Your everyday superwoman

I am back in Mumbai and in the place that- even after three-or-thereabout years- continues to fascinate me. Tata Institute of Social Sciences (TISS) is a world away from everything one excepts, imagines or even remembers.

More than the people, it is the place that is so magical; at least to me, it is a place that respects the need to explore and think about anything that strikes a fancy in one's mind. Traditional and conventional or absolutely unheard-of, one can comfortably find space to dwell on ideas and that is what I love most about TISS. Fewer pretenses than usual.

So yesterday, while Parul and I were drinking nimbu chai at the canteen a little late in the night (by Mumbai standards i.e.; in Dehradun the hour would probably be in the graveyard shift) one of the taayis came over and flopped in a chair next to us. In TISS- and I assume in all of Mumbai and the larger Maharashtra- any woman older to you is 'taayi' and the ladies we call taayi here are a bunch of wonderfully sassy women who keep the campus clean, run the canteen or watch over the laundry loads in the washing machines.

The taayis sometimes get take a few minutes off work and sit down to chat with people they are fond of and Parul is a complete taayi-pet in that sense. What I like is that Parul does not know taayi's name and the taayi does not know if Parul is studying or working. But there is a fondness between them and they talk effortlessly.

Parul tells taayi that she is leaving from here soon and returning to her hometown Delhi soon and as it invariably does when one is over 23 years of age, the conversation shifts to marriage. Parul, as is her usual reaction to the subject, throws her head back and changes her facial expression to the most distasteful look you will find in the book and says "karwa denge jab karwa denge; dekh lenge".

And taayi asks if she does not want to marry, to which Parul shakes her head vehemently and affirms her absolute dislike. Then she asks taayi about her wedding and the story we heard amazed me, not for its absolute, heart-wrenching struggles but for the simplicity with which it was related. No melodrama, no "mere saath aisa hua", no self-pity.

Taayi got married at the age of 12 years and by the time she was 13, she had her first daughter. 'A child giving birth to a child', Parul says. By the time taayi reached 19 years, she had 6 children and it was only then that she came to know about sterilization and had her tubes tied. In a year or two, her husband passes away and now she is left to fend for herself and her six children.

But she did and beautifully so. Her oldest daughter is 21 now and taayi says she will marry when she wants to. But here is the most beautiful thing. The second daughter, who is 20 now is married. Taayi explains that she married "dil se" and then had two children, after which taayi got her daughter's permanent birth control operation too. She says they should not suffer the same fate as she did and she says it without any hint of sorrow. When she shared this last bit, I felt I had shrunk to half an inch in size or that taayi had suddenly become eight feet tall.

How easy it is for us to get carried away by our own experiences and to let that dictate our ideas for our children or let it influence our opinion about things. But taayi kept it simple. Her children will marry when they want to and if they fall in love at 18 then they will get married at 18. Despite everything she went through, she did not let it poison her mind.

An everyday superwoman, like so many others. This story was heard in Mumbai but I am convinced could be just as easily heard in Dehradun or any other part of the country and the world.

Only-slightly discriminated against

Picture taken from http://www.chicagoemploymentlawyer.net/gender.jpg

TISS (we study and work in the area of social sciences (check here))is buzzing and active at all times, something I am much averse to. One hears of certain phrases and words liberally included in high-pitched conversations at the dining hall over tea or at a round-table conference in one of the classrooms amidst the thumping of tables, which are arranged in a manner appropriate to the name of the conference or at the tapri behind college over masala maggi and cutting chai. The more scarier ones are the 'isms', to which my mind frankly shuts down and which comprise in their scariest form "neo-liberalism", "post-modernism" and numerous other such "discourses" (I do not even understand what the last means).

One also hears of things like "do not have a voice", or "uneducated" or "disadvantaged" or "socially excluded" in reference to the under-dogs.

Then there is me. I am an average person from an average background and with an average understanding of the matters of the world (which in TISS translates to condescending half-smiles subtly-disapproving head-shakes). I do have a voice and it is especially audible when there is a need for an auto-rickshaw. I have received education- quite a bit of it and nothing that is connected to a rational career-pattern, if you ask my father; I am disadvantaged only to the extent of the company of pretty people I keep that tends to highlight my highly unflattering physical form and I am socially very much included in everything, most of all gossip that is of the derogatory kind, owing to my Punjabi genes.

So I am part of the urban, empowered youth that is living in a cosmopolitan metropolitan amidst other urban, empowered people. Caste, religion, gender and other parameters of the conservative society are not of any relevance here and when I study about problems like gender inequality and patriarchy, I am supposed to think of a time from my small-town life that qualified "because you are a girl" as a satisfactory response and that I have left far behind me.

