reflections

Italia!

2011-12-09T06:22:00.001-08:00

On November 17th I left for themuch delayed trip to Italia. The itinerary was short partly because of anunfortunate examination date in the university and partly because of naturalcalamity (floods decimated Cinque Terre down to Tre Terre and washed it off myitinerary a week before I was scheduled to arrive). I began my trip with anevening in Venice. It is admittedly a glorified shopping arcade however, thatdoes little in reducing the charm of this city of water.

I fell in love with the hostel I was stayingin when I discovered it had its own little private bridge under whichvaporettos(the water taxis) happily floated past. I roamed the city streets atnight. It was biting cold and the canals were more or less empty but there wasa haunting beauty to the place. Light reflected off from water, from Venetianglass items lining shops and the thousands of masks that were hanging allaround and in the process it mutated and multiplied into thousands of formsdancing across the walls and boats in a frenzied dance. I visited a jazz bar totry a Bellini and was surprised by the most interesting ceiling decoration Ihave seen: Hundreds of bras of all shapes, colours and designs apparentlydonated by customers. If you looked hard enough you could even notice a coupleof them signed off “I <3 Boobies”.

Next morning I left for Florence.This cradle of Rennaisance was instrumental in pulling Europe out of the Dark Ages.Under the influence of the Medici family, Florence revived Europe’s economy andgave birth to memorable pieces of art. Boticelli’s Primavera and Birth of Venusat the Uffizi alone could be reason enough for Florence to hold its own but addMichelangelo’s David to that and you will begin to comprehend the contributionof this city to art. (Also, unlike Mona Lisa, this 17 feet tall masterpiece willdefinitely take your breath away.) But this city has more than art to offer: itis also known to be the world capital of Gelato and in the evening I visited thefamous Vivoli Gelato and was not let down.

The final leg of the trip led me (inevitably)to Rome. The train flew past green fields and trees covered with a layer ofice. The ice was sparkling in the morning sun like a silver carpet laid out towelcome the winter. My first stop in Rome was the Vatican. I was let down bythe first view of St. Peter’s square (maybe it was the morning light or theimmense reconstruction project going on). However Saint Peter's Basilica morethan made up for it where the audio guide traversed two millennia of Christianhistory with the aid of architecture, paintings and sculpture. The Vatican museumhas one of the best collections of art and relics in the world (ranging frommummies to maps, you’d be surprised at what all the popes used to be interestedin). It culminates in the visit to the Sistine Chapel where Michalangelo’sfrescos transport you to a different world altogether: a biblical reality seenthrough the eyes of this master.

On the final day of the trip I visitedthe Colloseum which is definitely the monument with the most interesting andbloody history. (Actually arena, the word for stage comes from sand in Latin,which was used to absorb this blood.) I walked all over Rome in the rest of theday. There are few places which can beat the atmosphere at the Roman Forum on asunny afternoon: musicians, painters, dancers, jokers and acrobats mill aroundthe ancient ruins in what seems like a celebration of time itself. I walked tothe The Trevi Fountain (yes I threw in a coin, kill me) and the Spanish steps.Models used to gather at these steps in earlier days to be picked by artists. Sadlythat’s not true anymore but the streets of Rome were one of the liveliest I’vewitnessed in Europe. And thus my short trip to Italy came to an end. It mighthave been a lightning fast trip, but that did not stop me from falling in lovewith the country. As they say “è stato un colpo di fulmine”!

My date with Paris!

2011-12-01T10:57:00.001-08:00

On 4^th November I leftearly in the morning by the most reliable mode of travel in the world: theGerman ICE train. It was a clear day and the morning sun was just waking up thedrowsy world. Europe’s landscapes are beautiful in general but the part from Saarbrückento Paris actually forces you to believe God is an artist. The rolling fieldswere glimmering in the morning sun like a luxurious carpet thrown over thehills.

At the ticket window I came toknow that trains to Mont Saint Michel were booked out which gave me one moreday with Paris. I felt a secret wave of happiness much like what you feel whenan insanely hot girl comes and sits next to you on a long distance train. Becausethat is what Paris is: sexy and mysterious, a little haughty and very verysensuous. She has many layers, each more beautiful and baffling than the other,each making you want more of her.

I began my trip with a walkingtour of central Paris. The brilliant Sandeman guide floated us down the watersof time as we walked along the banks of Seine. We walked past the Pont Neuf which translates to ‘the newbridge’ but is among the oldest in the city. It is also the world’s first Facebook(apparently after the particularly wild inauguration party, the happy kingHenry IV got his artists to sculpt the faces of all his sloshed friends on thewall, and well, shared it with the world). I spent my evening in the timeless beauty thatsurrounds the 6 ugly pyramids: The Louvre. It is impossible to share theexperience in a few lines. The sensuous curves of Venus de Milo, the boldbeauty of Winged Victory of Samothrace, the incredible pieces of art created bythe Italian masters and the Louvre itself strengthen your belief in Man’s abilityto create the sublime.

Next day I visited the Palace ofVersailles. It is not only an architectural marvel but also boasts of anenviable collection of art. The spellbinding view of the gardens from thefamous Galerie des Glaces hadcaptivated countless visitors from around the world in the past. The sprawling complexwith miles of hedges and scores of fountains was apparently used as a gildedprison by Louis IV for his meddlesome noblemen. However history stands witnessthat it became more of a pain in the ass for him to maintain (no really, theguy died of anal fistula!). The gardens had the most beautiful boulevards I hadever seen. Autumn descended here in all her beauty as carpets of gold lined thepath leading to the apartments of the infamous Lady Antoinette. I concluded theday with a visit to the famous phallic scar on the Parisian landscape. However uglyit may be in the day, the lit up Eiffel is a sight to admire in the night.Every hour for ten minutes thousands of sparkling lights dance around on thetower in a dazzling display. The tower comes to life as the globes of lightrace along the body of the tower like blood cells in the veins: it’s an amazingsight indeed!

I had reserved Sunday for a moreintimate interaction with Paris. I began the day with a visit to Notre Dame deParis. The cathedral is immense and beautiful with heavenly blue stained glasswindows inside and the famous gargoyles lining its roof on the outside. I thenwalked along the Seine and visited LesBouquinistes- the antique book shops that line the river. I also visited thelegendary Shakespeare and Company which is by far the best bookshop I have everbeen to. And finally I headed towards one of the hidden jewels of Paris: Les Puces, the world’s largest group offlea markets. In the quaint little shops covered with ivy you can find anythingfrom 16^th century cutlery to shrunken heads. I wish I had a local guidethough because the place is no less than a maze and non French speakers arepositively loathed.

After the dive into the historyat the Puces, I stepped back into our times with a visit to the modern artmuseum at the Centre Georges Pompidou. It is a place that turns the idea of art on itshead. It blurs what we consider the ‘rational boundaries’ of subject and mediumof expression of art. But more importantly, it effectively shows how much artwe overlook in our life every day. Iwrapped up the day with a customary visit to the Arc de Triomphe Day 4, Disneyland! Well if there ever was a happyplace, this is it. 22 different rides and a couple of parades down, my cheekswere hurting by the end of the day from uncontrollable smiling. As Minnie Mousewaved goodbye at the end of the fantillusion parade, my dream first date with Parisalso drew to a conclusion. Waiting eagerly for the second!

Greek Odyssey!

2011-11-16T12:54:00.001-08:00

On the 27^th October Itook an early flight out from Berlin to Athens. The first view of the city fromporthole of the plane was awe inspiring. The city rose serenely from the choppyblue waters of the Aegean Sea. It was shining golden brown in the sunlight andtiny white houses peppered its gentle slopes. This land had given birth towestern civilization and democracy. It had invented the university system,coinage and the Olympic Games. Its present crisis seemed miniscule in thisperspective.

My plan was to skip visitingAthens for the seductive beauty of its island Santorini. However, suchdisregard for the Parthenon miffed the Gods who sent down angry winds (noreally, my ferry was cancelled!) and I meekly retreated to the Acropolis. Themuseum there was one of the best I had visited. The ancient artefacts seemed tobring to life an age long gone. I discovered the original Thesaurus which incidentally had nothing to do with synonyms. Itwas instead a treasure box where Greekcouples dropped drachmas for marital bliss.

After spending hours with theGreek Gods, I left for my hostel close to the Omonia square. This brought meface to face with the Greece of today. The streets were scarily full ofhomeless people. There seemed to be despair in the air. An immense graffiti ofa pair of hands praying pointing downwards seemed like a call for help, but notfrom the Gods above. The harsh reality was reflected amply by a small childholding his mother’s hand wearing a shirt which said “No job, No food, Nohope”.

Next morning I was relieved toleave my hostel (and the stinking Polish roommate) for the port of Piraeus. The cubes of light from theportholes of the giant ferries shimmered in the dark sea. The ferry sailed soonon its eight hour Cyclades odyssey. I stood on the deck of the ship as itrolled heavily. The winds blew around the ship, angry at this trespass by manon nature, and the sea seemed to thunder in applause. An image of Tintin on oneof his adventures flashed in my mind. The tempestuous sea sent sprays of wateron my face as I stared at the vast expanse of blue. The water drops would catchthe sun rays as they blew up by the side and suddenly a dazzling rainbow wouldappear out of nowhere.

I met Bhaisahab in the town of Fira. Next morning we walked down to theold port of Santorini from Fira. Itwas a steep trek down on the donkey track. The view of the caldera must havebeen beautiful from there but I was too overwhelmed by the donkey turd stink toenjoy it. After deftly swerving among many specimens of this unofficial mascotof Santorini, we reached down at the wharf. We took a Pirates of Caribbeanstyled traditional boat to Nea Kameni (literallynew island) one of the newest islands in the Mediterranean formed by volcanicactivity. The landscape on this uninhabited island was strangely alien,reminiscent of the treacherous path to Mount Doom. Fumes rising from sulphurcaked rock openings reminded us of the never ending inferno we were allstanding on.

