What I'll Miss About Delhi - Part I

How's this for absolute randomness: In spite of wanting to do some writing, I just didn't feel inspired enough to come and post a proper entry here in days. Now, out of the blue (quite literally!), just as I made a conscious decision to return to my hermit crab ways for a bit, there's a volley of posts and I'm seized with an overwhelming urgency to write about all that I'm thinking of. Life, I tell you. :)

Anyway, it rained today - almost. Actually, it did...but it didn't last long enough for anything - not to offer any respite from the heat, not to permit at least one rain dance, not even for the earth to get thoroughly soaked and quenched. Instead, it has left everything in a limbo of sorts. The leaves are undecidedly wet and dewy; the sun is drying itself off before it returns to work; the air is still choosing between dragon breaths and minty freshness, droplets and vapour almost visibly suspended in the atmosphere. Somwhere, I'm sure, a paper-boat is lying half-folded, and a family of sparrows debating the wisdom of venturing out once again today.

But it was good, even if it lasted only ten minutes. The world does look freshly-laundered. :)

Walking back from the department this evening, I couldn't take my eyes off the riot of colours that the trees always become at this time of year. Every conceivable shade of every imaginable colour. It was with a pang that I realised that I don't quite know when I'll set eyes on all this beauty again, after a few weeks. Yes, I'm glad I'm leaving Delhi, and hopeful that it will be a year or two, at least, before I return. But the fact is, I've spent six formative, very eventful, memorable years in this city...and I love it (which is why I'm looking forward to going away for a bit...but haven't I written enough about that already? :)...

...and now, in no particular order, here are the things I will miss about Delhi, and the University in particular. I know I'll never manage an exhaustive list on this one...but here's an attempt:

1. The greenery. There's no two ways about it...there could be trees and vegetation galore in other cities, but it won't be the same. It's lush, soothing...and very, very beautiful.

2. The history. The city breathes it. It's grand and old and hoary and proud...and in many ways, it deserves to be. And this isn't just about the Jama Masjid or the Red Fort...it's also about all the little alleys and broad avenues, old localities and older names.

3. The freedom. It's the Capital. There are all kinds of people here, from every place imaginable. And they're all welcome to stay, explore the place, study, make a living...just be, because no one owns the place, really. Delhi will embrace you, no questions asked. And that is its biggest beauty.

4. Haanji. The all-purpose magic word.

5. The food! While I will have to admit that my experiences here are solely responsible for what now seems to be a lifetime's worth of aversion to rajma and dal makhani, I will miss all the other food. Period. Delhi loves its food, both the street and the exotic variety...and there's "planty of it, ji". :)

6. The bookstores - and Daryaganj. The bibliophiles' paradise. Enough said.

7. The Delhi Metro. I was thrilled when it began running from Vishwa Vidyalaya to Kashmere Gate (yes, I was here that long ago :), have consistently counted it amongst my biggest blessings in this city, and appreciated it even more fell even more thoroughly in love with it after a two-week brush with the Calcutta Metro. The crowds may have seen an exponential increase, and the legendary precision of timing may have taken a small beating...but my gratefulness and affection will remain an incontrovertible truth.

8. Summers and winters. Six of each, and I know I'll handle any kind of weather, anywhere. But I doubt I'll find as feisty and authentic a summer, and as poetic and picture-perfect a winter in another part of the world.

9. This strange mix of laid-back luxury and total chaos that this city is capable of. It's a living, breathing mass of contradictions, in this way, and in many others. I'll probably go into that later.

There's more to come. This list is incomplete. It feels incomplete to me. Next, the University.

Philosophy at Ungodly Hours - I

It's one of the curiosities of life, I think: the most important things - the ones we really cannot do without at the end of the day - aren't rocket science. And because they are not rocket science, we don't know what to do about them.

Because, honestly now, who can't handle rocket science? You may know all about it, or something, or nothing at all. But even if it is devilishly complicated, it can be done. In fact, the more complicated it is, the more fascinating it must be. Simply because there is a pattern to follow, and a result to expect. You can get someone to teach you, or you can go the trial-and-error way. What do you risk, at the very most...a damaged workstation, maybe, or a laboratory that exploded in on itself?

And then there is the irony that characterises our species: we long for simplicity, but we positively adore complication. Unless something wasn't achieved in a complex, convoluted way, it simply doesn't seem worth our while. We've collectively elevated complexity to a form of art...to the extent that we are either scared of simplicity, or we simply don't understand it. There's this old adage about how we are afraid of what we don't understand, so maybe we are scared of simplicity because we just don't comprehend it anymore...not unless an electronics major puts the term into its catchphrase as part of its marketing strategy. Then, we're willing to pay a pretty penny for stuff that will uncomplicate freezing, cooking, heating, cooling and driving for us. There, we appreciate the need for simplicity, but in the things that really matter, there's only one credo: The more complex, the better!

