Delhi: (Still) Connected

My attempt at a predictable description of the state of commuting in Delhi. I wrote it a year back as a Feature for DU Beat. Fact is that when we’re on the road, we’re in this limbo. I read a Tweet a few days back by Ashish Shakya which said something about being Traffucked. The traffic in the city is like the leech they planted on your skin in olden times so that you got rid of your disease. Except in this case, you’re really healthy and the unavoidable travelling in the city is really going to make you succumb to it one day. Being on the road makes the guy in every second car that overtakes you (or is honking in anticipation of racing you to the red light), an “asshole”. You’re doing everything but warming your ass on the driver’s seat, cruising away by smoothly maneuvering your steering wheel and enjoying the beats of the music. It’s ridiculous how we predict that one dent on the car, the day we buy it. The plastic covers are still on the seats, but the paint near the left back door is slightly scraped. It’s waggish when someone says that the ‘traffic’ is ‘ideal’ at midnight. Irony is, you’re still stuck in a gridlock. But you’re happy because you’ll make it through when the red turns green the first time. The chain smoker would wish for a cigarette which never reaches its “fag end” and the last drag is like the magic candle which refuses to be blown out. I’ve got a Brand Name. Name it Traffic.

This one is called Delhi: Connected.

BACK THEN

So let’s accept it. Till a few years back, life was convenient.

There was a school bus that was paid for. There were some parents who went a step ahead to ensure their dainty darlings don’t miss the air conditioned travelling too much. There was the majority who stood in the balcony in their night suits, asking the driver to wait for two minutes after five minutes of the repetitive plea.

AND NOW

So let’s accept it. Life is tough. This crib started a year or two back and is going to remain.

There’s a budget.

There’s a need to be everywhere, there’s a need to fit everything in, there’s a need to convince yourself that you’ve grown up and there’s a need to check everything off that ‘to-do-list’.

All this without commuting?

We’re students and we’re commuting in the capital city of the country. The former brings us a fast life and the latter sprinkles us with distances we always assume will shrink. How we wish the former guaranteed us our own vehicles and the latter provided smooth travel. The reality lies in inevitable dependence on auto walas who can never assure you a safe travel. The reality lies in congested buses where marking a territory for the toes proves to be difficult. Completely ignoring the lack of space they provide, we’ll be kind and give them some space here.

AGONY AUTOS

As students of the varsity, each one of us has a long drawn association with autos and have often complained of being overcharged. A list of some preposterous excuses students claim to have encountered, Pardon the use of a not-so-alien language for authenticity cannot be compromised.

• “10 rupaiye zaada lagenge kyunki traffic hai.”
• “Hum nahi jaenge kyunki sawaari nahi milegi.”
• “Jab se gaon se waapas aaye hai,meter nahi chal raha.”
• “Meter se fayeda nahi hai kyunki chillar nahi hai.”
• “ Wahaan toh jam hai. Aap bhi mat jao.”

It won’t be soon before their importance fades away. Need I say, they’re crawling all over the city. All the whining and tomorrow morning you’ll still be seated on those jazzy auto seats staring at the meter and hoping for it to work.

BUMPY BUSES

They’re frequent, cheap and safe. If you’re uncomfortable, try re discovering the best playlist on your I Pod. The rugged journey will transform into an extraordinary drive. The DTC and Blue line buses dominate bus travel in Delhi. The past few years has seen buses connecting Delhi to the NCR as well. Also with CWG round the corner, the service has seen the addition of low floor ac buses which guarantees an inclination towards the commuter’s comfort, now, high on priority. For beginners at bus travel, confidence is the key word. Be sure of your route and travelling from Point A to Point B will never be a task, left incomplete.

