Maybe the Wall has some answers.

Wednesday, December 31, 2008

A-11...and the rest of it.

I miss Rez more than ever :(

I miss the boiler, and the kittens under it.
I miss the owl.
I miss the cat that went shooting down the stairs (yeah, it was a regular zoo, Rez was).

I miss coffee and muffins (they taste better hot. No, cold. No, hot.)

I miss the conversations around the hotplate, while the tomato soup bubbled in the borrowed saucepan (nobody died after they had it, did they? So much for all the ruckus over an expiry date, you guys :p).

I miss Kandisa, in an empty block, at 2am, a single track on shuffle.

I miss sunshine and oranges on Andrews Court.

Sigh. I do want to take the Jan Tests again.
Fifth sign of madness.

Brrrrrrrrr!

It finally feels like December in Delhi!! Yay! I had almost given up on a visit from Old Man Winter this year!

Tuesday, December 30, 2008

Second sem blues

Second semester includes some awesome papers. Each time I look at my bookshelf, I can't help but feel excited about what I will be studying for the next three months - there's OB, OD and Macro. Then there's HRD, Labour Laws and Economic & Accounting Aspects of Human Capital (quite a mouthful, that last name...and the paper lives up to it alright). There's CA II, which is, well, CA II. Why am I blue, then?

Because I know I love the first three, but that the devil must be given his DUe.

Because HRD is important (or so they say), but also vapid...so insipid that it can bore the most dedicated budding HR manager to tears! :(

Because Labour Laws are interesting, and important...but need memorising, which takes away from the pleasure.

Because we're all still trying to figure out exactly what comes under the Economic and Accounting Aspects of Human Capital (what sort of paper calls itself that, anyway??).

There's a lot I'm looking forward to learning. I have a feeling OB and OD - not to mention Macro, an old love - will make up for any not-so-great aspect of this semester. Let's see what the next twelve weeks turn out like, though. Sigh.

Monday, December 29, 2008

...and in the bargain...

Bargaining is elevated to a fine art in Delhi. If you're a student, living - as most students do - on a shoestring budget, especially, it is an art you want to perfect - or keep working at, at the very least. I should know! Rick rides, auto rides, book-buying sprees at Daryaganj, visits to Sarojini Nagar and Janpath, the fruit vendor in Kamla Nagar, the coolies at NDLS...before I left home for College and Delhi, the closest I had come to understanding the concept of bargaining in real life was in Premchand's short story, Idgaah. Hamid, the young protagonist, visits the annual Id fair with only three paise in his pocket, and spots a pair of tongs that he thinks his grandmother will like. He steps up and enquires how much the tongs cost, and the seller curtly replies "Chheh paise". What happens next is best quoted from the story itself: "हामिद ने गहरी साँस ली और कहा, "तीन पैसे में दोगे?" और कहकर आगे बढ़ गया, की दूकानदार उसे घुड़कियाँ न सुना दे। लेकिन दूकानदार ने घुड़कियाँ नहीं दी। बुलाकर चिमटा दे दिया।"

So that's what bargaining is, I used to think. Halve the price. That's it. Ha! That simple!

I was right. And wrong.

Soon after I arrived in Delhi, I learnt that unless one developed the ability to bring the price for certain goods and services (can't help the terminology - 5 years of economics! :) down to at least four-fifths of the quoted, one was liable to end up squandering half one's monthly allowance on rick rides and the odd half-kg of apples or bananas. In a few months' time, I also learnt that it was plain silly to pay the bookseller at Daryaganj Rs 150 for a slim paperback, and sillier still to pay anything more than two-fifths that amount for a t-shirt at Sarojini Nagar. And by allowing the driver of an auto-rickshaw to charge you as much as he quoted at the very beginning, you were allowing him to take you for a ride, pun fully intended (one way to avoid that was to go by the meter...but then meters have an unfortunate disadvantage: either they don't work, or, if they do, they're usually rigged. Besides, rare is the auto-driver who will concede that he ought to be going "by the meter", in the first place ).

When I managed rick-rides for Rs 12, auto-rides to CP (the Metro hadn't quite come into being back then) for Rs 70, and visits to Janpath or Nai Sarak in Rs 600, I felt pleased with myself. I had mastered the art!

Until someone showed me similar stuff, bought from the same place, at two-thirds the price. Or grinned patronisingly when they learnt that I paid fifteen bucks for a ride from College to Gwyer Hall.

Essentially, it takes one time to learn exactly how much the good or the service should actually cost. It makes sense to pay Rs 80 to get to India Gate, and if you tried beating it down to 40, you'd be plain unreasonable (unless you were in luck, and the driver himself asked for only that much!); similarly, it is plain inhuman to expect a rickwallah to take you all the way from, say, Malkaganj to Miranda House for only Rs 10. Again, why shouldn't the guy selling books secondhand, or trinkets and shawls, expect to make a small profit on his sales? It works this way: you do some accommodating, and he does some accommodating, and in the end we're all happy.