After taking the boat back to Fira,we decided to walk along the caldera to Oia. This turned out to be the mostbeautiful walk I had ever taken. The trekking trail snaked along the inner edgeof the caldera. The water was the colour of Lapis Lazuli and reflected the sunin a brilliant silver swath. The caldera seemed to ensconce the sea in her longarms like a mother protecting her child, as the sun peeped from behind a fluffycloud bathing them in gentle silver light. We walked for almost three hoursawestruck by the unbridled beauty, accompanied only by the wind that howled asit cut through the overhead lines. Slowly the village of Oia appeared ahead ofus in all her blue and white Greek beauty. The traditional houses and thewindmills were bathed in the last rays of the sun as it disappeared below the horizon.This indeed was the most beautiful sunset in the world.

Next day we took the ferry backto Athens and visited the Parthenon. We were lucky to witness the infantry’sdecades old tradition of pulling down the Greek flag from the Acropolis at 6:30pm in the evening. I gazed at the city of Athens from Acropolis as so many haddone in the millennia gone by. My Greek trip concluded here as the trumpets blewbehind me, and the sun slowly set into the WineDark Sea.

Switzerland!

2011-11-03T10:09:00.000-07:00

After the jeans-slitting trip tocentral Europe I applied the CARTS concept of contrast and decided to visitSwitzerland. On 12^th October, I crossed the Rhine at Mainz as itshimmered a blinding white in the morning sun. The connecting trains weredelayed by 5-10 minutes which upset me. (For all the MBA geeks, this goes on toshow one month is enough to change consumer expectations.) I could tell thatthe train had entered Switzerland as the cottages proudly displayed thefluttering cross (which I had seen only on knives and watches before). Wecrossed Der Rhine again at Basel and entered the Swiss dream land. SurelyNature must have been in love when she created this region, for each curve ofthe placid lakes and each slope of the green hills spells Romance.

I was welcomed to Interlaken bythe view of many paragliders above the Lake Thun. After some time I watched asa helicopter passed by, with a man hanging on a trailing rope. As a couple ofSwiss jets whizzed past over the lakes, I imagined a time not too far in thefuture when flying jet planes could be a tourist activity in this adventuresport crazy country. I spent the evening walking around the small town. Ivisited the Schuh chocolaterie where Alex, the head chocolatier, let me make myown swiss chocolate cow complete with the letter ‘R’ across its head. After ahearty feast consisting of chocolates of all shapes, sizes and colors, I headedback to Balmer’s for a good night’s sleep before I ventured deep into the SwissAlps.

I took a tiny train to Lauterbrunnennext morning. The cog wheeled tracks lay along the Lütschine River whichbubbled merrily like a child let loose on the incredibly beautiful slopes. Thefickle minded river had changed its course last night, happily erasing half thetrain tracks, which forced me to switch to a bus. A cable car ride later Ireached the Mountain Hostel at Gimmelwald. The wooden cottage overlooked abeautiful valley. Fluffy clouds hugged the mountain slopes sprinkled with snow.I dumped my bags, packed a small lunch and decide to hike up to Mürren. It wasa serene trek with cows and sheep dotting the green slopes. The bells tiedacross their necks floated a soft chant across the scenic mountains. It was apeaceful place where man lay back and let nature take over. Overwhelmed by thebeauty I decided to hike up further to Allmendhubel. Three hours later I cameback to my senses when I discovered myself on a steep cliff surrounded by kneedeep snow. The view was breathtaking but my freezing wet sneakers pulled meback to reality and I had to cut short my hike for a time when I was betterprepared to meet the snow goddess head on. (Well yes, you can say I got coldfeet.)

Next morning I boarded a cablecar to Schilthorn peak. This peak has been famous since the 60s when a Bondflick was shot at a revolving restaurant built on the top. A hundred metrethick, incredibly flat layer of clouds around Birg formed a division betweenearth and heaven. As we emerged from it the scene changed abruptly. As far asthe eye could go I was surrounded by a sea of clouds with snow covered peakserupting from it like tiny islands. The Jungfrau (meaning ‘maiden’) peak stoodin all her breathtaking beauty as both the sun and the moon shone upon her inthis early hour of the morning. Heavenly!

I took the Golden Pass Rail toLausanne that afternoon. Sheep were grazing on the green slopes like balls ofcotton blown away in the winds. The villages were bunches of cute wooden houseswith their balconies and windows decorated with flowers of every imaginablecolour. At Montreux Ivisited the beautiful Château de Chillon on Lake Geneva. This fort had inspiredgreat literary works (Byron’s Prisoner of Chillon) and terrible feats oftorture during the witch hunt. I walkedalong the enormous lake on the way back. The water was crystal clear. A swanfloated past and a sea gull balanced itself on a piece of driftwood. I sat near a sculpture of Freddie Mercury.There were bunches of fresh flowers placed by fans at the base. I sat there fora long time taking in the beauty of the placid lake. Slowly the sun melted into Lake Geneva withblood red ripples colouring the blue waters as the sky darkened into the night.

Next morning I visited theOlympic Museum in Lausanne with Bhaisahab. It displayed the evolution of theevent and how it mirrored the political and economic history of the world. Inthe afternoon, we hiked through the vineyards on the outskirts of the city. Theview from the top was worth the tiring two hour steep hike. Rows after rows ofgrape vines clothed the slopes and they slowly descended into the bright blueLake. Lake Geneva seemed to sparkle her waters even more brightly to hasten theripening of the grapes. This sunny land was the Swiss Riviera.

The next morning I paid a visitto the Neuchatel Valley. It was also known as the watch valley for obviousreasons but for me its claim to fame came from somewhere else. This was whereabsinthe was brewed for the first time two hundred years ago. I reached Couvet villagewhere I met Mr Roger Elienne who showed me how he made the stuff in his smalllab. He offered me a small sample. And thus I concluded my Swiss Trip with anintroduction to the Green Fairy in her birthplace. (Yes it did end on a highnote, didn’t it?

The Highs and Lows of Central Europe

2011-10-25T07:01:00.000-07:00

At the tail end of French Rivieratrip I stopped at München for what is almost considered a pilgrimage among theexchange community: Oktoberfest! It was no doubt a once in a lifetimeexperience, but I did not feel it lived up to the build up. I agree dirndl is a work of sartorial genius andthe beer fuelled excitement bubbling inside the festhalles is infectious, but if I wanted to see crowds of unrulypeople and a lot of rides, Nauchandi kaMela was much closer to home.

On 29^th September Ileft for the next leg of my trip: Central Europe. We left early morning forWerfen. The train ride was beautiful. As the day broke, the mist was huggingthe ground heavily, like a lover unwilling to let go in the morning. We reachedthe Eisriesenwelt after a shortcable car trip and a small hike. These ice caves, according to our veryfriendly student-guide George, were the largest in the world with around 30,000sq.m. of ice surface and were almost 10,000 years old. We explored the caves with carbide lamps climbing ontreacherous make shift wooden stairs. George walked along with a sparklingmagnesium flare that lit up the immense ice structures filling the huge caveswith an eerie green light. As I trekked at the head of the group with nothingahead but ice fields flickering dimly in the light from my lamp, I couldimagine the awe and relief such caves would have brought to Ötzi the Iceman.

I left for Vienna that night toenable a faster connection to Brno next morning. There I met a young violinplayer, Veronica, who had settled recently in the city with dreams of making acareer out of her life passion. We spent the evening over dinner in thebeautiful Museumsquartier surrounded by the post modern and baroquearchitecture and the usual evening buzz of Vienna. Next morning I left beforedawn for the Moravian Karst and was welcomed by the most beautiful sunrise Ihad witnessed: the sky was a bright orange with jet trails of contrastingcolours scratched across the surface. The Punkva caves turned out to be aTechnicolor high definition version of the ice caves. Formations of impossibleperfection in the brightest colours grew inside the immense caves. I took anelectric boat ride over the underground river and just when I had started tobelieve that the caves went on forever like a creepy czech wonderland, theyburst open into the enormous Macocha Abyss. I spent the next few hours hikingaround the caves drinking in the breathtaking natural beauty of Moravia.

Next day I spent the morningroaming outside the museums of Vienna(because I did not have the inclination to buy a pass for 2 hours). It wasbeautiful but the hot sun and slowly wafting horse shit aroma hindered myappreciation of the architecture and I left for Prague soon. We rambled aroundthe streets of the thousand year old city and crossed the Charles Bridge. Thecalm Vltava (which ironically meanswild waters) flowed below us as it has for over 600 years under the watchfuleyes of the statues that line the bridge. We picked up a few souvenirs from anearby shop and left but not before I achieved one more of my childhood dreams:meeting an actual guy named Ivan Ivanovich (Ok you won’t get this one if youhaven’t grown up on Roosi Lok Kathayein aka Russian Folk Tales)

Next morning.. Skydiving! We werepicked up from the Old Town Square to be dropped off at an airfield outside thecity. It was a sunny day and the clear blue sky was peppered with kites of manycolours. As I stared at them they grew in size and morphed into parachutes withtiny men hanging for their lives, attached by nearly invisible threads. As theylanded on the ground with practiced precision bordering on panache, respectgrew in my heat for the power of man to overcome the elements. Very soon I wasbeing pushed down into the void from a dizzying height of 4000 metres. The dropwas disorienting, scary, exciting, exhilarating and then calm – all in a minutethat lasted for ever. Then the parachute opened with a world wrenching tug andI glided back safely to where man rightfully belongs. That night we left forAuschwitz.

