Old, Gold? Nah, Sold!

Once upon a time, two years ago to be precise, I went to see the oldest Pujo in the capital. Those of you who aren't from Delhi but saw the news during those ten days will know it's Kashmere Gate I'm talking about. Back then, it was a study in austerity - a back-to-basics lesson for most of us used to the over-the-top celebrations in the southern parts of the city. We went by our car, found a place to park it just outside the venue (Bengali School opp. IP College) quite easily, and were greeted by a board (which proclaimed that it was 98th year of celebrations) from which started a string of lights on both sides, which seemed to symbolize illumination more than decorations. There was a very simple idol, a couple of stalls and just a few people milling about, mostly old-timers and volunteers.

Cut to now, and even before getting off the cycle rickshaw, I could see that the three evils of the modern world had got to it. The endless strings of decorative lights were competing with and defeating the glare of the vehicular headlights, people were fighting for parking space and those who had managed to win those battles were waiting in line to be frisked by the security (luckily for me, the queue was at its ebb when I stepped on the red carpet). Inside was a sea of humanity, a major portion of which had surrounded the dhakis and the dhunuchi dancers performing right in front of the protima during sandhya aarti - and unlike previously, it was not possible to get right up close to the idol, at least not until the end of the aarti.

Of course, it was only about ten minutes later that I realized why the area had emptied out all of a sudden - everyone had headed straight for the food stall. Yes, you read that right - stall. Singular. Unlike other places, there wasn't a temporary food-court - only one, and that too patronized by the hosts, the Bengali Club. Particularly famous, followers of mainstream media were told, were the biryani and the korma. While I'd rather not go into the specifics, by the time the korma was opened at home just a couple of hours later, the gravy had dried up completely and in its place were, other than the expected chunks of meat, larger chunks of slippery, semi-solid material - lard was the first word that came to mother's mind; the brand name synonymous with cardiac ailments, Dalda, should ring a bell in the minds of most readers.

More about the food stall, then. There were a total of 6 counters - 4 for different food items, and 2 for the coupons, each of them with queues emanating from them like rays from the rising sun - radially in all directions (if like me you were unlucky enough, some hoity-toity middle-aged Bong uncle would have screamed 'queue!' for some implausible reason). But no, you couldn't just stand at either of the coupon counters. No, because each of them dealt with fixed denominations which corresponded to different items of the menu.

So, say, you wanted to have a biryani and a shammi kebab, you needed to go to counter no. 1 to get a Rs. 25 coupon for the kebab, and then to counter no. 2 to get a Rs. 120 coupon for the biryani - and at this point, in case you tried to raise your frustrated voice, it would've been drowned by the rude voice of one of the organizers, who would've told you to stick to the line, lest it doubled while you were busy arguing. To add insult to injury, the kebabs would run out the moment your turn came. And then, you would've noticed to your utmost horror that the longest line of them all - yes, the same one which you thought you were not a part of and because of that, secretly thanked Ma Durga - was for the biryani, but since you'd already gone through so much, you would've chosen to stay put rather than try to sell off the coupon to some poor, unsuspecting soul on the lookout for some biryani/korma.

The 100th year brought along with all the cooks that together spoil the broth. We had NDTV, Zee News, etc.; the list of sponsors rivalled the IPL; Sheila Dikshit was on her way when I beat a hasty retreat. Don't even get me started on the hep crowd, especially the females who seemed to have landed up there in the midst of a pub-hopping spree... *Uncharacteristic exhibition of restraint!* Walking to Civil Lines metro station was rewarding though - the smell of shiuli phool (I don't know what its English equivalent is) had a calming effect, and reminded me that some things don't change, no matter what. Here's hoping that it will apply to my Pujo spirit come fall O-ten.

Trek or die.

I just realized that I've never ever written anything about my college. Well, it's FCRIT - don't bother with the expanded version, just keep the words Agnel Vashi in mind. Most people outside Maharashtra would not have heard of it (some south Delhiites might be forced to recall a school bearing the same name) and you're not the ones to be blamed - even I wouldn't have, hadn't it been for that damn brochure. The brochure which helped prospective students like me to pick and choose from a pool of private engineering colleges across Maharashtra in the hope of getting admission on the basis of really pathetic AIEEE scores. To cut a long story short, A grade + boy's hostel + no minority status sealed it. I chose it, it chose me - and the rest, as they say (and those who say ought to be lynched) is history.

Now I know that I have a tendency of rambling, so I'll just force myself to pause here and instead focus on what I set out to write (yes, I was reminded by the title). A change in guard has resulted in some changes - can't decidedly say whether for better or for worse. One addition is the compulsory trek - actually, using the word 'compulsory' is unwarranted, given that everything in the confines of ATEC (another acronym you'll be better off not knowing the full form of) is compulsory (needless to say, what goes on inside stays inside, and by violating this code, I'm risking my life). What happens if you don't do something which is compulsory, you ask? Well, here again, I'll ask you to refer to the title. Yes, you die. Well, not literally (although you never know, especially since ATEC is on the verge of officially achieving the status of an autonomous republic which depends on India only for protection against external aggression).

No, it is assumed that if you cannot make it for the scheduled trip, you should be able to make it for one of the trips with the other batches. If you can't even do that much, well, it is assumed that you are sick, implying you are not fit enough to attend college for the minimum duration. Thus, you are told to drop a year, but no, you cannot just sit at home and recuperate. No. Instead, you are supposed to come to college every Sunday (presumably to mark the progress of your health), so that you are in the pink of your health by the time it is time for next year's trek. If not, well, leave college. This is what final year students were told.

Just for the record, the trek was to this place called Haji Malang Dargah, somewhere in Kalyan. It was a damn easy trek, but that's besides the point - the place was filthy to the core, especially at the base and near the top. During the trip, the students are supposed to adhere to their idea of discipline, which includes speaking in English (one guy got slapped across the face for speaking in - oh my God! - Hindi. Yes, in these parts, it's a crime to utter anything in the national language.), not mingling with the opposite sex (the demarcation made it seem as if 2 non-co-ed schools just happened to be picnicking at the same place on the same day), eating samosas with dirty hands (I guess it makes you resistant to deadlier diseases) and dance randomly to non-sense remixes (this uncivilized act is, for some unknown reason, known in these parts as a 'jam session').

Yes, venting felt awesome - I'll be back. With more awesomeness. Till then, peace be with you.