. Watching crowds of people appearing from the gate, brimming with pride, flashing their chests branded with international labels – a dazzling emanation from their glowing faces.
There had always been an indescribable overwhelming articulation that I’ve shared with every other person exiting from that gate, until I saw myself stepping out of it; a moment which is unlike any other, to be honest. Could be because it was the first time I went through the experience of returning from a foreign land, back to my old hut. And yes, the “invisible crown of glory”; sans the shift from a place where people offer politeness and generous “sorry” at practically the most unneeded causes, to a place where the immigration authority eye you because you didn’t fill up a form, it’s always a welcoming pleasure to return to the place that hatched you.
While walking through the corridor connecting the airbus to the immigration counter, I was bathing in an obvious sense of momentous pride. Frankly, I couldn’t get my head around the reasons for it, but walking down the immigration booth held a charm in itself.
Driving through the lanes that you may or may not have missed in the last 7 months is definitely nostalgic. However, it gets worse when the 7 month stay in a foreign land gets the better of you.
Contextually, it was Cardiff v/s Delhi. There are certain things that people just get used to living in the UK. And I’m not talking about the usual cleanliness, or the ‘spick and spank’ labeled roads, or even the deliberate impersonation of the western accent, but tiny things yet all the more worth consideration.
So on the first day I touched Delhi, I went to the local Malviya Nagar market to get myself a new number. As it turns out, I needed an ID along with it; apparently SIM cards aren’t free here. Having taken my passport, a couple of passport sized passports along and 200 bucks in my pocket (which is nearly 2.85 pounds), I merrily went to the market to firstly get my passport Xeroxed. Being conditioned to shopping in a land where the retailer hands over the change regardless of whatever denomination you present him with, it only dawned on me that a Xerox, which would cost me 2 bucks, is not feasible if I’m carrying two hundreds. Yes, it isn’t feasible. Reason – change has always remained a problem in Delhi.
A shopkeeper will not entertain you if all you want is a service of a couple of grains, while you’ve built a castle in your pockets. And what happened was the long walk back to the pavilion.
(By the way, parents: Your children may have spent 21 years in their homeland, but seriously, you expect your children to remember which switch connects to the light and which one to the fan after they’ve spent 7 months abroad? They wouldn’t have had separate geysers over there, nor were they accustomed to air conditioners, so don’t frown if you notice your expected picture perfect Indianness shackled along the edges.)
However, it wasn’t all sad, to say the least. A stroll through the Malviya Nagar market, Gol Chakar (a roundabout/starting point from the buses), Khirki Village, leading to PVR Saket Anupam Market was a sweet cherry on a bitter cake. PVR Saket, known primarily because of its movie theatre, along with the range of restaurants, music stations and ice cream parlours, was a treat to revisit. School kids rampaged the spot, to feed themselves with a breather after ending their board examination stint; couples hung out at the far end of the Bennigan’s lane, some holding hands in secrecy, the others looking for the perfect time to squeeze in a smooch; while the rest, like me, sauntering aimlessly.
Recuperating from jet lags, adjusting the stomach to a proper home cooked meal and the unending dog-barks seemed to be the flavours that I hoped would only get lost in time. But as they say, certain things are just meant to be unleashed into the air. Blah.
Day 2: PVR Saket Anupam Market – Check.
“The minute you land in India, you get this overwhelming blast of shit smell right up your nose.” - Russell Peters
I could never understand my fascination with the IGI Airport. Watching crowds of people appearing from the gate, brimming with pride, flashing their chests branded with international labels – a dazzling emanation from their glowing faces.
There had always been an indescribable overwhelming articulation that I’ve shared with every other person exiting from that gate, until I saw myself stepping out of it; a moment which is unlike any other, to be honest. Could be because it was the first time I went through the experience of returning from a foreign land, back to my old hut. And yes, the “invisible crown of glory”; sans the shift from a place where people offer politeness and generous “sorry” at practically the most unneeded causes, to a place where the immigration authority eye you because you didn’t fill up a form, it’s always a welcoming pleasure to return to the place that hatched you.
While walking through the corridor connecting the airbus to the immigration counter, I was bathing in an obvious sense of momentous pride. Frankly, I couldn’t get my head around the reasons for it, but walking down the immigration booth held a charm in itself.
Driving through the lanes that you may or may not have missed in the last 7 months is definitely nostalgic. However, it gets worse when the 7 month stay in a foreign land gets the better of you.
Contextually, it was Cardiff v/s Delhi. There are certain things that people just get used to living in the UK. And I’m not talking about the usual cleanliness, or the ‘spick and spank’ labeled roads, or even the deliberate impersonation of the western accent, but tiny things yet all the more worth consideration.
So on the first day I touched Delhi, I went to the local Malviya Nagar market to get myself a new number. As it turns out, I needed an ID along with it; apparently SIM cards aren’t free here. Having taken my passport, a couple of passport sized passports along and 200 bucks in my pocket (which is nearly 2.85 pounds), I merrily went to the market to firstly get my passport Xeroxed. Being conditioned to shopping in a land where the retailer hands over the change regardless of whatever denomination you present him with, it only dawned on me that a Xerox, which would cost me 2 bucks, is not feasible if I’m carrying two hundreds. Yes, it isn’t feasible. Reason – change has always remained a problem in Delhi.
A shopkeeper will not entertain you if all you want is a service of a couple of grains, while you’ve built a castle in your pockets. And what happened was the long walk back to the pavilion.
(By the way, parents: Your children may have spent 21 years in their homeland, but seriously, you expect your children to remember which switch connects to the light and which one to the fan after they’ve spent 7 months abroad? They wouldn’t have had separate geysers over there, nor were they accustomed to air conditioners, so don’t frown if you notice your expected picture perfect Indianness shackled along the edges.)
However, it wasn’t all sad, to say the least. A stroll through the Malviya Nagar market, Gol Chakar (a roundabout/starting point from the buses), Khirki Village, leading to PVR Saket Anupam Market was a sweet cherry on a bitter cake. PVR Saket, known primarily because of its movie theatre, along with the range of restaurants, music stations and ice cream parlours, was a treat to revisit. School kids rampaged the spot, to feed themselves with a breather after ending their board examination stint; couples hung out at the far end of the Bennigan’s lane, some holding hands in secrecy, the others looking for the perfect time to squeeze in a smooch; while the rest, like me, sauntering aimlessly.
Recuperating from jet lags, adjusting the stomach to a proper home cooked meal and the unending dog-barks seemed to be the flavours that I hoped would only get lost in time. But as they say, certain things are just meant to be unleashed into the air. Blah.
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