But it is interesting, this process. What you need, of course, is tons of patience, polite albeit firm language - and a sense of humour. It's easy enough: hear the price, and depending on where you are or who you're talking to, slash it right away by 15-50%. Nobody actually does all that mental arithmetic, naturally...the right price simply comes to you! Deduct a little something from what you think you ought to pay, and then declare that that is all you are willing to shell out. The entertaining bit is, the seller himself has added an extra something to what he actually wouldn't mind receiving - and then you can both start trying to get the other to meet you halfway :)

At Daryaganj, especially, booksellers have this special line for you - "Hai to itne ka, par aapke liye bees rupaye kam kar deta hoon". Harbour no illusions, this privilege is something he extends to all his customers. The transaction is usually consummated with "Chaliye na aapka na mera, (some amount) de dijiye", again, from the seller. You, in your turn, can choose to use the age-old technique: quote your final price, and, if he says no, turn up your nose and walk away as if you couldn't care less for the book or the rick-ride, or whatever is in question. Unless the seller is a very hard nut to crack, this usually brings the discussion right back onto the table!

At the end of the day, bargaining in Delhi can be a hassle, entertainment, or simply the carrying out of a necessity, depending upon how you choose to see it. I know people who relish the idea of a trip to Nai Sarak or Sarojini Nagar for the opportunities to bargain that it affords - it is, they claim, the ideal way to spend a winter afternoon, and a great chance to observe fellow human beings at their wittiest, most obstinate best. One does feel jubilant heading home with 15 great books, spanning everything from economics to fiction to crosswords, when one left one's room with only Rs 400 in one's pocket...this I can vouch for :)

To CP, with love.

I went to CP today, after what seemed like an eternity (for the uninitiated, CP is Connaught Place, the heart of Delhi - a hopelessly cliched description, but the one that fits it best, nonetheless - in ways more than one). The last time I disembarked at Rajiv Chowk (beats me why they've renamed CP that. It isn't like anyone actually uses that name - not even the MCD officials themselves) was with a friend who treated me to lunch at Pizza Hut, back in early November. Given that we were short of time that afternoon, we sped straight from the Metro Exit to Block E, and back. No...the last time I visited CP the way I visited it today - actually visited it - was...was...well, I don't remember.

June 2007. That must have been it. And now I feel tremendously shady (friends from College will understand why I said that :) In my defence, though, one year of this year and a half was spent in Gurgaon, commuting from where is no mean feat, especially when you rely upon friendly (!) CNG auto-rickshaws, DTC and DMRC to travel to your examination venue in Delhi every Sunday after a harrowing week at work!

Coming back to the point, though, I visited CP after a really long time. As always, I came back feeling more in love with it than ever. Some places have a tendency, an endearing one, to remain stuck in a time-warp. The Gwyer Hall canteen in North Campus is one example. The little Tibetan establishment at Majnu Ka Tilla, near Civil Lines, is another. And, in a slightly different way, CP belongs to the list too. Make no mistake, CP is one of the places to be; has pride of place on the list of the ten most expensive areas in the world to rent office space at; and is as old as it is elite. Every now and then, another grand building is added to the CP skyline, a new showroom, another restaurant...much as Delhi went from simply Delhi to the NCR, CP keeps growing, too.

The beauty of the place lies in the contrasts that coexist comfortably in it. I've been around here for almost five years now, and all this time, at least, there has been a certain quality about the area that hasn't changed in the least. There's something about CP that is remarkably old-world, quiet and dignified. Even the traffic, which makes its presence more than felt, cannot take away from the charm. Central Park always has that old-fashioned, manicured appearance. Even the pigeons seem exotic! I'm aware, as I write this, that these might read like the ramblings of a romantic twenty-two year-old, viewing the world (or CP, at least :) through rose-tinted spectacles. But that's how CP is! Beautifully old-world during the day, and equally enchanting in the evening. In winter, especially, with the lights glowing and a light fog swirling about, CP is a picture postcard. As I mentioned earlier, its contrasts add to the charm. So we have elderly couples walking slowly, hand in hand, around the Inner Circle, even as high-school kids and college-goers throng the benches, the restaurants, and the uber-cool showrooms. Mothers struggle with prams, toddlers, and shopping bags, and busy executives rush past, no time to glance at anything but their watches. Meanwhile, Delhi's junta lazes on the lawns of Central Park, where an Indian Ocean concert seems as natural a fit as an evening of classical music, or even a political gathering, does. Vendors offering chaat, banta and sweet potatoes man carts nestled right outside a KFC or a Sakura. They have nothing in common but their location; their proprietors wouldn't know each other if they met on the street someday, but both do equally brisk business, and both are happy. A gypsy woman selling hand-embroidered cushion covers and junk jewellery squats comfortably a block away from the FabIndia showroom; the lanky, bespectacled guy selling books secondhand will helpfully direct you to Galgotia's or the Statesman House building (which houses the Oxford Bookstore) if you ask him. No hard feelings anywhere - that's another thing that strikes you about CP. Everyone's willing to help. Some have stories to tell, too.