We arrived in Poland at five inthe morning. It was cold, damp and dark and the station was not heated. Aftershivering at the station for two hours we walked to the Auschwitz museum,passing through a markedly desolate and dilapidated set of residential neighbourhoods.The visit began with a gruesome documentary primarily shot when Auschwitz wasfreed by the Red Army. What followed was the most moving tour I haveexperienced in my life. We visited Auschwitz and Birkenau as the guide gavedetailed descriptions of life in these grounds 70 years ago. One of the membersof my group mentioned how he had visited the archives section and found detailsof 26 members of his family. We left the museum after a solemn visit to theBirkenau Holocaust Memorial.

I left for Prague that night to acatch a connecting train back to Germany. I suppose, as a parting gift, CentralEurope wanted me to have a souvenir I will not forget easily. I didn’t loseanything but I do have a very fashionable 5 inch slit on my jeans to remind meof the last journey I undertook. I have half a mind of printing ‘I was Czeched’next to it.

The French Riviera

2011-10-10T02:48:00.000-07:00

I apologize for the delay in this post. Extensive travelling takes its toll. Also, I am trying a new template for the blog. Comments are welcome!

On 19th September I attended my first class at EBS, 20 days after I had landed in this place. Not interested in the class, I got into a conversation with Alexis about my imminent travel plans to south France next week. He owned a small house in the Riviera which he had been visiting since childhood and said that the big cities like Marseilles, Nice and Cannes were too crowded, touristy and well, non French. He suggested a strip of the coast east of Toulon up to St. Tropez. I took that as a starting point and decided to figure it out as I went along. Jagriti agreed to join me for the trip. On the train back to Wiesbaden, Navada tagged along too. So next morning we left for our trip with the only plan being that we wanted to get off at Toulon, a small town in South France that we knew almost nothing about.

We had to change our plans in Paris as the trains were all booked till evening. We suddenly had a day to spend in Paris which put us in a spot as we had planned to spend 3-4 days in the magical city later and did not want to spoil the fun by visiting the Eiffel or the Louvre. So we decided that in the spirit of the trip, we shall not take a guided tour and visited Montmarte. It was a beautiful little museum with its history dripping with big names in art like van Gogh and Renoir. The paintings, sculptures and preserved texts traced the history of Paris through the lens of a small neighbourhood that grew and evolved inexorably linked to the city. We wandered out to have crêpe and red wine at a street side cafe. After roaming around the city for a couple of hours we had delicious cups of creamy hot chocolate at the Les Deux Magots whose patrons included Hemmingway, Picasso and Sartre. In the night train we received an unexpected warning from a drunken Australian guy to stay wary in Toulon and carry condoms, which scared Jagriti more than a little.

We were welcomed at the Toulon station with an emphatic ‘No’ to our first vital question ‘English?’ Hence, in the pre dawn darkness we made the second change to our ‘plan’ and took the next bus out to nearest town whose bus stop was labelled as tourist office. We passed patches of houses nestled in the green hills. The first rays of sun were kissing the mountainside colouring everything in a Mediterranean Gold. Soon the sun rose from behind a distant cliff – a majestic ball of orange wishing us a warm Côte d'Azur good morning. We got a room at a cheap hotel and wandered off to the beach. After playing in the clear blue water for a while I lay on the rocks soaking the sun. The rippling water reflected a thousand flashes and gurgled softly as it caressed the rocks. The yellow buoys bobbed nearby like patient guardians. The azure water speckled with white sails was reflected by the horizon to form the blue sky criss-crossed by white jet trails. The day ended with wine and music in the little room perched above the sleepy town of La Londe.

We visited the town of Le Lavandou next morning in search of scuba diving but found all the shops closed for the season. We were planning to visit the town of Giens next however the monstrous delay in buses caused another change in our ‘plan’ and we ended up in the village of Bormes-les-Mimosas. The village was nestled in the hills overlooking the Côte d'Azur and provided an exceedingly beautiful view of the sparkling blue coastal strip. It was a quaint beautiful village with houses and passageways built centuries ago and a rare monument to the French Revolution. I found a cosy little shop selling lavender and picked up a bag as a souvenir. The few hours we spent in the ancient village seemed to transport us to a time of lesser means and more meaning.

We had spent the night in a remote town of La Faviere. Though the place was beautiful and the hotel very comfortable for its price of 20 Euros, we could not find a bus back to La Londe in the morning. After hours of walking and waving, we were able to get a ride. The car was a 1970s Mercedes which seemed right out of a Hollywood classic. At the beach we met Franziska and Jean, a German girl and a French guy, who had just returned from an India trip and fondly remembered the ‘Chai-Chai’ call from Indian trains. Jean, interestingly, was a self taught tattoo artist and he showed us his experimentation on his thighs in the form of an extensive drawing of a castle.
It was finally the time for scuba diving, or plongée as the French call it. David, our instructor, spoke only broken English. After a short explanation of hand symbols to be used underwater, we donned our body suits and boarded the boat for the beautiful Porquerolles Island. This is a protected island off the coast of France and hence makes for breathtaking underwater dives. As the boat sped away from the coast its wake was a string of pure white horses galloping forward on the flat blue water. I was soon descending the steps from the boat weighed down by the cylinders and the weight belt. As my foot left the last step and I entered the realm of the sea, the weight was gone. Slowly we descended down to the depth of 6 meters. This was a different world, silent and sparkling. I held a sea urchin as a jelly fish bobbed away next to me. I swam propelled forward by the huge flippers with fish on either side. I belonged to this world. I could spend an eternity in this blue heaven where land is a distant island and sun’s rays are translucent curtains. In what seemed like a moment I was being directed back to the ladder near the surface. With a heavy heart I pulled myself from this azure world with a silent promise to return soon.

Berlin!

2011-09-26T07:32:00.000-07:00

On the morning of 16^th September, we left a mist covered Oestrich-Winkel for our three day Berlin trip. The bus left the dewy roads for the highway and the scenic beauty outside the window easily stole the attention from the drowsy, sleep deprived lot inside. We glided over undulating fields which would abruptly break into a thick forest reminiscent of Tolkien’s Fangorn.

The day picked up as they played Euro Trip in the bus which expectedly resulted in a continuous stream of stereotypical jokes. The clear winners were the Italians though, with Laviero being addressed “Mi Scusi” for the rest of the trip. I was sitting with Alla, a Russian girl from Moscow, and had an engaging discussion about Russian literature and philosophy. We bunked in the youth hostel where we shared our room with Chao, who gave us many rude surprises by stripping down to almost nothing without a warning. That evening we took a short walking tour of Berlin and ended up at the “Houdini” bar which served Pakoras and Cobra beer. We had a sparkling green Berliner Weiße as Margheriita(Italian) sampled her first Pakoras and chutney.

The next morning we received a guided tour of Berlin in our bus. The guide, Paul, was a German who had emigrated to Canada. He had a flawless accent, subtle sense of humour and a trove of facts on Berlin. We travelled past architectural wonders as he related the rich history associated with them as we zig zagged across what was till 21 years back, the Berliner Mauer. After the tour we broke into small groups and strolled around the city. We had a short pre-party at the hostel and then ended up at the SODA nightclub near midnight. After an exhausting three hours we limped back to our hostel to get some shut eye before we left for Potsdam.

It was a rainy day. Sheets of water slapped against the windows and the drops were whipped into life by the passing slipstream. They crawled across the windows in long shining lines like moon rays caught in an impossible slow motion. Alla and I spent hours talking about Russian culture and history as the entire bus slept in the womb like warmth of the bus protected from the chill outside. I was surprised by many things that I learnt : Like temp can vary from -35 to +35 in Moscow, that most of Russia celebrates Christmas in January and that Kuttu ka Atta (Buckwheat) is a staple for them! The trip concluded with an extended game of good old Dumb Charades in which Leviaro had the whole bus in splits by his natural comic timing and of course, the Italian accent. I lost a book and a cap on the trip (forgot them in the bus) but it was definitely a trip worth it. Looking forward to more university trips!

Next up: The French Riviera and Oktoberfest. Comments and suggestions welcome!

Norgesbesøk

2011-09-15T09:32:00.000-07:00

Picking up from where I left in the last post, on 6th we went for a party in Wiesbaden. I ended up dancing the Salsa with Laura (French) and Ola (Polish) to Spanish songs in a German pub with instructions in English. Some intercultural experience that. Next night Nanda cooked Rajma Chawal at home. Despite the fact that in the absence of a can opener we used a Bosch kit to pop it open, the spicy Indian rice and gravy was worth the effort.

Next day, almost out of nowhere, we planned a Scandinavia trip for the coming week. My birthday was next day and the IIM gang came over to celebrate. Jagriti had made awesome Pulao as a birthday gift and I couldn’t have asked for anything better in Germany! Some wine, beer and a chocolate marble cake completed the small party where the entertainment of the evening was Raju Srivastav on YouTube.

Next day was spent in hectic shopping for the Scandinavian trip- gloves, skull caps and jackets. On the morning of the 10th we left for the trip at 5:30 am. It was a Saturday morning and we noticed for the first time the dirty side of Germany: broken bottles, drunkards by the road and a man in handcuffs. The train took us to Frankfurt where we caught the ICE to Berlin. The journey was amazing. Beautiful plains stretching till the eye could see sheltered by hills at the periphery. Giant windmills moving lazily and pyramidal spires jutting out on the skyline from huddled groups of red roofed houses. The train passed swathes of green trees with an occasional shy little red one like a kindergarten child trying to hide in group photo.

We reached the Berlin-Schönefeld airport where Nanda’s new netbook was subjected to a TNT test. We flew over a jigsaw puzzle of broken land and water. The sea was a flat azure with scars of ships on its glinting surface. We landed at the Rygge airport where we withdrew Norwegian krones and took a bus to the Oslo city.

