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.
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