Hiccup

When today started, I thought I was content and happy. I woke up in the morning to the shining cheeks of a 26 year old brother who sported a pink shirt and gelled hair and I thought maybe he did that so that I would wake up with a smile on my house, amused at the consistency of his "look". Breakfast was almost ideal. Toast, butter, omellette, ketchup, milk with chocolate horlicks. I do believe that if each day began with good food, I'd be more optimistic, on the whole.

The funny things about a bath is that with the promise of hygiene and the associated "freshness", you could still feel really dirty and stale. (Or is that just me?) I don't know whether its the product used to develop a pointless lather or the fragrance of a particular shampoo or the temperature of the water or the adequacy/inadequacy of the shower spray, it really is very difficult to get a bath right. Things get worse if you have bad skin because you just don't feel that every little speck of dirt on your body has been washed out. That way, dim lighting in bathrooms work well. Stepping out of the bathroom into an acceptable atmosphere is of equal essence. You don't need construction dust in your room, you don't need too much sunlight, you don't the blow of heat to meddle with all that toil you went through to clean yourself up. Picking a perfectly ironed piece of clothing is like after-sale service, you know, the kind that you expect your car to undergo when you send it for servicing.

Mornings are exhausting that way. More so, because I've slept my way through so many of them. But things are changing now and my stamina is slowly on the rise.

I've begun to do some volunteer work. And fortunately, its linked to music.

My dad bought these flavoured Mentos gums from Dubai and boy are they keeping me busy. I can taste Orange now even when there are no peels or nothing that matches the colour around me. Also, isn't the thought of "feeling" a colour exciting?

My parents just came back from a vacation they took to Leh. So I was made to sit down after lunch to view the various pictures that had been clicked. And like Mehvash had said a couple of days back, a still picture clicked in Leh can never be a bad picture. You just need to go place your camera and click anything to bring glory to the frame. The colours keep changing. What an effortless way to incorporate dynamism into a life which would otherwise be hopeless and dull.

I might sound very conventional when I say that I believe in a family sitting around a table and eating a meal. When my mum was out, I was getting dinner together for 4 people. And, trust me its much easier to feed people with great palettes and a good appetite. Obviously, its easier to feed them or serve them if they're all sitting together and enjoying. Save your moods for later, really.

I know I suck at maintaining a flow with most of my posts. I know I started out by reminding myself about how brilliant my day was when it began, how I'd long for a day to start with good breakfast and it had finally happened today. So progressively, I should have moped over how people around me decided to manipulate with my mood (not that the hormones weren't doing a good job at that already). I forgot about all that. That's how superfluous the mind is. Its not a watertight theory. Nothing is compartmentalized. You just need to follow the flow. Don't swim with it. Walk by its side, waver a little. Then come back to following it. With all purposes fulfilled, I am going to go watch Larry be a nincompoop when he's 40 plus. (Watch the Curb Your Enthusiasm if you don't already).

Also always remember, there are people who stop talking to you. And then there are those who block their walls on Facebook. The latter is a joke. The former always happens for that good.

Maut, Jeene ke liye zaroori hai yeh!

Osama's death has emerged to be a scavenging truth, addressing questions on the nature of his death. Whether or not, the character of a human being decides the brutality of his death, or allows others a "piece of his flesh" is a great debate. When you read articles about the astounding loyalty his multiple wives have shown towards him, both before and after his death, try and follow the age old activity of putting yourself in their shoes. I'm not trying to assert a highly absurd assumption here, but have myself received abundant clarity over what family can mean to anyone. Shield or not, the wife at the compound could very well be a committed partner in marriage, which by the way, is better, if not worse, than being in love with an asshole.

One could talk about religion in the same tone. I'm going to sound factually obscure but for more than half of the Jihad-driven population, turning against an Indian who has been inflicting "pain" on a Kashmiri Muslim in PoK, qualifies for hatred. If one separates the word "religious duty" from the meaning of Jihad, then they could very well fit into, not eating non-veg on a Tuesday, not sleeping on a bed after a death in a family, not allowing women in a crematorium and other such, irrational actions prompted by religion , and religion alone. It was Jihad which led Maulana Masood Azhar's brother to hijack IC 814. His brain might have found adequate logic in hoping for a family re union. This emotion overtook three-fourth of his sensibility. The remaining quarter saw Jihad coming to his rescue. Incorrectly driven, but mostly in emotion.