The driver was a South Asian. As he talked in Hindi and welcomed us on board in a Punjabi accent, I couldn’t help but marvel at the reach of our Diaspora. At Oslo I was welcomed by a punk haired girl who licked at me invitingly and was clearly let down by the stunned look on my face. We walked through a busy market, with a surprisingly racially diverse crowd and lots of Troll imagery, to reach the harbour. Norway is known for its sculptures and its open culture and both were amply displayed in beautiful bold nude sculptures lining the harbour area. We climbed up an old fort to get a breathtaking view of sunset in the land of midnight sun. The sea gulls screeched about us as chilly winds cut through the sails of boats full of merry makers.

We decided to spend the night at the Oslo train station and caught a few hours of sleep before we were chucked out at 2 am. The station was to reopen at 4 am so we decided to stroll about in Oslo and observe its Saturday night life. It was an experience like no other. In the slight drizzle that covered the cold night, Oslo looked like a combination of Gotham, Sin City and Max Payne’s New York. There were street skirmishes and mounted police. There were drunken girls and guys trying to make the best of it. There were also street vigilantes waiting to pick up a fight. There was a man who ODed by the roadside and his stiff body was shifted into a police car. Yet, there were lively groups singing and talking, street side musicians playing the accordion and of course the busy 7elevens and McDonalds. We reached the station at 4, having experienced what I felt was the first close encounter with the Crazy Europe.

We took the first train to Bergen next morning. The Oslo Bergen track is the highest in Europe and is widely acclaimed as the most beautiful train journey in the world. It did not let us down. The rain washed green hills wore crowns of clouds. A river gushed with a ferocious force. The dam on it seemed like a meek attempt to tame a ferocious beast which got even more enraged by the ineffectual attempt to staunch its flow. The lake was a steely expanse of cold water lapping gently at the shores as it enjoyed the playful tickling of the approaching wall of rain. Sheep dotted the hillside like little cotton balls flung carelessly by the breeze. The train was alive with cameras clicking at each bend like shutterbugs photographing maniacally at a model flaunting her curves. We saw the majestic Hardangerjøkulen glacier from Finse as the train stopped at the highest railway station in Norway. The scene changed drastically after that. The sparse tundra vegetation gave way to bare rock surface with cutting rivulets and remnants of snow.

We reached Bergen that evening and lodged ourselves in a hostel. We walked around Bryggen, Bergen’s old quayside where the Hanseatic wooden buildings of red, yellow and white provide an experience from an era gone by. We then took the funicular Fløibanen up to the mountain of Fløyen. This century old track was originally built to transport rocks down to the harbour. The view from top was breath taking. The city sprawled in front of our eyes. A bridge at the horizon stood guard at the edge of flat water beyond which the landscape broke into an array of fjords dissolving into the setting Scandinavian sun.

Next morning we took the cruise through Norway’s largest fjord Sognefjorden. It held an indescribable beauty in store for us. As our boat sailed through placid deep blue water, we witnessed steep cliffs passing by our side. Sometimes they were covered with a bunch of small houses indicating a village and other times they were covered with lush fields or thick forests. Our boat navigated through the narrow waterways in the cutting cold wind, we could not but feel in awe of the great Vikings that roamed this realm with disdain. I met Capt. Ally, a friendly fellow who assured me that despite the harsh winds on the bow no one had ever been blown overboard. (I found this hard to believe. Jagriti’s cap had blown off in a fraction of a second!). The cruise ended at Flam from where we took the picturesque Flam Rail back to Myrdal and then connected back to Bergen.

We roamed about in Bergen for a couple of hours (we discovered a city square covered with roses in remembrance of the Norwegian attack victims) and then took the night train to Oslo. From Oslo we took the first train to Stockholm. I might be reading too much into it, but the interiors of the Stockholm train were done so well I could not help but be reminded of the beckoning land of IKEA. The train journey, needless to say, was beautiful. In Stockholm we discovered an international food festival and sampled a few dishes. We decided to spend the night in bars around Stockholm. We watched a Barca v/s Milan match in an Irish pub and moved onto an ‘after bar’. Here the waiter was a TV addicted Pakistani mechanical engineering student, who spent time with us talking about cricket, Big boss and Bollywood and thrust a free beer and cola on us before we left.

We connected back to Copenhagen from Stockholm. We took a train from Copenhagen to Hamburg, which was parked in a ferry to cross over to Germany. I could not believe that we were in boat on a train till we were pushed out to the deck for safety reasons. Connecting back to Frankfurt from Hamburg we completed our journey: 5 days, 4 nights: one in a hostel, one in the train, one in a Swedish bar and one in the Oslo rain! More next week.

Der Ersten Woche (The first week)

2011-09-06T16:27:00.000-07:00

After one false start, many hugs and more goodbyes, the long awaited Europe trip finally commenced on the balmy evening of 30^th August. We sped to the Bangalore airport checking and cross checking our documents and placating mothers over the phone. Our Air France flight was overbooked. The ground crew dangled a 150-Euros-laden bait in front of us to change the carrier to Emirates which we eagerly salivated at. Expectedly, we did not get the transfer. What we did manage to do was loiter around inconspicuously to be the last ones to be checked in by a frothing Air France crew. At immigration the officer had a protracted discussion about my childhood and hobbies while disdainfully ignoring the Air France ground staff member who was turning a deep shade of purple next to me. When we finally reached the craft, the pilot himself was standing in the gangway pointedly staring at us as we heard our first “Bonjour Monsieur” from the welcome girl.

As the plane was full to capacity, we got seats apart; landing me, as fate would have it, next to an Indian. However, the fully French crew and wines on the menu made sure that my maiden international flight trumped its way to the best air journey till date. After snacks (and drinks), as the passengers dozed off with eye pads to ward off the already dimmed cabin lights, I walked to the rear end of the cabin with a glass of red wine for a chat with the crew. They were a lively bunch. Sylvan, a Parisian, enthusiastically described all the must dos in the city including a visit to the Latin district and the cruise on the Seine.

I woke up to breakfast being served by Sylvan in the morning. We were cruising over France and a glance through the porthole showed a breathtaking view of mists snaking over a meandering river. Tiny cars speeding on toy highways on the wrong side of the road marked my arrival in Europe. At the airport we were greeted by our first Starbucks and oh so many stockings. We took an eventless flight to Frankfurt to be greeted by a much more modern skyline compared to the outskirts of France which was offered to us at Charles De Gaulle airport. We were struck by multiple tragedies right after that: Nanda lost his world card pin and in trying to find our luggage we got lost in the airport. When we found our bearings and our luggage we discovered I had lost the handle to my luggage and had no idea where to meet the driver. Another hour of handle-less-luggage dragging later we reached the rendezvous point two hours late and as expected, found the driver missing. We threw in the towel and decide to eat something before deciding a course of action. We zeroed in on vegetarian Focaccia bread which turned out to be the most God awful piece of supposedly edible piece of crap I have ever tasted. However, I think Providence decided she had tested us long enough and our driver arrived looking for us apologizing because he had got delayed somewhere.

We drove to a youth hostel marvelling at the beautiful scenery, cleanliness and cars alike. After a brief rest we dropped by our prospective landlady who showed us our house.

It’s a beautiful little place next to the woods with nice catholic landlords. We found each of rooms decorated with leaves for benediction and the landlady excitedly told us about Indian creatures in the neighbourhood: a bunch a Indian parrots who had escaped in the distant past and had made the woods their home since then. They told us their daughter was studying in France right now which led Navada to salivate at the photos stuck next to his bed, wrongly assuming her to be the past occupant of his bed.

We found a surprisingly strong community of south Asians in Wiesbaden. We were offered free drinks by a Nepali shop owner who was celebrating Teej that day. She even offered Navada Kheer. We ate pizza at a guy from Lahore who was kind enough to add chillies for us and next day the cab driver was again a Pakistani and took a mere pittance claiming ‘Dekh lenge bhaisahab’. These and another few we bumped on the road, in cafes or at McDonalds were all very ready to help and insisted on speaking in Hindi. The wall art in Wiesbaden was remarkable. As was the punctuality of its buses and the sheer number of pet dogs.

Next day, after having an orgasmic Croissant with chocolate cream at the Hauptbahnof (train station), we left for our first view of EBS. Hattenheim was a tiny little station, 5 minutes walk from EBS. The ivy covered EBS tower standing against rolling vineyards by the sparkling Rhine looked breathtaking.

We were taken for a welcome dinner at a small winery in Oestrich which turned out to be an ice breaking party of sorts. After meeting many people from all around the world, we shifted to Bato’s for our first party. But because we still had registration, bank account etc to finish next day, we left early.

On Friday we were taken on a cruise on the Rhine from EBS to Mainz which was fun for the most part. It was followed by a guided tour of the Mainz city. Next day we were given the welcome address and the customary barbeque. The heat was almost ‘Indian’ at 35 degrees and the German engineering did not seem to flourish in the field of fans. We stood through a barely audible address in a stuffy room filled overwhelmingly with very very large German bachelor students. This was followed by, wait for it, a Treasure hunt. Some things don’t change wherever you go on the globe. And as in India, the treasure hunt here had half hearted participation with teams eroding away towards the beer counters. A German barbecue dinner with schnitzels followed where the only edible thing seemed like the salad. The dinner party was very subdued. An enquiry with the student association revealed how last year’s party had gotten out of hand necessitating the deployment of helicopters to retrieve wasted students who had gotten lost in the vast vineyards surrounding the college. They were not taking any chances this year.