That bear hug you crave. That friend you haven't spoken to in months and miss terribly. The high you get from listening to your favourite song in the still of the night. That long, soul-searching walk that you promised yourself ten weeks ago, and have put off every evening since. The 'I'm sorry' that will set everything right between the two of you. The spur-of-the-moment trip to the bakery. That music you've been meaning to work on. That unfinished chapter from the book you intend to publish some day. The spontaneous call to a parent or a sibling, just because. The decision to watch your favourite old comedy on late night TV, and class tests the next day be damned. The freedom to laugh out loud, right from the pit of your stomach, till your sides hurt, the way Nature intended laughter to be. The thrill of a family outing. The decision to do not that, but this, because this the kind of work you like even if it pays less and won't seem as scintillating on LinkedIn. The acknowledgement that, at the end of the day, beneath all the degrees and designations and impressions and frequent flier IDs, we're just human, and we want to be happy in whichever way we define being happy.

And that is the irony of it all. For all these things to happen is a one-step process. Just go ahead and do it. But we are strange creatures. We may acknowledge what makes us happy, but we'll never just do it. We like to complicate our relationships with mindgames; our work with an unduly strong sense of competitiveness; our lifestyles with constant comparisons with the Joneses. We delight in the hassle of being too busy, and take pride in not being carefree enough to head out for a walk, a drive or an ice cream when we feel like it. No thought that isn't accompanied by a dozen ifs and buts and whys and wherefores is considered worthy of being thought at all. Unless we make excruciatingly detailed plans, nothing is worth doing; and unless we factor twenty highly improbable scenarios into our plans, they don't deserve to be labelled 'plans'. At the end of it all, when we've covered a long, circuitous route, we're convinced that we're happy...and, what's more, that we've earned the happiness! But when we're alone, or fighting insomnia at 3 a.m., for the fifth month in a row, we think about life and how complicated it is, we miss having someone to talk to, we miss being able to do whatever we please, and then we admit to ourselves that, well, we could, maybe, be happier, or more relaxed, or simply more at peace with ourselves, the past, the present and the future.

There's a reason why there is security in rocket science. A ruined workstation or exploded laboratory can be rebuilt. There's a pre-defined method for that.  But the problem with a weary mind, bruised spirit, broken heart, arms that are too tired to be raised for a hug, or a face that has forgotten how to break into a grin is that they defy all pre-existing methods and demand that we look within, take stock, and simply do what we really, really want to. And then, faced with demands from our own hearts and souls, we are at sea.

Now if being happier were rocket science, we could all do it. Because it would please us no end to be able to whip out a lab manual and a slide rule and begin a process that requires endless measurements and immense brainwork. We're all good at rocket science, really. But there's no rule book, no measuring instruments and graph sheets for what we truly want. It's pure simplicity, and nothing else besides. And so we're foxed in our pursuit of happiness. The wiser and/or more fortunate amongst us decide to sit and do some rethinking. The less fortunate simply decide that more complex rocket science is needed, and dash off on a fresh hunt. And all the while, the little things we're looking for are sitting put in a corner, staring at us in wide-eyed astonishment, genuinely puzzled at all the frenetic activity.

Just a Little Ranting...

It's been a while, hasn't it? And so much has happened - dissertation, unbalanced equations, assignments, random realizations, a million second thoughts, exultation, anxiety over scores of things, unbridled laughter, more assignments, sleep deprivation.

Why, then, am I up at 2.47 a.m., with nothing in particular to write about? Tonight, of all nights, when I finally have no deathly-urgent deadline that I must meet tomorrow, why am I not curled up in bed, dreaming of the mountains or of distant islands as I am wont to? In my experience, chronic sleep deprivation leads to chronic insomnia and vice versa, till you really can't tell one from the other and end up sitting up all night, thinking of nothing in particular, wanting to say something but not sure you want to talk.

I'm angry, I'll confess. Angry, and hurt and fed up. Feeling shortchanged is alright - at some point or another, I assume we've all been there (to those who haven't: I envy you) - but this has happened one time too many. Oh, I know I asked for it, but that doesn't mean I have to like it. :)

Now that it's out in the open, I feel a little foolish. Strangely enough, I am also sleepy.