MANIC METRO

It’s still fragmented, but when asked about the amount of relief the Delhi Metro has brought, to the commuters and the traffic alike, one only sees heads nod in agreement. It’s on the verge of connecting the entire city and the city to the NCR and it certainly is doing wonders. The concept is magnificent but admittedly the recent past has highlighted its defects as well. However, the convenience it provides to the students of Delhi University is a glorious achievement. Vishwavidyalaya Metro station of North Campus is a mere twenty minutes from CP which is suitably connected to almost all parts of the city. It has marked its existence in West, East and Central Delhi. Last week saw its gracious entry into Noida. For students commuting from there, the long wait for buses has now been replaced by a simplified card swipe. Saying that it’s widely used is an understatement. The stations are well-equipped, the service efficient and the overall system, user-friendly. The Metro has almost fallen victim to inflation and thus, like any other essential commodity, we got to pay more to use it!

CLASSY CARS

Let’s not be unkind to those who’re lucky enough to steer their own vehicles. It’s not essential for everyone to experience the “tough life”, really. For those bestowed this rare privilege. Realization must not have struck yet, but you can and must at least consider converting your vehicle to CNG. One ride from North Campus, all the way to South will cost you not more than twelve bucks. It fits your budget with ease, doesn’t it? Also, you’re doing your bit to benefit the environment. And if this isn’t motivation enough, catch the next show of 2012!

Two things. One, they’ve taken leaps to make our life easy. Two, it’s our birth right to crib. So amongst all the whining, waiting and hyper-ventilating; amongst all the irritation, frustration and dissatisfaction; let’s not take a moment and instead, do our “own thing” to say cheers to the mad travelling that Delhi has to offer with a constant hope that OUR DELHI, OUR CITY, STAYS CONNECTED.

Pending Rent.

So as a part of our one of our Papers, we're studying Margaret Atwood's poetry. As far as nationality is concerned, Margaret is Canadian and her poetry, along with Pablo Neruda and Derek Walcott, is categorised as the poetry of the Americas. I have to say I prefer Neruda and am becoming progressively drugged and addicted to his writings. He's so effortlessly expressive. He's like the Magpie, I'd want to talk to. He's like the Magpie, I'd use to communicate with my clan. Such subtle extraordinariness in his Love Poetry.

"I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her."

(Tonight I Can Write..., Line 26)

Even in his nightmare like dilemma, he's at ease. Even in his awkward uncertainty, is this hint of clarity. The discernment glosses over all doubt. Must read Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair (1924), to have a greater insight into Neruda's indescribably smooth and effectively communicative poetry. Begin following www.twitter.com/NerudaLove for the same reasons. I can't wait for Il Postino's screening coming Wednesday. I know the admiration and the "simple liking" will quadruple.

Atwood, is differently luring because of her convincing feminist stand on receiving equality in expression. Till now, I've concluded that amongst other endeavors, she wants women to be a part of the surface reality. I think the fact that there needs to be a consciously emphasized theory on "feminism", makes her shudder. Just a personal reading. In all its oddity, reading her poems, have accelerated me to have this faint image of her. I haven't googl-ed what she looks like. But I'm going to do it now and see if it matches. This is not physically descriptive, to say the least, but Atwood looks sensible. She looks like she'd say reasonable things and doesn't look like the kind who'd make hollow statements to prove her insignificance.

Pardon my going off on a complete tangent, but this whole idea of measuring every tangible and visible aspect of an individual makes me want to slit someone's active brain and lay it on the table of good looks. If your appetite is like mine, you'd probably want to hog on the brain and let all the herbal and good smelling make up kit behind.

So today in class, while everyone was busy jotting down every monosyllabic or polysyllabic word that the professor said, I was re-reading and re-re-readingThe Landlady. While reading Atwood's poetry, one must keep in mind her incessant chant of speeding the journey of a woman, of placing her achievements at the same focal point as other gender-based accolades, of letting the talent of the woman float in her accepted swimsuit with the corresponding trunks, and not let it drown. I don't think she's looking for a forced excavation into a woman's ability. In fact, she doesn't even feel the need to establish that a woman is able and equipped. That has already been foregrounded. I think her quest is to accentuate greater acknowledgement of that talent.