Next morning, it seemed like it was going to be a rainy day. At least Google forecast predicted rain starting in 10 minutes and continuing through the day. I waited in the house for an hour but seeing it had not started drizzling, I left for a trip through Wiesbaden. Oh wait, did I mention the special 'Moscow never sleeps" region near Michelsberg? Well the photo would explain a lot I guess. Anyhow, I proceeded to the main market which was closed down, it being a Sunday morning. There were joggers and dogs of every breed all over. The cafes on the street seemed to be open and people sat in the open as the sun played hide and seek behind the clouds. I located a tourist information centre and noticed that a lot of them carried photos of a beautiful church with Russian ‘onion domes’ in the middle of nowhere on a mountain.Surprised, I enquired about the same and took the bus to St Elizabeth’s Church. However as fate would have it, I found a street festival on the way and promptly jumped off the bus before my destination. It was an annual townstrasse festival with food, live music and wine. People danced to the English country songs and children ran about in excitement. I took a longish walk to Nerotal where a quaint little train took you up to the church, as it had been doing for the last hundred years. The view from the church was breathtaking as you could almost hold all of Wiesbaden in your arms.

India after Gandhi

2011-06-29T14:06:00.000-07:00

Yep it’s a fat book. Like one of those many books on your shelf which had the misfortune of being tasted and relegated to gathering dust. But it’s different. It’s enticing. Its descriptions border on almost visual in effect. Its facts border on fiction in entertainment.

Belying its title, this epic begins from before Gandhi was assassinated. It paints vivid pictures as it takes you through the birthing pangs of a new nation. The stories and anecdotes, which often border on the bizarre, are peppered with superscripts which remind you of a hundred pages worth of references at the end of the book. It moves on taking you through time as India finds her feet and pride and hope waft through the nation. Through wars (external and internal) and clashes (of ideas and personalities) it traces the history of existence of the world’s largest democracy – even as it was written off by many commentators time and again.

Given the amount of time Congress has ruled India, the book is congruous to the party’s history to an extent, which is a reflection of the intertwined destiny of the nation and the party. The book paints the personalities over time of people who charted India’s path. It observes the rise and fall of Nehru and the short lived high of Shastri. It watches as Indira grows from an unassuming daughter of a statesman to the woman who conned the U.S., won a war, destroyed a democracy and to an extent her own party. It witnesses the rise of Rajeev from the bloody anti-sikh riots and his bloody end. It witnesses the rise and fall of saffron and red, caste and language, greed and populism.

The book, as it candidly accepts, is weak as far the last decade or so is concerned. But, that is a constraint of history as a subject. It leaves you with a desire to travel into the future to look back at the present with the lucidity of hindsight. Its greatest strength, however, lies in the fact that it makes you realise the value of history. You can clearly see the long lived consequences of actions taken with no foresight. This valuable insight, I hope, would help in correcting the measly attention given to history as a subject. And hopefully help us view contemporary events in a more informed light. Maybe then as a nation we will realise the grave dangers of supporting an extra constitutional movement to usurp the legislative powers of a democratically elected government.

This is a compulsory book for anyone who has the will to finish it. Pick it up.

Gaia

2010-06-07T04:21:00.000-07:00

60,000 years ago when humans migrated northward from the horn of Africa towards Europe, they found the land was already taken by another species, Homo neanderthalensis or The Neanderthals. They were a species with a bigger brain, more muscular bodies, speech inducing mutations and were intelligent enough to invent tools and bury their dead. How then did our ancestors ever win in the fight for survival?

The answer lies in a concept unique to our species: The exchange of Ideas. We interact, exchange, learn, trade and develop cultures. Our economy and culture pull each other ahead in a dance of evolution. Our collective intelligence overpowered the naturally more ordained Neanderthals and Nature’s last plausible competition to human dominance was wiped off the earth by 30,000 years ago.

The Gaia Hypothesis, immortalized in fiction by Asimov and fiercely contested by many, talks of the biggest form of life on earth being earth itself. Though that might sound a little far fetched, human capacity to imbibe and generate new ideas via interactions has the potential for making the concept of a collective consciousness a possible reality. The exchange of ideas or as Matt Ridley calls it, the sex of ideas, has increased exponentially thanks to the internet and mobile phone. Going by this trend our species will become stronger and hopefully more collectively intelligent as our technology advances.

Stanford’s Larry Lessig stands as an example of our efforts to make exchange of ideas legitimate and easier. We are experimenting and creating new ideas everyday with the aid of digital technology and spreading them faster than ever with the internet. As the penetration of the internet increases we come closer to a digitally enabled avatar of Gaia. Seeing ‘

Iraq

’ or ‘Flotilla’ trend on twitter makes it easy to perceive these as the rudimentary thoughts of a Cameronesque Gaia - a collectively aware super being.

Closing the loop

2010-03-23T03:04:00.000-07:00

Recently I came across this brilliant video by Annie Leonard on the stages of the materials economy - extraction, production, distribution, consumption and disposal.

A developing country like ours finds a special place for itself in the last leg of this linear chain, i.e. Disposal. United States alone sends an estimated 50,00 tons of e-waste to India annually, trashing the 1989 Basel Convention Treaty in the process. With our teeming billions increasingly finding access to consumer goods, Shining India is expected to host 1,500,000 tons of e-waste annually by 2020.

Among the three R’s of waste hierarchy: reduce, reuse and recycle, Indians are culturally programmed for the first two. The money involved with the sheer volume of e-waste being dumped annually has given birth to innovative though informal recycling infrastructure. Places like Mundka near Delhi and Dharavi in Bombay are replete with one room factories where workers toil in abysmal conditions to complete the recycling loop for the materials economy. Though reliable statistics are difficult to come by, among themselves these two hubs recycle almost 2000 tons of e-waste annually.

This business opportunity has led to the evolution of unique operation systems and testing techniques. Figures like Munna Lal Patel of Mundka can differentiate between different types of plastics within seconds with his own chemical concoctions and analysis techniques, a feat that reminds you of the popular Dr Salunkhe of C.I.D. The multi-tiered hierarchy spans miscellaneous ragpickers and small traders, aggregating bigger traders, sorters, suppliers, melters and finally the sellers.

Though these places boast of almost 60-70% recycle rate, the margin of operations is very tight and the working conditions are hazardous. Big retail players can tap this growing market and help organize the sector increasing the efficiency and turnover manifold. More organized collection from end users instead of garbage heaps will increase the volumes and reduce sorting time. Bigger factories can utilize economy of scale to increase the margins which will ripple down to workers in form of health and economic incentives. Moreover, the green publicity gained by advertising this initiative would itself be worth a fortune.

A notable startup in this field is ReGlobe founded by MDI and NITIE alumni. Attero Recycling is a Bangalore based e-waste recycling startup. Other companies like Recycling corps and Ze-Gen are also actively involved in ensuring a cleaner and greener future.

A Thousand Eyes

2010-02-17T06:49:00.000-08:00

I visited the German Bakery, Pune for the first time a few weeks ago. The place was a riot of colors: decorations, lighting, dresses and most importantly the skin tones. The joint represented diversity and freedom, the two ideas that we Indians pride ourselves on.

The Home Ministry does not view the attack as a security failure claiming it to be a soft target. True. X-Ray scanners at the entrance don’t really spell out “liberal”. Does this mean that, barring massive national security infrastructure overhaul, there is no way to prevent its recurrence?

Information is a potent weapon. The security agencies try their best to garner it but they have limited resources. But what is information? The comments on your photos from across the world, the mundane tweets, the philosophical status messages, the buzzes and the pings and the diggs, they are all bits information. Imagine an intelligence agency with the combined resources of us all.

Why can’t we have a web portal for sharing security information, a forum where users can share potentially vital information inputs supported by image/video evidence? The site can have tiered member structure which can evolve with time to reflect usage patterns and user profiles. The increasing maturity of internet audience and the gravity of the matter enhance the hopes of development of a robust and true online community over time. Such a group can provide rudimentary filtering of bogus information and the plausible inputs can be forwarded to the agencies for further scrutiny.

The threat of the website turning into a cesspool of bigots and fanatics is of course real. However Wikipedia stands as a shining example of positive online community dynamics. Back home, Pagalguy is a forum that has evolved into a useful tool due to proper channeling of information. I believe that barring the teething problems, the “Thousand Eyes” project has the potential to develop into a puissant anti terrorist tool.

The online forum can be supported in due course with real meetings and conventions. The effort can be augmented with the support of government officials as administrators to regulate and enhance the sharing of information. Moreover the UID project can be integrated with this program which would enhance accountability and tracking. The running cost of the website can easily be gathered by relevant and limited online advertisements.

The forum would have the potential of providing invaluable information to agencies around the clock. Imagine how many people would the terrorists come across in their planning, recce and execution of an attack? Suspicious activity can be clicked/taped by any of these thousands of eyes. How would it affect the morale of the terrorists? Whom would they watch out for? How many will they hide from?

Key issues like safety of the users who share information and privacy and IP rights of the shared information are potential problems that will have to be addressed before such a proposal can see the light of the day. However, I believe we have enough technical know how to overcome these obstacles. I hope to see this project take off successfully and stand as a reflection of the will of Indians united against the terrorists.

To tweet or not to tweet?

2009-09-16T08:10:00.000-07:00

The micro blogging site Twitter, one of the most promising innovations of the internet, is finally catching on in India. Our literati are tweeting regularly and so are a few politicians. The celebrities are using the new tool to get closer to their fans and our teens are beginning to learn the pleasures of the tweet.

The benefits of this revolutionary concept are vast. At the heart of it all lies the innate tendency of humans to share. Share more, share faster, share with more people. News and views, serious and hilarious, mundane and bizarre – Twitter is the easiest way to stay in touch with the world. Moreover, it’s a great leveler –Obama’s health care agenda gets exactly the same screen space as your friend’s drunken epiphanies.