Or so I thought. As the lease for my current accommodation draws to an end, I have started looking for another place to move in and I see how I have been living in a bubble of equality and freedom. As a tenant, I have a checklist of things I am looking for, in the house I rent. So I want it at least semi-furnished and I want it well-ventilated with those big, sliding windows and I want it close to a market place or at the least, to a vegetable vendor's stall.

Apparently, the house-owner too has a checklist. And it reads like this- should not be a Muslim, should not be from a strange community of one of those North-East places, should not be working in one of those call-centers, should not be too modern and yes, should not be a female.

I have never realized truly how wrong I have been in thinking that the problems of gender, race, community and religion belonged to the more conservative small-towns and rural areas.

When I am asked what community I belong to, I feel threatened, even if I belong from one of your "acceptable" communities. When you ask me if I am a vegetarian or if I eat meat, I feel uncomfortable. When you ask me details of my work and raise an eyebrow at my flexible working hours, I feel insulted. And when you say you cannot give me your premises simply because I am female, I feel very discriminated against.

The absence of a window would give me some breathing trouble so I believe it is a logical expectation from a home but how the absence of a penis would be undesirable when you rent out your property sounds absurd, even to me and I am not the brightest things out there.

We are all talking about reservation bills for women in politics, facilities in schools to encourage the girl child to study, financial schemes to promote women entrepreneurs and others. Then there is something like the issue I just tried to put forth, though I am not quite sure I was successful at it, given my habit of meandering to other topics. But coming back, this is a very urban problem and one that, I am afraid would be labelled to the "middle-class" (that BTW, is a phrase so overused that it is frayed) habit of cribbing. The standard response I can foresee is similar to the response of the English teacher, Mr. Morgan from the movie "10 things I hate about you' when he says

"I know how difficult it must be for you to overcome all those years of upper middle-class suburban oppression. Must be tough!"

So I say, sometimes being middle-class and only-slightly discriminated against is a real pain.

The Punjabi Landlady

She is a cannon-ball, she is a torch ablaze; she is a hawk with her talons sharpened just now and her piercing, lazer-beam eyes evolved to spot anything remotely shady...
SHE IS THE PUNJABI LANDLADY!!

I had intended to write the whole post as a poem but my rather in-adept rhyming skills were killing the emotions oozing out, as pus does from a bad wound.

To be brutally honest, one of the reasons for my moving away from my Punjbai-centered North Indian hometowns was to get some breathing space away from my culture. Don’t get me wrong. I am a Punjbai to the core but our loud temperaments that only add fire to our mean, sarcastic hearts to everybody (yes, even people who are not family)gets tiresome sometimes.

So you can imagine the excessively-rude shock I got when I move into this incredibly beautiful place and open the door to the first person in my first every home and find out it’s my landlady, who adding injury to insult is a Punjabi.

I can still remember that day as if it were my last night’s nightmare. One would think that years of living in Maharashtra would have eroded the biting edge off the features that I will compile hereunder, but no Sir.

Your average Punjabi landlady will expect you to keep the house as clean and beautiful as if it were your own while at the same time expecting you to forget not in your deepest sleep that the mattress you are sprawled on is not your own.

She will make it so you see her face looming in front of you, teeth bared in-what she assumes is a smile- the moment you spill a drop of something as harmless as water; and the parched lips of the imaginary-bobbing head mouthing the words “it may be cold-drink or God-forbid chicken-curry the next time”. [shivers]

She has a knack of knowing, which would be the most ill-suited of times and will announce her presence then with the demand for biscuits or something that you do not have in your kitchen preceding her prodding feet. She will examine, during said visits, every inch of her precious house and pass rude comments on the bad choice of your bed-linen. Hey, everybody wants Egyptian cotton but it isn't your fault if, with your ungenerous pay the only place you can afford to purchase your bed-sheets from comprises a faded bed-sheet on a street-side topped haphazardly with other, faded bed-sheets in all colours and prints that wouldn’t want to wade through a drain in.

But enough crib. (Don't say it, I know)

Next. If you live in a society, do not be nice to the security guards or exchange trivial words with them for they are the harbingers of your daily routine, visitors you entertain and content of grocery-packets, to the landlady when she comes a’callin’. So if she asks you when you returned home last night, make not the foolish error of telling her anytime but the exact minute and second of the hour of your return for she knows. SHE ALREADY KNOWS.