Moving On

It was on a March morning similar to this one that a classmate said something that I have, since, given more than occasional thought to. We were both standing outside the cafe, where we had bumped into each other at a late breakfast. With the Univs less than three weeks away, we had ended up talking mostly about this chapter and that reading. But on our way out, I stopped under the Dhaba tree, mesmerised, for the millionth time, by the sight of the Cross against a clear, blue sky. So perfect, it seemed unreal.

"You're going to miss College, aren't you?" he asked.

"Yes. Yes, I will." I replied, still overwhelmed by the enormity of the simple fact that I was about to end three years in three weeks.

"I will, too. But I'm glad I'm leaving now", he said, and I turned to look at him.

"You know it's time to leave when people and things that you have always liked begin to annoy you just a wee bit, don't you think?" he said, frowning absent-mindedly as he leafed through his notes, checking for a CED tute. Then he looked up. "Even for College, which I love so much. Especially for College, which I love so much."

We were friends, but not exactly bosom buddies. It was more a cordial acquaintance, a natural result of studying in the same class, living on the same campus and running into each other in the Dining Hall every now and then. Inevitably, we fell out of touch as we moved on and got busy with our lives over the years that ensued. But the closer I get to each finish, and the more I think of his words, the truer they seem to echo.

I'm at the end of several phases at once. I may not have loved every bit of it as much as I loved College, but I'm glad all this happened, I'm glad I learnt so much. But I'm also glad I'm leaving now.

It pays. Or does it?

Now here's something that made me sit up and take notice. With a total of five years of economics behind me, I am, academically, considerably acquainted with the concept and the mechanics of taxation. There's a faint personal acquaintance, too - the sort engendered by eleven months of paying taxes and a week of running around like a headless chicken when it is time to file returns. And, of course, there's Marketing, the other love of my life. But this is the first time I have seen the two coming together, and to call the phenomenon merely interesting would definitely be an understatement.

The first thing we were taught about taxes was that there is no quid pro quo involved. Taxes are unilateral payments made by households and firms, which are meant for the government's coffers. That they form a substantial portion of the government's revenues goes without saying. And while it is implicit in Public Finance that proceeds from taxation are used for the benefit of the economy, no individual is entitled to ask for anything specific in return for the taxes he pays. That's what theory says, and that's exactly what is borne out - more emphatically than is needed, if you ask the average citizen - by the actions of the government.

So I'm sure we have all either been - or seen - the person who wonders exactly where his hard-earned money is going, every time he drives over a potholed road or glances at literacy or health-related data in journals and papers. There are ways of questioning the government about its measures and policies. But if Household A paid Rs 60,000 in taxes this financial year, they cannot go asking for benefits worth that amount, or even question the use of the funds.

Which is why I did a double-take when I first spotted a half-page ad in a national daily, reading "Have you paid your taxes yet? You pay - the country pays back!" Of course, there's absolutely no implication that there is any quid pro quo. But what is fascinating is the attempt to address the cynicism that has come to characterise the attitude of the average tax-payer, some of it justified, some not. There have been attempts and platitudes before...this one is a novelty simply because it has been put down in black and white. Positioning taxation as an activity with moral and patriotic appeal - that's a first! Undoubtedly, there are several reasons - the moral and patriotic included - why one should pay one's taxes. There is also, by corollary, an equal number of reasons why that money should be put to honest use by the exchequer.

That is what makes this campaign intriguing. One hopes to goodness that those who designed the campaign will also remember that the job isn't complete till the promised value is delivered. If, after a colossal exercise like this one - it must have cost them a pretty penny; guess where the money came from! - tax-payers don't get to see exactly how the country is "paying back", the campaign will backfire on a similar scale. Public memory, usually notoriously short, is not equally forgiving when money from its pockets is involved. One recalls a certain campaign that claimed India was shining. Appalling people with the enormous wastage of taxation money, it succeeded only in eroding goodwill away from the ruling coalition. So, yes, while it is great to be told that the country will pay back, some evidence that the promise is being kept will go a long way. Do I sound cynical? I'm afraid that's how I feel. :)

For the Love of Beans...

I fill a saucepan with water and set about looking for matches. There's no time for anything fancy today. Everything dumped into one big mug is how I'll have to have my coffee. I begin to tear open a sachet of dairy creamer. Something makes me pause midway.

It has been a while, hasn't it, since I had black coffee?