World over ministries have been advised to use the site for better governance. Advertisers are racking their brains to benefit from this new cyber mela. Rogue tweets from/about celebrities make news almost everyday. India, though still far behind, is catching up. Our culture is much more conducive to sharing than the west. Indians are known for their social bonding. If Twitter took the individualistic west by storm, the potential it has in India is vast.

To a new user the concept of sharing 140 characters ‘internet SMSs’ does not appeal intuitively. Twitter has an addiction curve associated with it. It takes a new tweeter some time to get comfortable with this tool. Users generally try to fiddle with it for a few days and give up. The way to beat the learning curve is to locate friends and communicate with them. Once you start getting replies and RTs, Twitter takes care of you thereafter.

Here I am listing a few interesting tweeple you can follow to begin this exciting journey : KanchanGupta, GregoryLent, Barkha Dutt, GulPanag, VirSanghvi, Shashi Tharoor, N Ram, Pritish Nandy and a few Bitsians: BITS-Goa, Asmi, Tillu, Neha and Asthana.Those already on Twitter, check this out.

Please feel free to recommend any interesting tweeple you know of. After all sharing is everything.

One Hundred Years of Solitude

2009-08-24T22:57:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I finished reading García Márquez's magnum opus ‘One hundred years of Solitude’(Spanish: Cien años de soledad). A thoroughly beautiful, poetic, musical, imaginative, colorful and at times humorous novel, it is one of those books which you read over and over again and discover a new meaning each time.

The book revolves around the town of ‘Macondo’ in Colombia probably in the 19th century. It is a town woven in the myriad colors of a fertile imagination. Through the vast family of the Bunendias we witness the town as an organism with a soul. We witness its birth, its trials and tribulations and its end at the hands of fate.

The author’s style is mystic. He does not differentiate between the real and imaginary, scientific and superstitious or right and wrong. Even time loses its rigidity and direction in the hands of the author. The past meddles with the present and the future pays frequent visits. Ghosts are treated as live characters and omens are canons. This causes confusion initially but once you get into the flow of the story it transports you to such a magical world of passion, war, deceit and love that the book leaves you in a semi-trance state.

The Buendia family, no doubt, could have adopted a more ingenious nomenclature, but with Melquíades the gypsy, Pilar Ternera the card reader and the Remedios the beauty peppering the pages you tend to forgive this minor fault too. The book has a central mystery regarding a bundle of inscrutable manuscripts running throughout its body which are uncovered and understood at the climax.

The book is a wonderful trip to a surreal land of the past. It book will not let you down at any point except the time you take to adjust to the distorted space-time of the plot. From rains that last for years to dialogues that run to pages without a period, this book will surprise and engross you anew at every page.

Pick it up. Adios.

Mood Sepia

2009-08-10T21:25:00.000-07:00

Old, they say, is gold. The dreamy look in the eyes that accompanies the phrase “in our days” or “when we were first years” is a hallmark of college seniors or alumni. The ‘Antediluvian Touch’ has a mystical quality of painting everything in a positive and delectable tone. Sepia, almost always, carries a touch of longing.

I shall not delve into the obvious arguments of progress and positivity to project the importance of the present or the future vis-à-vis the past. The point of this post is to unravel the psychological reasons behind this past-philia. Time travel having been declared almost impossible by science, past is a domain that is strictly out of reach for us. A longing for the unattainable is a natural tendency and hence our desire to return to childhood, school, college, bachelorhood, child free days and so on depending on our present state.

The image of the past in our heads is essentially a figment of our imagination. It is like a story created by us by piecing together excerpts from reality. The order, intensity, details and even significance are all assigned by our brain. This in essence creates a reality that we would have most liked, or if the case be, least hated. The worst memories are omitted, the pain forgotten, humiliation and embarrassment reduced to nothing but fleeting events. It is ironic that nothing would be more ghastly for a nostalgic man than to be given a Time Machine.

Moreover, the story in the past, by very definition, ended well . We survived it, didn’t we? The bully in the class did not really murder you. The girl you loved and lost didn’t turn you mad. Your worst paper is just a line in the sheet, the dope OD didn’t stop your heart, the bike crash didn’t maim you..and so on. The point is that it’s a story with an assured bearable, if not happy, ending.

The last and most obvious reason is discontent. Melancholy engenders wishful longing for the only alternative, the only other reality you have been through: the past. The ‘halcyon days’ or ‘Ye Olde’ comfort zone is merely an anodyne effort by our subconscious to take the edge off the bitter reality.

There are many cases where the above do not apply. You wouldn’t hear “Oh the Indian Railways in my days..” or “The Indian Bureaucracy in those times..” or even “Oh when Hitler called the shots..”. However, reminiscing as above does not fall under the category of Nostalgia.

An objective evaluation of the past is no doubt necessary. The lessons learnt from the past are reinforced and pave the way to the future. A degree of emotional involvement in the process is also expected. Unfettered Nostalgia, however, is akin to wallowing indiscriminately in a self created illusion.

Twenteens

2009-07-12T22:44:00.000-07:00

Twenteenagers. It is a new tribe that’s threatening to supplant the traditional teen-kings of the mercurial kingdom. They are capricious, confused, rebellious, lonely and ever-aspiring. They are an eclectic mix of college students, junior employees, call centre executives, the cool ones at office and even a few who’ve made it big. What is common among all of them is that they are just not ready to grow up, yet.

We hated our twentieth birthday. Being a teenager was like a behavioral sanction. Suddenly, being moody wasn’t cool and being depressed was more than just a plea for attention. The stakes seemed to become higher overnight and life became a four letter word. We had the freedom we had always craved and the money we needed to enjoy it. And still that feckless being inside of us was not ready for the party.

Enter the Twenteens. The ones that chose to remain in the teen neverland. What’s better is that now they don’t have to return home to mama at night. They have the money (and in most states the legal age) to hang out at the bars. They are the ones who grew up watching western soaps and are experiencing them, with a culturally commensurate age lag. They earn to spend, not to save. They are still confused about what they want from life but are very serious about enjoying it. They fall in and out of relationships, question taboos, value friends over family and are obstinately unwilling to settle.

These twenteens are presenting the previous generation with the same problems that an average teenager might present in the west. They are obdurate, demand personal space, are ineffably lonely, largely misunderstood and disconcerted by responsibility. The response from the parents is similar too. The intervention in personal life is reducing and so is expectation of the twenteens following their footprints, culturally or otherwise.

The twenteens are the result of a watershed in India’s social progress. They are the torch bearers of the cultural shift we are experiencing. They are the first ones to be free of chains of traditional dogma and yet empowered enough to take their own decisions. By gingerly testing new ground they are slowly expanding the very meaning of Indian culture. In the process, like any teenager, they make mistakes.

With India poised to be superpower (oh relax you cynics!) the twenteens will be the ones at helm when we do reach there. We can hope that the experiences that this social experiment provides them will make us a better nation – culturally and socially. A nation open to new ideas and new people. A country truly capable of being a global leader.

The Dancing Saxophone

2009-07-03T12:32:00.000-07:00

The rising notes on the alto saxophone reach a crescendo and stop abruptly only to be undergirded by the nifty fingers on the piano. The saxophonist guides the tone through a rhythmic rollercoaster as the awestruck audience is transported from greek folksongs to jazz and funk and back as the classical pieces continue to pour from the brass instrument. A short burst of applause follows each magical melody and the artists acknowledge it with a low bow.

Monique De Margerie and Claudia Schaetzle held the audience spellbound with various classical pieces ranging from a century old piece by Debussy to a composition by Mathieu Lussier which was performed for only second time since its conception. The audience ranging from ages ten to ninety were enthralled alike by the soulful music bearing witness to the fact that good music transcends not only cultural boundaries but time as well. The concert concluded with the recital of the Pink Panther soundtrack by Henry Mancini to the great amusement of the crowd.

The concert was a wonderful experience. Asthana witnessed the first concert of its kind and, amazingly, enjoyed it. So did Anoo whose serendipitous company we owe to Shantanu. I am beginning to fall in love with Alliance Francaise. Looking forward to the next event!

The River

2009-05-28T21:13:00.000-07:00

The cold water rippled past my body forming eddies that spiraled into oblivion. The vast sheet of water extended far ahead till it merged with the base of the distant Blue Mountains. The sky splattered with fluffy cotton hid the sun perfectly without blocking its light. In the diffused daylight around me, there was no sense of time or direction. There were only two directions. Either the direction in which the little whirlpools of water were born to live ephemerally before dissolving in the vastness they had emerged from. The direction in which pebbles, weeds and tired fish were swept off with the raw force of the flowing water. Or the other one. The direction in which my feet propelled me against the flow, anchoring against the gushes of cold water and the gusts of strong wind. The direction in which the river was calm and placid brimming with unseen energy. The direction in which lay the Blue Mountains, with my eyes riveted on them.

P.S. Visit Hogenakkal. Nice place.

The Green Lines

2009-05-11T10:35:00.000-07:00

The painters painted the wall across my room yesterday. The wall had blacked with three years of lashing by the Konkan rains. The white distemper is hospital clean. It depresses me. Its wan expanse hid the myriad designs the rain water had left on the wall.

They were dark and didn’t really follow a pattern. The meandering lines of dark green had chipped in the hot sun of the dry months. We were the first students to live in this hostel. Those green lines grew with me. They appeared as I ran around the campus in utter terror of the sudden torrential downpours in the first months of my stay. I saw them fade as the first year drew to a close with a whole lot of amazing new friends by my side. The lines multiplied as the second year ushered in my juniors. They watched as I found a place in the campus and they heard me laugh. They drew back to dull green as I explored blossoming avenues. They snaked down the walls again as the third year arrived with the clarion call of the cdcs. And they faded to black as they saw the horror those cdcs unleashed.

