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.