People are in CP because there's work to be done; people are in CP because it is the best place to while away an afternoon or an evening. There's no better place for retail therapy - you name the brand, and, ten to one, their biggest Delhi showroom will be in CP; there's also no better place if you simply want a stroll, or want to sit and watch the world go by. It is marvellous how an ever-expanding commercial area still affords its visitors the privilege of long walks, open skies, and a warm, comfortable feeling of contentment and complete freedom. You could be anyone, from any walk of life, with your own dreams and hopes and desires, and coming to CP will make you believe. If you've run out of hopes and dreams, CP will weave you some, and hand them to you with an encouraging smile. At CP, everybody belongs.

For the umpteenth time, I stood near Block F, admiring the sight of hundreds of gray pigeons feeding contentedly in and around Central Park. A few feet away stood an ice-cream cart, the vendor handing out strawberry cones to a brood of excited children. In the distance, I could see the vague outlines of the lamp-posts that line Barakhamba Road. Above it all - above us all - was a clear blue sky and a warm, benevolent sun. So quaint, so beautiful, so...perfect. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what it must have been like at 5.40 pm on September 13, 2008, to have this tranquility shattered by people who are so full of hatred, it's frightening. Time heals everything, they say. I hope it will.

I wondered if I should take an auto-rickshaw to Mathura Road, like I had planned to. I turned and walked up to one of the several parked by the pavement, and, five minutes later, had beaten the driver down to Rs. 100 from 160. Then, I decided against it - I still don't know why - and took another long walk around the Inner Circle before finally asking around (like I always end up doing) for the nearest entrance to the Metro station.

Sunday, December 28, 2008

Stepping back...and out.

This one's for people, places and things that I chose to walk away from because I loved them so much. I'm sure we can all think of someone or something - an ideal, an institution, a dream, a hope, anything - that we loved so much, it hurt.

It's strange, frightening and funny what that kind of passion can do to you. I have found myself alternately envying and feeling sorry for those who've never been what we casually refer to as "absolutely crazy" about something or someone. I envy them their equanimity, their peace of mind, and their (relatively) happy, uncomplicated lives. I'm still not sure if that's a disposition one is born with, or chooses to cultivate, or a bit of both. Whatever it is, it makes for a remarkably even, content existence. Loving so much that it hurts, on the other hand, can do just that - hurt.

Yet, as someone who belongs to the latter category, I wouldn't trade my madness for anything...and I doubt that there's anyone who would. Because it hurts alright, it is elusive and frustrating and maddening and beautiful and destructive and blinding and wonderful, it is everything and nothing - but, more often than not, it is all one has. It is all I have, at any rate. I ought not to be presumptuous, so I will speak for myself.

So there's this one idea, one dream that I've nurtured since I was ten. There's this one institution I believe very firmly in, there's another that I'd give anything to be a part of. There are people that matter like nobody else does. And while some of these I must necessarily wait to reach, there are others I have deliberately chosen to step back from - not in spite of how much I love them, but because I love them so much.

I'm still trying to figure out if I do this in an attempt to keep relationships, impressions and memories untarnished, or because I couldn't possibly love them more. Truth be told, I think it is the former. The pragmatic part of me cynically wants to know if I'm so insecure about what I love as to skirt any risk to its perfection. Were I to be defensive, I'd respond to that with a "Bull***t!". Years have passed since I recognised and acknowledged the attachment, however, so there's a reasonable amount of (what I hope is) maturity, too. And I know why I chose to walk away: Because I had to, and because I will come back one day, but must leave it be for now.

Does that make sense?

Yeah, not to me either :)

In a warped, roundabout way, it is logical, though. I can't hang around. Ergo, I must leave. That doesn't mean that the passion is any lesser. It just means that even when I have every opportunity to visit, to claim a place as my own, I won't. Not any more, if I can help it. Because I love it. It means that I may have been waiting forever for one more glimpse, one opportunity - but will pass it up when it comes my way. Why? Because, if I must leave in spite of how much and how truly I loved, then I must indeed leave - for now, at least. More often than not, though, one leaves because one loves, even when there isn't the slightest hope that there will be a second time. It hurts like hell...and while those who wonder aloud why you're walking away don't matter, they don't help matters either. They don't understand - you're the only person who'll ever know that there was nothing to do, but this.