The painters did a good job. I can’t see those lines any more. Sipping my hot morning tea and breathing in the cool coastal breeze, I saw the sunrise today like I have done so many times in the past three years. But the tea didn’t taste so good somehow.

7th April 2009

2009-04-07T03:39:00.000-07:00

Revolution is a tricky concept. It can bubble beneath the surface for years waiting for the opportune moment before it bursts in its full glory blinding the men who thought they could see all. The metamorphosis of a calm mass into a rising tide, the culmination of long held grudges into restless throngs and the raw strength of unity are breathtaking yet not so uncommon. What is uncommon is a crowd of 1500 maintaining relative decorum, speaking in one voice without a leader, sticking to demands without deferring the niceties of social conduct and dethroning a dictator without threats. This was our revolution.

It is said that if there is a powder keg, all it needs is a spark. However, if the powder keg is protected by multiple layers of inhibitions, (Placements? Character certificate? Disco? Reluctance to debase the quiet pride of a BITSian?) it takes a hell of a spark to light the keg. This translates to an opportune series of events with their concomitant effects snowballing. In our case, years of indignation against the dictator, recent spate of senseless discos and pent up frustration from placements prepared a fertile ground. The IIT KGP event was still fresh in the minds and provided a moral sanction for agitation. The fact that no tests were on the horizon and that the next day was a holiday provided for a larger gathering. And at this propitious moment arrived the Maggie notice. Revolt was imminent.

7^th April has entered the BITS calendar for the foreseeable future. It will be remembered as a day that proved gentleness is not equal to submission, ambition is not a roadblock to fair treatment and individual merit does not deny unity. It will be remembered as the day the student body chose to hide its calm countenance and turned into a puissant force. It was a modern revolution in all its right and one worthy of our pride. I hope the coming CSAs will choose this day as a holiday every year from their assigned days of voluntary holidays. Happy Independence Day.

The Muslim Mind

2009-03-30T04:07:00.000-07:00

A few weeks back, while browsing the fiction bookshelf, I noticed the history section right next to it. Drifting towards it, I looked around not really expecting to find a riveting volume. However, luckily I chanced upon a gem of a book “Understanding the Muslim Mind” by Rajmohan Gandhi. (Lib ref no. GAN/Und 18949)

The title sounds radical at first glance. However this book is so much more than a refreshing dip in the Islamic thought. It provides a historical perspective of the second most populous community of the subcontinent through the lives of eight great leaders. The book’s USP is how it brings forth the lives of these men as fallible human beings unlike the demigod representations in our history books which we found so difficult to connect with. Moreover, as we travel through the India from 1857 to 1947, we come across interesting facts and anecdotes so carefully interspersed in the text that the scenes from beyond a century seem to come alive. (A possible side effect of reading maybe loss of connection with the present for short durations of time :P)

As an example, did you know Jinnah’s grandfather was a Hindu? Or that the religious Abdul Kalam Azad had a period of 17 months in his teenage when he ‘yielded to all desires and lusts’? That approximately 20 Hindu-Muslim riots happened every year even way back in 1920s? That Jamia started as a tent outside the AMU (then MAO) and was installed in temporary quarters near Karol Bagh for decades? That Jinnah lay helpless averting flies at his deathbed when his ambulance broke down hours before his death? That Turkey probably played the greatest role ever in uniting Hindus and Muslims?

In the words of the author, the engrossing pages of this book ‘..tell of human weaknesses, and also of Sayyid Ahmed’s sagacious head, Iqbal’s songs of genius, Muhammad Ali’s hearts-on-a-sleeve, Jinnah’s backbone of steel, Huq’s store of sympathy, Azad’s mind of courage, Liaqat, content at number two, and Zakir the gentle.’

I found the book revealing and enlightening. It led to deliberations and extended debates with a good friend in my case (one of which, I remember, was resolved only when we looked up a copy of the holy Quran much to the surprise of the librarian). I think this is compulsory reading for most of us given the fact that we are unaware of our ignorance of the perspective of a huge part of our country. Ignorance, more than anything, leads to ill feeling. With leaders like Varun spewing hatred in campaign speeches, it doesn’t seem we have progressed much in this regard in past 80 years. Maybe it’s time to turn to history for guidance.

Room No. 321

2009-03-16T10:56:00.000-07:00

The room is dark. A sea bird gives a melancholy cry as it flies across the deep purple sky. The lights across the river give a twinkling smile and beckon my soul. The shimmering reflection on the water is broken by a boat full of merry makers which is decorated like a bride. The street lights are austere orbs of orange staring down watchfully at the ones and twos that stroll by. The flood lights shine upon the tiny figures of boys gamboling and the breeze carries their voice as indiscernible murmurs. Ah the breeze! It blows on my face and through my hair. The scent of the sea fills me and lightens my heart. The single tree in the field, that stands no more, is still clearly visible to me. A full moon blushes behind a grey cloud and the stars seem to glow with affection. And I see a lone white bird as it soars, its wings spread, never turning, above the river and onwards towards the infinite sea. Ah! I will miss this room.

The wistful siren

2008-12-19T09:39:00.000-08:00

As I lie half reclining on my bed under a blanket whose twin has been my good friend during the cooler nights of the Konkan rains, a familiar sound pierces the silence of the placid town. My house is not very far from the railway station and in the absence of any buildings of considerable height, the train siren floats across the foggy night and brings with it the feeling that goes back in time to a boy, not yet seven, dreaming about flying across the countryside.

The whistle of a train passing by invariably moves the lethargic innards of my memory. The images that float around in quick succession are numerous- twins plucking mushrooms on a railway track, the creaky gate of a haunted railway crossing, the lush green country whipping past, the pylon that seemed so tall and yet always had an inviting spiral staircase the top, the refreshing cool air slapping the face and that somehow always tasted sweet till your tongue went dry. This wave of memories however quickly turns into a whirlpool of emotions which inexorably disappears leaving one aftertaste. Longing.

The subdued mourning note of a train ploughing on in the bitter cold of a December night touches a place close to my heart. I have never understood completely the reason for this resonance but I suppose the sound to my mind represents new horizons, lands unknown, and freedom from the shackles of present. It brings a message of adventure and hope and the happiness that I can only describe as what a bird must feel on being set free on one golden morning.

Despite the fact that I travel across the belly of half of my country on every trip home and curse the train more that praise it on each of these journeys, this is one of the few things that still retains its unblemished flavor from my childhood. And today, of all the things I consider precious, its those that sit right on the top.

Crisis

2008-11-12T11:05:00.000-08:00

The Chinese letter for crisis consists of a combination of the letters for ‘danger’ and ‘opportunity’. This piece of wisdom is essential for tiding over difficult times like these. The world economy is going through its worst in almost 80 years. Wall Street giants fell and millions of jobs will be buried under the rubble. Auto industry is in the dumps and industrial output is falling by the day. Our stock prices fell below 10k under panic selling and even the invincible China is feeling the heat.

The economic scenario, no doubt, is grim. However, it takes a crisis to make history. Obama owes his epic victory at least partially to the economic disaster facing the USA. The last depression gave the US Roosevelt, the Hoover dam and health insurance. This is another opportunity for the governments to spend more on public works and improve social security and pro active government regulations.

The shockwaves of the global meltdown will hit us as soon as the placement season arrives. The job offers will become scarcer and packages will shrink. Not good news for euphoric graduates out to enjoy their first salary? This can, however, turn out to be the perfect opportunity for us to undertake further studies. With the salaries crashing, we can get that extra degree as we wait for the markets to revive without losing too much of the initial earning.

Every crisis if managed properly produces a winner. Could we have a Gandhi without the British? Would Sachin have the same sheen if the rest of the Indian team had not been oh so pathetic in the nineties? Wouldn’t we be producing more ambassadors instead of Nanos but for the near bankruptcy in ’91? Can you imagine the free Indian media without the emergency in ’75?

These are testing times as incomes fall and depression grips economy after economy. However, there is no obstacle that a daring and optimistic enough mind cannot clear. And that, my friends, is where the best are differentiated from the better. Hope you are hearing, Mr. Obama.

Fear the fear

2008-09-15T10:59:00.001-07:00

The greatest motivator in the history of mankind is at work yet again. This minion of the devil spearheaded crusades, witch hunts, massacres, exoduses and wars. He is amorphous, ever changing and yet omnipresent. The only weapon we have against him is sapience. The poison of the mind is shaping the psyche of the common man in the after math of the recent bomb blasts in the capital.
The average Indian feels unsafe and insecure today. As was aptly mentioned in a recent Bollywood movie, leaving your house for office is akin to gearing up for a battle. No place, including the centre of our nation’s power, is safe. This situation is the ideal ground for fear to breed. The reckless statements from opposition parties do not help either. Shunning a religion or labeling a community is not the solution to this security issue. However panic reactions are one of the most potent instruments of destruction that Fear wields.
In other parts of the country Fear is at work in the form of communal violence. Fear of conversion, fear of losing one’s land, fear of loss of identity. It blinds men of religion and men books of equally. We have a spectre of a church becoming a battleground and brilliant students in the vanguard of terrorist organisations.
Why is fear such a powerful force? It shuts down the cognitive centers of the brain. A man in fear can be molded easily making him an easy prey. As a society and culture, Indians have shown resilience in the past. With a history marred with numerous invasions our great country has always emerged as a whole which is greater than the sum of the individuals. We have not feared losing our identity and consequently we emerged as a beautiful amalgamation of cultures, thoughts and ideas which is truly unique. Why then should the latest spate of attacks affect us enough to question our own integrity?
The terrorists feed on fear and harvest panic. They cannot succeed if we fight with patience and vigilance. A call for the unity of the nation in the wake of the multitude of separatist activities is in order. We as a culture need to evolve to fight this new menace. Our glorious past and hopeful future deserve it.