Black coffee. For a person who thinks in terms of pictures, there can't possibly be a more powerful stimulus to the imagination. The last three months of twelfth grade, I woke up to a steaming mug of black coffee every day. My aversion to milk was the stuff doctors' (and mothers') nightmares are made of. So mornings found me hunched at my desk, reading or doing the daily crossword, black coffee at my elbow. Months later, the beverage was to become a habit an addiction. If I didn't know this then, the kick I got out of sniffing at my mug every morning should have given me a hint.

The water begins to bubble. A quiet, familiar, comforting hum.

This is a sound I would know anywhere, this low humming of water being brought to a boil. It used to echo over the staircase in Allnutt South when I went to use the hot plate to make coffee in the middle of the night, or at two in the morning, when the entire block was silent. Coffee calmed me down, cheered me up, was the perfect accompaniment to Systems or Policy, made Micro II bearable, and was the best company I could ask for on breezy, rainy evenings, when all I wanted to do was to sit on the ledge of the verandah and stare at the sky.

The water bubbles louder, more insistently.

It makes me think, for some reason, of the rich, bitter black coffee in the white ceramic pots that sat on our breakfast tables in the College mess. If that didn't wake one up for an 8:40, nothing could. Because the marmalade was both sweet and tart in a way only marmalade can be, it accentuated the bitterness and strength of the coffee that I washed my toast down with. And I know I can tell that coffee apart from a million other brews any day.

There's something warm and homely about a good, old-fashioned cup of coffee made the traditional way, I think to myself as I take the pan off the flame.

The process of making it is as therapeutic as the beverage itself. Not that the 30-second method - set water to boil, empty sachet of instant coffee into mug, take now-boiling water and pour into mug, enjoy! - is a bad substitute. Vending machines - now those seemed like an insult to coffee.

An outrage, I thought, till I found myself employed 10 hours a day researching M&A transactions. Looking back, I realise I owe my sanity to the 8 cups of espresso I helped myself to from the dispenser in the pantry every day. I breakfasted on espresso practically every morning for about 10 months. It isn't the healthiest lifestyle option, but I was too young and always too hassled to know any better. By the time I left the place, though, I'd kicked the habit, coming down to two cups a day, refusing to allow myself to depend on anything that badly in the long run.

It's been a while, but the smell of espresso still automatically triggers a small attack of nerves - will I finish all that work before noon? Is that report error-free? Why isn't this godforsaken transaction making any sense to me?...you get the drift. :) And black coffee and economics are married to each other in my imagination; through eight years of association, and of one accompanying the other, I now instinctively think of demand curves, inflation and development (in that order) each time I smell black coffee. I suppose it will remain like this for a while, if not for the rest of my life. Truth be told, I hope it will.

I tear open my sachet of Nescafe, smiling at the memory of a kindred soul from College, whom I share a love of coffee, economics, EcoSoc, books and Asterix (among several other things :) with.

Ruch insists that Bru makes for better black coffee than Nescafe does. The coffee table in D-8 was always piled with ribbons of bright green, and the occupant of the room always more than willing to make giant mugs of soothing black coffee for friends going cross-eyed over the Phillips curve or Public Finance.

I stir the instant coffee into the water, all these images in my head coalescing into one glorious, earthy ripple as the smooth brown powder dissolves into a mugful of the best thing in the world.

The dairy creamer doesn't belong here. :)

Maybe you could tell me why...

1. ...our firmest resolve is only as strong as we are in our greatest moment of weakness.

2. ...we think twice before talking to a friend sometimes, but don't hesitate to trust a total stranger.

3. ...we secretly believe in things that we're cynical about aloud.

4. ...I'm here thinking profound thoughts when I have a paper I must necessarily hand in tomorrow, waiting to be begun.

5. ...all wisdom comes three days too late.

6. ...we feel gelatinized, as it were, somewhere between the past and the future, even when we're actively living the present.

7. ...there's a disconnect.

8. ...and it happens when it is least convenient.

9. ...writing a letter long-hand still feels more satisfying than typing an email or writing on somebody's wall (or pillar, or post. Whatever.)

10. ...we're reluctant to admit to feelings, half-afraid that acknowledging them will make them more important than they already are. Or even that they'll actually come true. Makes sense for things we fear, perhaps. But for things we wish for...?

11. ...with every new person we meet, and every addition to the list of networking sites we're members of, alone-ness becomes more accentuated, and solitude more precious.

12. ...people think it is sacrilege to disturb someone playing a videogame, but don't think twice before barging in on someone reading or taking a solitary walk.

13. ...we come away feeling like we didn't talk about all that we wanted to, from people we like spending time with.

14. ...parallel realities - that of the head and that of the world - fall into synchronization sometimes. They shouldn't. It throws things out of gear.

15. ...we overanalyse.