Life, my children, is tough. And after my first experience in a rented house, why we would want to shove it down even more deplorable pits by living in the cursed home of a Punjabi is beyond my below-human-average-intelligence. A word of advice: go for the seepage in the Parsi’s house. Leave the large windows and marble-flooring in the Punjabi’s house.

Slaves of technology

At 8:25 p.m. tonight I was thinking of the work I had done and the work I still had to do before I could call it a day (or more likely, a midnight). My flatmate was reading the newspaper and thinking of the amount of studying she had left for the last day before her examination. We were both sending text messages all over the country simultaneously while I tap-tap-tapped data into my computer and she flipped channels on the television in between reading the latest mess-ups by the world's who's who in the political arena.

Then suddenly she puts down the newspaper on the bed and says "Damn, today was Earth night where we had to switch off the lights between 8:30 and 9:30 p.m. and I was going to do that". I said "well, lets". So we switch off all the lights and fans. But this is Mumbai and it it hot. So we draw the curtains and open the windows. There is a beautiful, cool breeze that flows in and surprises me. It is very pretty at night from my window and I wonder why I did not notice it before.

"But we are not doing it right", my flatmate mumbled. "How is that?" I ask. She points at my laptop- that, with its rotten cracked monitor, which obscures about 50% of the screen- was humming tunelessly on my desk. "But my work", I say, suddenly not so sure if I wanted to be the good Samaritan anymore. But on my flatmate's persistent nagging I reluctantly powered the ancient machine off, while calculating the extra hours I would have to put into my already over-burdened job to complete the day's target.

I turn around and my hostile expression changes to one of sadistic pleasure as I point to the television and emit a victorious "Aha!". "No way, I can't miss this episode of Brothers and Sisters", my room-mate wails but had to switch it off in the end, along with our mobile phones.

So there we were, twiddling our thumbs and wondering what to do now that there was darkness and more importantly, nothing to strain our eyes on.

But it turned out all right. There was left-over pulses and gobhi-aloo-matar from lunch that was heated by the light a candle and eaten with slices of bread, there was good conversation about families and dreams and regrets, sprinkled with a fair amount of bitching. There was the soft breeze coming in through the windows and the glow of the street-lights and the noise from the traffic on the roads and it seemed to me that we had thrown out our schedules, worries, television soaps, laptops and mobile phones across the it too.

The hour passed too soon but I felt happy and at peace. It was not just about saving the climate and the Earth... for me, it turned out to be about unearthing my buried faith in the beauty of little moments and simple things.

Jharkhand Traffic Rules (pun unintended)

Without frills, here is what I have observed of Ranchi traffic:

1. On an average, narrow road, there will rarely be at least one and usually all of the following:

a. Innumerable pot-holes
b. Iron rods that used to be part of a railway track protruding in the middle of the road to slash your car's tyres.
c. An auto-rickshaw parked smack in the middle of the road
d. 2-3 people peeing rather conspicuously
e. A cop (details in point 4)
f. A group of Deeghambar (nudist) Jainis.
g. Formation of 4 lane-drives by rickshaw-pullers so that you have to trudge along behind them.



2. People hang their clothes out to dry on circles that stand in the middle of the busiest crossings in the town, usually with a statue enclosed within them. I have seen towels, baby cloth diapers, shirts and so on hanging over dried, brittle flowers put a few millennia around some idol's neck. The show-stealer was a battered pair of underwear left to dry on the statue's outstretched arm.



3. As a vehicle-owner in Ranchi, you have the following rights:

a. You may drive anywhere. People WILL stop for you. (more of this in point 5)

b. You may park anywhere. You are the public. You own all public property. Moreover, if somebody has parked on the road and is obstructing traffic, it is your right to double park at the same spot, as long as you leave just an inch short of enough space for the next car to move ahead.

c. You can spit out tobacco or paan or anything you may be eating out of your window, while driving, without concerning yourself with who may be driving right behind you on a scooter or in a car, with the windows rolled down.

d. If you own a two-wheeler, no traffic rules apply for you. You don't have to consider one-ways, red-lights, no u-turns, indicators given by vehicles in front of you or even dividers- yeah, that's right, just jump over them.



4. Traffic cops in Ranchi have very well-defined job descriptions. If you are a male cop, you will spend your time alternatively mauling your crotch and digging your nose out. Cops have been known to do both. You will glance casually at people driving past you on the wrong side or without helmets and so on. We understand that the job can be tedious and draining and it is completely natural for you to disappear without any explanations, while the crowd goes berserk.