The following poem is particularly interesting because if you choose, you could plunge into more relevant meanings of time and age.

The Landlady

This is the lair of the landlady

She is

a raw voice

loose in the rooms beneath me.

the continuous henyard

squabble going on below

thought in this house like

the bicker of blood through the head.

She is everywhere, intrusive as the smells

that bulge in under my doorsill;

she presides over my

meagre eating, generates

the light for eyestrain.

From her I rent my time:

she slams

my days like doors.

Nothing is mine.

and when I dream images

of daring escapes through the snow

I find myself walking

always over a vast face

which is the land-

lady's, and wake up shouting.

She is a bulk, a knot

swollen in a space. Though I have tried

to find some way around

her, my senses

are cluttered by perception

and can't see through her.

She stands there, a raucous fact

blocking my way:

immutable, a slab

of what is real.

solid as bacon.

The Landlady is this stock hurdle in everyone's life. She's like this blob of ice you're expected to consume by sucking into it with a straw. She's like this horrible stomach cringe, which you experience when you laugh unendingly and just can't seem to stop.

There's an escapist in all of us. Some of us remain in denial of this fact, while others are in a polar state of omniscience. There's something unpleasant and unappealing about all our lives. If you're disagreeing, you belong to the more dangerous category of remaining in denial. Snap out of it. And, encounter this unpleasantness. This Landlady is your sheet of jumbled and asymmetrically aligned words. Solve it. At least, try. Handle her. Adjust with her interference. Help her loosen up instead of tightening your own presence.

The Landlady, is an ordinary piece of bacon, she's a part of your everyday meal, she's the side order, she's the sidekick to a wholesome and sumptuous exotic meal. She might be your annoying daily breakfast, but the fact is that, breakfast will always be the most important meal of the day. You got to eat it. The luxury of being seduced by the exotic meal is not your reality. It's a one-time pleasurable experience. So alter your quest and make do with the routinely slab of bacon. It'll fill your stomach even though your taste buds are complaining of monotony and and unwanted dry existence.

The underlying oxymoron in "...my senses are cluttered by perception is promising. Notice it. And comment on it because I want direction and clarity in my perception of it.

Who would've thought that the frustrated, ever curious and inevitable Landlady would be much more than the frizz in her hair!

Repetitive Concerns- Radhika Tanwar Murder

So am I thanking God that we didn't have free time yesterday to rush to Satya to catch a bite at Brickhouse/Maggi Point/Subway? If that would've happened, we could've been walking on the over bridge, trying to get onto the other side of the road to hit the busiest "hang out" in South Campus. Satya Niketan is-

1. Two-minute auto ride from both, home and college.

2. Five minute walk from both, home and college.

The over bridge connects Sardar Patel Marg and Satya Niketan and is a savior for commuting students since both ends are marked by Auto Stands and Bus Stops. It's as busy as busy can get at almost all times of the day, especially during morning and late afternoon hours. Typically, there're a couple of beggars who have set shop on the bridge, selling a variety of trinkets and also, occasionally you'll catch a prospective pseudo hippie attempting to get their cartilage pierced from them.

On 8th of March, women in an All-Women College, (where I constantly crib about being a misfit) were satiating their feminist appetite by celebrating Women's Day (or making apparent their inevitable need to find a way out of a previously denied inferiority or subservience. But that's besides the point).

On 8th March 2011, Radhika Tanwar, a second year student from Ram Lal Anand College, which stands adjacent to Moti Lal Nehru College and shares space with Sri Venkateswara College on Benito Juarez Marg (Delhi), was shot dead by a certain "Who" killed Radhika Tanwar(?).

Honestly, it was abundantly unnerving to hear about this because as a student of Jesus and Mary College, I had crossed the crime scene the previous evening, the day before and almost every alternate day preceding that. For most of us around this area of South Campus (which spreads beyond to Lady Shri Ram College, Kamla Nehru College and Gargi College, to name a few), Satya Niketan is a daily visit. A lot of students reside there too.