Obviously, I'm not defending the terrorists. And I'm no Zakir Naik sitting on National Television backing inglorious crimes in the name of religion. I am not waiting for Kasab to come and tell me why he did what he did.

However, I do believe that the emotional construct of all human beings, criminals, terrorists and the innocent, is alike. While some are vigorously tampered with, others resort to more humane ways of channelising them via suitable and more importantly, non-violent mediums.

The effect is never the same. A cellphone flung in aggression and a building brought down to crumble. The cause, however, remains the same.

How I long to say Nana

I just read a diary full of overwhelming poesy that my mom has been penning down in memory of my grandfather/her father. It was so beautifully compiled, and each poem was so simple in sentence and rhyme. I could picture the last time I saw Nana walk through the Aangan and rush out with his RWA files in his hand for the his quintessential routine meetings. Everyday, my Nani would wait for lunch and would have to inevitably reach him on his mobile. She'd say to him over the phone - Hun bas karo te ghar aa jao. I miss my Nana and his going away has made me fear death. I still continue to engage in daily arguments and unnecessary tantrums with family and close friends, never giving the fact that neither parties have any clue about how long we're together for. I love my family. And just like yours, they know me better than everyone else. Little things like prayers, confessions and gestures are meaningful. One mustn't wait for bad times to make you realise the worth of a particular relationship. This philosophical tone is not suiting me and is certainly not impressing you. So I'm going pause before I begin to hinge on something even more annoying.

All said and done, I am aware that it is my problem that I have found it easier to be the misfit. Like I said, I have had "good times" but I'm always hell bent on elaborating on the ridiculous things that don't make sense to me and happen around me all the time (as is true for all of us). I also know that it's more sensible and equally daunting to make peace with whatever you have. And there's no doubt that I have. But then again, I don't see why I have succumbed to pointless drama and unnecessary atrocities in a lot of situations. Relax, I'm not disturbed or anything. The post below is similar to the kind of fun we now have watching Border or CID or youtube-ing songs from Patiala House at least once a day (you should really try doing that). Read. And I know it's going to be difficult to not be judgmental (because that's a common dance floor we all land up on, on every party) so I'm not going to make wasted requests.

As a matter of fact

It’s happening again. After three years of sitting tight on one seat which ten others (to say the least) must have competed for, I am being asked to vacate to let other (un)fortunate women enjoy it (if they’re lucky and stupid) or detest it (which will obviously stereotype them as ME!). Yet again everyone’s curiosity is liberatingly moulded in that question they asked me in the past and that will haunt me many a time in the future. “So, what next/now/after this?” And following a tradition that most of “my kind” endorses, I won’t pretend being confused because “I (actually) don’t know.”

Last week was officially the last in college. All Girls’ College to be more specific. Convent and All Girls’ College to provide maximum detail. And there’s only one of the kind in Delhi University. So yes you can gloat about your guess being right.

Now I’m not sure if I’m feeling any extraordinary emotion at college getting over. Hopefully, it’s a passive feeling and is consoling me by not occupying primary space in my head.

In retrospect, I think I have “learnt a lot” from college life. Without a doubt, it has taught me to adjust with all kinds of human beings and the very cosmopolitan setup has left enough room to explore into different psyches and settle with the best and the worst (and all that). But in grave practicality (and I feel so sad about stating this) I’m going to be learning this at multiple/several/various junctures in my life. So how about exposure and bettering your “talents” and meeting like-minded people? All this without having to worry about administrative hiccups and constant running around to get your shit sorted. Now that’s what I really wish I’d experienced.

Please don’t mark my exaggeration when I tell you that there have been days when I’ve sat under trees (which, at most times provided, much needed solace) and just observed women walking around in college. Some were dressed most obscurely, others inadequately, most well-groomed and the rest trying to keep up with the latest fashion in Sarojini. I’ve sat on the steps of the library (because for some really strange reason you couldn’t take your own books inside the library to read. If you have a justification for that, please don’t bring it up because I am not going to be convinced) and heard women discuss vacations they took abroad, and conclusively remarked on how Dubai was much better than England “kyunki wahaan ghaas phoos kam thi aur malls zaada the.” The next second you would see them shout out for James (?) bhaiya, our college’s official photographer who comes to the rescue of a ton of women who like dropping their heads back, making their hair fly and getting their profile clicked. “College iz funnn” and “My College” and “Memoriez” are the albums you should be concentrating on, on Facebook. There have also been the kinds who like being “in charge”. They’d always have a Notepad and a fancy zip up folder in their hands, holding important documents and “getting work done”. (There’s no harm in all this, really. I’m just describing the “types” and the “kinds”). There’re also diligent hardworking women, who manage to get a 5/5 on attendance (yes, Delhi University does have its own way of ensuring that its students attend college. All in the name of competition for five “free” marks). Then there’ve been the “nice” people around, who would help you, share essential information and tell you which Professor could be your potential friend because well, they’re friends with most of the Department.