And then there are the ideals or that one dream that one would die for. I've met people who live seemingly perfect, hassle-free lives. Nothing is a must, so everything is a bonus. That's one approach to life, like I mentioned earlier. I once had a roommate who didn't understand why I was crazy about a particular something. She told me to take it easy - that life would be a lot happier that way, and that I would spend fewer nights reading feverishly, and subject her to fewer mood swings. I tried - not that there was any point even in trying, I realised later :) - and then took to counting up to ten before saying anything, and reading in the living room instead of in ours. Thankfully, it helped :)

But the single-minded obsession refuses to go. Not that I want it to. It keeps me going. When I have nobody and nothing else to fall back on, it is the one thing I can still count on to give me a much-needed push in the right direction. When everything else fades away and I'm alone, I know there's one reason. That there will always be one reason. And there will always be the love that hurts.

Roommates!

"Are you asleep?"
"Uh huh."
"I'm hungry."
.
.
.
"I'm hungry."
"Gfndsmfdltmslp."
"What?"
"Go find yourself some food. I want to sleep."
"Aww...I wanted some Maggi."
"Good. We haven't any. Go look for some. You can borrow my saucepan."
"Do you think he'll reply to my email?"
"Who will?"
"Priya! Please!"
"How am I to know? Ask him."
"I can't. We've had a fight."
"Hmm."
"What time do you plan to wake up tomorrow?"
"Six. Six-thirty, at the latest. If you let me sleep, that is."
"Wake me up too, please. I have a paper I need to finish."
Silence.
"I said, wake me up."
"Right."
"Why doesn't he call me back?"
"Tell you what, give me his number. I'll talk to him and tell you why."
"You're doing nothing of the sort!"
" 'night, then."
"Can I switch the light on?"
"You won't if I ask you not to?"
"Did I tell you what D did today? She..."
"No!"
"But I can't sleep!"
"Well, I want to."
"Maybe I should begin that paper now."
"Good idea."
"Do you have anything I can eat?"
"Do you think I do?"
"Will you cook Maggi if I find some? Please, please! I hate standing out there in the cold."
"G, I'm not even hungry."
"You're mean."
"You're annoying."
"I'm not."
"Oh yes you are."
"I said I'm not."
"Of course you are."
"Well, I'm off to sleep. Good night."

Huh?? Good night?
And insomnia changes places.

I'm lovin' it! Or am I?

This may be the result of living bang opposite a McDonald's outlet. I know for sure, for instance, that I shall never be able to eat a burger or fries again. Every time I step out of the building - or even into the balcony or on the terrace, I can FEEL burgers and fries all around me. The aroma wafts around. Everywhere. All the time. And my olfactory nerves (and my taste buds with them) are beginning to protest. It used to be good fun walking by McDonald's when we came to Kamla Nagar. Going in for a quick bite was even better fun. And when I want some time to myself, I like looking at the outlet and the surrounding area from my balcony. I've even got to know a few things - the delivery van that brings the raw material in every morning arrives exactly at nine, rain or shine. The takeaway window is unmanned between five and seven. Other trifling things that you'd notice if you were, deliberately, not thinking of anything else. But I now know what my friends, who volunteered to look after the food at the BDC or the Christmas party back in College, felt. After hours of slicing and serving cake, and orange juice and sandwiches, they'd actually refuse to have any. I remember one friend telling me they'd spent the afternoon "practically WADING in cake". "Do you REALLY think I want to even look at it any more??" She claimed the aroma of cake and juice made her sick. I laughed. Having spent the afternoon looking after children with half a dozen other people, I didn't know - how could I? - that an atmosphere, as it were, of food can actually put you off it!

Now, I know.

And, as I said, I'm glad the world is not one big McDonald's. I'm glad that people, places, circumstances... everything that makes up our world, are (or should this be "is"?) so different everywhere. Maybe it is good to have this lack of uniformity and standardization, these little imperfections. Wherever in the world you find a McDonald's, you know that the french fries are exactly the length they would be in an outlet in the other hemisphere; the burgers are grilled to exactly the same degree in every restaurant; the chocolate on your McSwirl will taste the same whether you are in Rome, Islamabad, Pune or Brunei (do they have one there? I'm sure they do. Or do they?). The only variations made will be those that are necessary - those necessitated by religious beliefs or local tastes. Even the raw material is exactly the same - largely, at least. A particular variety. There's security in that knowledge (and, of course, impeccable strategy), and that is good. But I'm still glad the powers that be didn't make the world one big McDonald's. And no, this hasn't anything to do with the fact that I won't be able to eat at one for a long, long time to come. Honest!