After having established all this, I will vehemently disagree with anyone who attempts to even hint at the bridge or the areas around it "less crowded" or "isolated". It is more than alarming that there were some 300 students who gathered in protest outside my college, all from South Campus, and who knows, one of them is treasuring the all important "Witness Story." Going by a common tracking that many news reports have made, the only person who chased the murderer, after Radhika was shot, was her friend Aditya, who was walking back to college with her. The beggar on the extreme end of the foot bridge was latent, everyone at the bus stop was latent, people around the crime scene were latent (and I can bet that at least two out of the ten people must've been students). I really hope that someones conscience is being dangerously pricked right now and the "procedural" justice at least sees one genuine witness account. But again, that's just hoping for the ideal when the ideal really is inaccessible.

I'm not surprised that there were no PCR Vans around the area even after the incident of the girl having been picked up in a vehicle outside Dhaula Kuan sometime back. I mean her bleeding body wasn't even carried in one till the hospital. This incidentally puts into questions the sensitivity and dutifulness of all the Autowalas who refused or didn't stop when signaled by the Constable trying to get her body to the hospital. And considering there're autos lined up every minute of the day at either ends of the bridge waiting for a "sawaari" (that, mind you, must suit their schedule), it's terrible to even know that no one offered and time had to be further wasted in finding the appropriate ride or sensibility.

Anyone can go on and on about the infinite ways in which the follow up to the crime could've been bettered because fact is, that the crime itself was unavoidable. The CM is not going to resign because some obsessive stalker decided to dust away the last remaining speck of intolerance in him. The psychology of it, for one, requires crime psychology in our country to be focussed on with a finer lens.

My biggest problem has to be with the turning of the protest march into an "event". So I'm walking up the stairs to attend a class and this giggling bunch of ignorant and uninteresting "women" ask me whether I'm coming for the march. They were forgetting that it wasn't their trivial visit to a coffee shop, where they could sit under the winter sun with their CK shades on and discuss about the safety of women, when each of them drive a Skoda/Honda to college. It really was outrageous. And then they decide to head out and stand outside the gate and comment about how shady the men were and mindlessly stereotype every ordinary looking man, who didn't have the money to drive them around in a fancy car, as a "Jaat". I'd like to blatantly state here that women's safety concerns me, gravely. But I'm absolutely not willing to be in the same clan as the afore-described lot, who wear the absolutely nonchalant garb of stupidity and declare further their "feminist" stand.

Today's "March" made me mildly question the purpose these symbolically important protests serve. It was obvious that a protest was going to take place. It would've been odd if it didn't happened. But what planning is expected out of the government, if a citizen-oriented gathering like the one today is shallow, when it comes to even arriving at a consensus about the "purpose" the march should essentially serve. For one, they want CCTVs to be fixed on the roads. How reasonably pragmatic.

There are so many loopholes, that at times, one must thinking twice before opining because, it is left undone. There seems no way out of this. There is too much to be solved, too much to be untied, too much unwinding to be done and just as many webs to be disentangled. Honestly, its exhausting because one thing leads to another, and the other to yet another. And the possibility of the lack of a comprehensive and practical mode to justice seems unlikely. That's the worst kind of quick sand to be caught in.

I'm not just saying this, but since yesterday, I haven't adhered to my routinely walk over that bridge and I'm constantly living in the fear of being stalked or followed. Concerns for Safety in this city are not overrated. They never will be. Today, I am experiencing the fear that people talk about when they get out of their houses and begin an ordinary walk on the street. You might joke about every Bye being the last Bye, but it takes one incident like this to make you think the last statement you made may have your last few words in it.

The fact that I'm a woman is secondary,

the fact that I'm a student is secondary.

But the fact that I'm scared is primary,

the fact that I'm prancing in fear is primary.

Hoping for justice, like always. But really not hoping for another unfathomable and unreasoned death of an innocent.