I think it’s very essential to engage in routine viewing of shows like Roadies, largely rubbished by your parents and by the better part of your own brain, because it’s more about getting to know about the kind of clumsy and graceless people who constitute this society, which also happens to be your own. Now if you’ve caught an episode of the latest season, then I’d like to typify one of the “contestants” (It’s a shame even calling them that because they’re contesting for one thing and one thing alone, they’re contesting to be forgotten) named Prachi. She’s been upset for most of the show broadcasted till date because people think she’s “dumb” but she knows she’s not. I am hardly anyone to decide whether she is living in denial or not. But I’m not going to remain blind to my absolutely correct reading of the woman being really hollow, with a really peculiar emotional package and not being able to render declared intellect, when tested. Now I wasn’t digressing by indulging in this personality analysis, because hers is a kind intrinsic to most people I’ve seen wandering around my college campus. Opinions that don’t count but still have to be made vocal and the same voice, never articulated in during a lecture. Yet, they’re seen cribbing about the system, the way they’ve been condescended, the way the entire education system has let them down and the way are being punished for no constructive fault of theirs. This is the kind which has caused the most resentment in me and left this annoying acerbic taste in my mouth, because there has really been nothing that they have learnt or helped me learn.

There are various cultural societies across colleges in Delhi University, fondly called “Socs”. Now I don’t know if most of us have consciously engaged in knowing the names of most members of this society. Fact remains, that we do. And that makes them celebrities? It’s odd but, when most of them are on stage to display some talent or the other, a significant part of the audience will be noticing Aastha, Kshitija, Mallika or Pallavi.

“Xyz, woh choreo wali, she’s so hot man.”

“Hindi dramsoc mein hai na who Abc, usko maine GK mein dekha.”

The Fests have been the most memorable owing to weird idiosyncrasies. They would usually start in the morning and end way after sunset. But women would still come dressed up because the latter half of the day they had to go clubbing in the college lawns since it was DJ Night. Jobless for one, I don’t know how most of them managed to rope in their friends for all the “fun” that the fest promised. I’ve also looked forward to it all three years to be a part of some mindless dancing because any attempt to loosen up only has a positive consequence. But it’s been nothing grand, certainly nothing worth getting your hair straightened for.

On those two days of “cultural extravaganza”, some randomly picked up NSS Volunteers have witnessed high points in their lives in telling people “Entry band ho gayi hai.” and “No, you can’t enter from this gate.” They’ve giggled and let the boys enter the Auditorium and unnecessarily shrieked at Thirdies because “Entry was only allowed for participants (boyfriend)”. Kya trip lete hain log.

This college is a part of an undefined and self -proclaimed cult that more than half of the students have readily accepted as “best time evaa!”

I beg to differ. And even though I’ve had my multiple maddening moments of ecstatic joy in the company of some of the coolest people that the institution thankfully chose to admit, I still stand by the college and its sly ways of pushing students into some kind of really dangerous disillusionment.

Oh and my type? I’ve been the silent observer (to help produce this blog post maybe?).

PS-Subsequent posts will describe the more pleasant and polite experiences. Yes, there are many.

Kya Din Tha, Kya Raat Thi.

Date: 2nd April 2011

Location: Bhai's Bedroom

Time: Didn't give a fuck

Event: India Vs. Sri Lanka, Cricket World Cup Final 2011

Special thanks to the company of six ecstatic fans, Beer, Green Wale Lays, Sprite, McDonald's, Curse words, Twitter, Tata Sky and the all essential Stress Ball.

If you remember Kajol screaming "Hummmm Jeet Gayee" in similar cricket-orial contexts, that was my shriek. If you add some deranged male voices and a lot of Woohoo-ing to that, you'll know exactly what echoed in that small space with the heavenly 32" Samsung Television.