Thank You For No Smoking

2008-09-02T07:50:00.000-07:00

“No Smoking” is all set to become more than just a passive signboard. If the new proposal the health ministry is mulling over comes into force school postmen, railway stationmasters, even your school or college principal can book you for smoking. The fine is relatively paltry, expected to be pegged at Rs. 200, but the proposal sparks the old controversy of ‘Isn’t my life my business for heaven’s sake?’. The expected reaction from the smoking community will understandably be of outrage. I can speak for my college friends that the idea of the warden “booking” you for smoking is not very pleasing.

The matter at hand has been debated over ever since Sir Richard Doll discovered that the macho smoke rings give you more than just a high. The powerful tobacco lobby, however, does not really mind if a few people die torturously with their insides charcoal black. The government gets an estimated 280 billion USD from tobacco as revenue and well, the people love their individual freedom. ‘If we want to be lemmings, stopping us is a crime’ they say. The role of the media, especially cinema, is the crux of what I’m genuinely concerned about.

The picture depicts the extent to which impressionable young minds are being exposed to this poison. I found the young boys of Zari, unable to access a cigarette due to financial constraints, satisfy their hero worship by smoking a smoldering roll of paper. A burning paper can’t give you a high. It definitely does not addict you. But then who cares about the choking throat when you can be Rajnikanth in your own backyard? And once they get hold of enough money is there anything to stop them from entering this dark world? The point to be noted here is that these boys, like the majority of smokers, did not get into the habit for the need of a stimulant. They got addicted for the social high it gave them and, well, got hooked.

A new research shows that people with a specific type of gene are addicted with the first exposure to the cigarette smoke. That shows the danger of that first step taken out of naïve desire for “being a man”. Our media must realize its responsibility towards the people it caters to. The step taken by the government is debatable because I personally feel the choice to smoke or stay away is as personal as wearing jeans instead of pants. However, forcing the youth into this hole by creating an artificial social stigma is a crime. The government should take pro active steps in this direction instead of appointing stooges to ban the vice.

Not So Happening

2008-06-17T21:43:00.000-07:00

The happening doesn’t really live up to its name. In a typical shyamalanesque manner, the movie is slow and controlled with simple dialogues and effective but not overdone sound effects. However, the story line, shyamalan’s forte, is decidedly weak.
To begin with, evolution-turning-evil-overnight mantra isn’t very believable. Tendentious assertions about mysterious observations can put science on the back foot in a dining room conversation. It does not, however, give the right to twist scientific facts like evolution. Firstly, evolution is spread over millions of years and an overnight rise of the plant kingdom can occur only in Tolkien universe. Secondly, evolving neurotransmitters that impel the brain into self destruction, though dramatic, is very unlikely. It’s much more probable to concoct a chemical that just snuffs you out. Thirdly, the movie is self defeating because the solution to this evolution is an obliteration of the plants which successfully achieved the mutation to wipe out the rouge gene. Irony?
However, the problem highlighted is definitely urgent and too much can never be said about it. We have become a threat to existence due to our potentially fatal ability to rationalize. A group of well intentioned scientists work their ass off to find dependable data to prove we are sitting on a time bomb and the politicians just won’t listen. We fight for peace and scare for security. A revenge-of-the-flora, however unlikely, might just be what the doctor ordered.
However, all said, I enjoyed the movie. The sheer delight of going for a shyamalan movie might have been a biasing factor here. :)

Existential Dilemma

2008-06-15T22:49:00.000-07:00

A perpetual sub conscious fear lurking beneath the calm waters of my perception is that the answer to the question “Is reality is a collective verity?” is negative. The sudden burst of perspective that I live in my bubble of universe cut off from all the rest of existence except for a feeble connection of whimsical electrical pulses is terrifying. And it comes with the scary after thought that the rest of the existence might just be the feeble electrical pulses. Is there a way to prove it either way? You can’t tell the difference if you are moving at a thousand miles an hour or at rest from inside a spaceship in a pitch black universe. Am I stuck in this spaceship? Am I all there is? Am I at all?

A Murder Much Debated

2008-06-10T22:41:00.000-07:00

The most extensively covered murder of the recent times, the Aarushi Murder case, has become an article of conversation from the metro to the household. Everyone has their own theory as to who the murderer was and what possible motives drove him. As a staunch supporter of free media, I firmly believe that the institution should be spared the clutches of political/moral censorship. However, the Aarushi case does throw facts at our face which are compelling and disturbing at the same time.

The Noida police, no doubt has proven to be completely inefficient and insensitive. From the improper investigation, shoddy cover up stories to the IGP in-charge labeling Aarushi “characterless”, the police have set new lows in this case. However, the media handled the issue with equal if not greater callousness. To gain TRPs the heinous murder of a 14 year old girl was converted into cheap real time thriller with round the clock updates, conspiracy theories and irrelevant background information. The grief stricken parents already under shock from the severe loss and police harassment had to go through intense and vulgar media curiosity. Is this behavior expected of a mature and free media? Who decides the line between public and private space?

To cap it all, Balaji Telefilms proposed to introduce the “honor killing” in one of the episodes of popular teleserial Kahani Ghar Ghar Ki. Dr. Nupur Talwar, mother of the victim, moved National Commission of Protection Of Child Rights to obtain a stay on the telvisation of her daughter’s brutal murder. The perturbing inference is that the Indian middle class, the major constituent of the viewers for any channel, has developed a despicable taste for scandal. Sex sells, and so does any other malicious gossip. At a time when rising prices were crippling the poor, the headlines talked about the number of calls Aarushi made to her alleged boyfriend.

The point I’m trying to make here is that a strong and free media is no doubt healthy for a democratic nation. However, problems arise when the complex interaction of market forces and freedom of expression combine to bring the dirty face of society upfront. We have two options at this juncture – either we cleanse ourselves to become responsible citizens and more importantly humane individuals. Or we wait for the inevitable- Government censorship in the name of morality.

LINGA v/s LALA

2007-10-19T05:52:00.000-07:00

As one enters our campus the majestic B-wing dome catches the visitor’s eye. It does more, however, than merely remind you mildly of a foreign university campus. It acts as a barrier, literally and symbolically, between the privileged and the under privileged. The area beyond the dome is dotted by the slums of the laborers employed in the construction work going on in the campus premises. Among the dwellings marked by the lungi clad men and naked children, one shack stands out. It is owned by a person named Linga and is glibly named “workers’ mess” by many.

I first came across the ‘jhonpdi’ in my first week in the campus during my search for a reasonably priced and admittedly more natural eating spot compared to the lone bakery joint that existed in our campus then. The account of the rumored (many seniors had not heard about it) shack which provided only to the proletariat was accompanied by an advice not to visit because of the abysmal hygiene and a vague fear of the administration. I, however decided to have a look none the less. My first reaction on seeing the asbestos covered shack with frail rusted iron poles for support and two walls entirely made of leaf cover was delight. A hangout akin to a dhaba, and the defiance of the vague administrative rules, was welcome. However the few half clad men squatting by the side and the emaciated, dirty, half clad children playing in the soil reminded forcefully the juxtaposition of the two very different classes in the campus.

I, however, am not writing about the emancipation of the laborers or the education of the workers’ children. These issues, though crucial, are being handled by the authorities and various student groups. I wish to highlight the importance of the shack in a more socioeconomic light. In a campus with two highly over priced eateries owned by big names in the Goa food retail sector, Linga stands as the representation of the stifled common man. When you have to pay 6 rupees for an admittedly vapid cup of tea and much more for a very questionable cold slice of pizza, one wonders where the world-famous Indian street food is. The presence of two junk food joints in prime locations of the campus is dangerous to the student health, especially when the mess food is unpalatable more often than not.

The aim of a university system of education is to provide a student a secluded place for his academic pursuits. This, however, does not translate to a campus completely devoid of the social conditions prevalent outside. IITs are the premier institutes of our nation but that does not prevent them from having dhabas and shacks. Why do we have to have premium priced junk food on the feeble pretext of hygiene and safety? The recent outbreak of fever in the students was attributed to infected pipes of the coffee vending machine of one of these shops by the campus doctor. Why then, should we pay so much for food which is neither delicious nor healthy?

The obvious question which is burning in the hearts of many is that why is there no place like a dhaba in the campus where one can have a glass of milk with a buttered parantha in the same price as a packet of potato chips? The investment required is minimal and can easily be obtained from not pruning the famed gardens of BPGC for a few days. The apparent anomalies in investment strategies of the campus remain a mystery. I once talked to one of the employees at the private joints and asked if they could cook non junk snacks like paranthas etc. Her answer was surprising. She said the authorities were not ready to give permission for cooking. This sounds even weirder in the light of the fact that the same authorities have given the permission to cook maggi!

A dhaba is a widely popular concept due to a reason. The healthy and hygienic food with good service comes at a very cheap price. The reason is that the money wasted on lighted hoardings or huge posters is instead spent on the raw materials. The microwave and the wending machines all come at at a price. The brand name too hurts your pocket. These capitalistic ventures are mushrooming in the rest of the country, however, that does not mean we have to be a part of it, especially at the cost of our health.

Students are barred from cooking inside the hostels. The mess food as we all know is barely edible when best. The insti-café has the smallest possible variety of dishes for an eatery of its size. Then is it a surprise that a few of my friends have begun to live exclusively on chips and coke? The authorities should take steps in this direction immediately and it is our duty to prod them awake if they are indifferent. We have the right to healthy and cheap food and we should assert it. Gandhigiri time folks!!