I'm sure a lot of blogs are going to read alike and you, me and them have experienced the same mania, but that night was about the collective joy that made people strip, dance, scream, roar, bruuaaahh, balle balle, hoye hoye and be overcome by complete derangement.

30 runs of 30 balls. I was sitting in one corner of the room, saying the Gayatri Mantra continuously. My friend was sitting on a chair, shaking her legs, stamping her feet, prancing across the room and acting like she wanted to pee, but couldn't locate a toilet miles from where she was. There was another scared Indian in the room saying the Yaar-Bas-Jeet-Jaye-Ab chant. There was yet another who kept telling her to "Shutup, don't jinx it." And the three people in the room who had followed cricket more than the rest (and were what I'd call "ardent" fans), were sitting quiet, scrutinizing strategies and enjoying Dhoni's brilliance in silent gusto. We were all hoping for the same thing to happen, as were infinite number of Indian fans across the globe. I have never felt that kind of tension spearing through my body. Not even fifteen minutes before an exam, ten minutes before my bronchoscopy or a second before my Board Result got uploaded. Never felt before man, never felt before.

Aur jab Dhoni ne woh chhake maara, humne cheekhein maari. I remember climbing on the bed and screaming and looking at my brother and saying What The Fuck We Won. Now I'm not sure whether I made it sound like a question or was it the declaration of a legendary victory that everyone had already witnessed. Needless to say, I was both in disbelief and severely excited. I kept swaying my arms in the air, allowing them to enjoy the frenzy that we had magnificently managed to create. We all chugged a glass of beer each and yes, that was our toast to the Best Men In The World. The Men In Blue were bathing in oceanic glory and we were adding to the shower. Kya feel thi yaar.

Bas fir kya tha. Like the uncountable Dilliwalas who headed to India Gate and the adjoining areas that night, hum bhi nikal padhe. Every round-about in Lutyen's Delhi was the hub of overjoyed fanatics who were there for a common cause. Nobody was a Begaani Shaadi mein Abdullah Deewana. Delhi was one big party. And for the first time, people were not dressed up. They were shabby, they were savage, they were wrapped in the tri colour, they were appropriately brusque and they were all so cool. We, were all so cool.

The car first slowed down at the Chanakya Puri round-about where my drunk friend was Congratulating the occupants of all adjoining vehicles. "28 years and we've done it," said he repetitively till my other high-on-victory friend had to tell him to quit reminding people of the obvious. "Chilla yaar, tu bas chilla." And then flew in a couple of Ferrero Rochers. Kuch meetha ho jaye.

We travelled the distance till Vigyan Bhawan (or Maulana Azad Road if you're screaming for specificity) flashing the worthy Victory sign out of the windows with the incessant wooooooooooooooooooo. Oh, special thanks to the Fore and the Middle Finger. Then we parked on one side and danced to Saadi Galli tur ke vi, Aaya Karo ni Kaddi Saadi Galli tur ke vi... There were also some really killer Punjabi Mundas playing Panga.

As we walked into the happy riot, we were dying one moment and resurrecting the very next kyunki Dhoni Bhagwaan hai aur hum uske darshan kar rahe the. For every Delhi-ite who has lived in the fear of that Breath Analyser, that night saw Bacchus trip with the Janta on the streets. Everyone was fucking smiling. On Delhi's fucked up roads. Aisa kabhi nahi hua.

The cop who was enjoying all the insane jiggy wiggy-ing was also made to do jive. Noone would have ever said, "Thulle sahi hote hain yaar". But that night made them sahi. Such is cricket. Such is India. Such is Victory.

Everyone was willingly stuck in jams, they was absolutely no apprehension about being out past midnight in the acceptedly unsafe Delhi, noone showed any apparent qualms in hugging, shaking hands or dancing with the Ajnabees. Ajnabee bhi Apne the. As Bieber played on loop in the adjoining car, I sung along with the dudes. Uncle chose to play Aivayin Aivayin and I asked him to raise the volume and we did the signature step together.

I was drenched in the tri-colour that night and WE HAD WON. We had been an audience to a spectacular win, an epic night, an unfathomable gathering and the most grand party that the Capital City of India had ever organised.

If cricket were a person, I'd sing in honour. I would sing, Tera jaadooooo chal gaya!

Team India, Shukriya, Dhanyawaad and Vadhayian. Tum sab humare papa ho.

Reminder- In Class 7, I shook hands with Yuvraj.

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.