If you are a female cop, congratulations. It means you have been selected from among the multitude of women who are so clever they stand right in the middle of the road while attempting to dictate traffic. We know you are utterly helpless at managing people, which is why you have been recruited. There are a few passengers who try to caution the driver about the cop stopping the traffic from their end. To which, the standard reply s "Ladies police hai."

There, you have been given a satisfactory explanation.


5. Finally, in a place with similar traffic conditions, one would expect countless accidents, brawls, and arguments. But not Jharkhand. See, despite nobody caring about anything but getting from point A to point B conveniently- occasionally stopping at points C and D for vegetables or other errands- each driver understands that the others think along the exact same lines. Therefore, nobody would mind if you cut across in front of them from the wrong side or if you stop the car suddenly in the middle of the road to take a call. It is ALL ALLright.

Jai Jharkhand!

Vampire-Friendly

The book Twilight- the story of which has been described briefly here - has raised several questions in my mind, the least of which is my unexplained obsession with it. It is, by all standards a very average book. The story is the kind that would appeal to a 16- year old silly girl who would read, starry-eyed, about the beautiful vampire and his deep and passionate feelings for what is essentially his meal- a girl. It would appeal to the teenage hormones because it would be the perfect imaginary prince that every girl dreams about- for whom she would be the focus of all life and the universe. Which is why I am disturbed by the fact that the book has found its way into my mind as well- 23 years old; not an encouraging sign for someone trying very hard to grow up and be sensible. This book made me realize that growing up is a lost cause and so I could happily indulge in guilt-free bakwas.

Now that the maturing issue has been dealt with, I have thought of a few ups and downs that would accompany my knowing a vampire. The good news first.

1. I would be able to actually hit somebody hard with my baseball bat, since vampires are supposed to be very strong. It would enable some use to my beautifully dangerous piece of wood that has been lying around useless since the time I bought it. What fun that would be! “Mr. Vampire, I am feeling disgruntled about nothing in particular. Would you please come over so I can vent my anger by smashing my baseball bat against you?” For an almost zen-like calm!

2. It would be so much easier to travel the world- piggy ride all the way! I had recently had to struggle for a couple of months to arrange for finances that I needed to show in order to travel to a foreign land. When I couldn’t I had to deal with the disappointment of not being able to go. Imagine being above all the visa and foreign law hassles. “I feel like visiting Germany for the Oktoberfest this year. Mr. Vampire, would you please give me a piggy-back ride to Munich?” Pack your bag, and be there in record time!

3. No need to share your food with a vampire. If, of course he can resist killing you and that could be a concern for you. But overlooking the minor detail, I know who I would take with me when I wanted a no-sharing gluttony experience. At the movies, where friends invariably and much to my irritation must always want a fistful of popcorn from my bucket, a long swig from my pepsi; no, no make that my DIET PEPSI and must always want to taste my precious nachos. With a vampire, all you need to do is rob a blood bank for a few units of blood, put it in a plastic glass with a straw and hand it to the vampire. No desire on either side to taste what the other is having. What a perfect life!

4. A vampire friend would give me interesting insight into the life of people all through the ages that an average, 200-year old vampire would have seen. And if by any luck he is even older, he could be able to tell you how Cleopatra was not very pretty or the inside gossip about Napolean’s well-publicized fear of cats. Imagine a world where history is not dull!

But there would be the cons as well.

1. On the flip-side, there is the obvious and persistent death-threat. A vampire would be lured to your scent at all times and in the given scenario, it would be inadvisable to take a bath so as to not make the scent stronger and therefore your life, shorter. The arrangement suits me fine during the cold, winter months but summers would be a definite problem.

2. The danger to my life would be heightened by the fact that I check my blood sugar at least 4 times a day. Prick; blood out; oops! Sorry Mr. Vampire, would you mind putting on the scent-obstructer around your nose and mouth that I have kept for the purpose?
Not checking my blood sugar would also mean death, though it would be a slower and a more unpleasant form of it.

Evaluating each side, the pros do seem to overshadow the cons. Any vampire out there, reading this post, kindly add me on FB. I will be the one, whose "looking for" detail on the FB info bit would say "vampire friends".

The woes brought on by the quilt

Mumbai is the financial capital of India and its economic powerhouse. It is the headquarters of almost all industrial giants like Reliance, Tatas and ICICI to name a few. My research revealed that the city contributed 10% of factory employment, 40% of income tax collections, 60% of customs duty collections, 20% of central excise tax collections, 40% of foreign trade and rupees 40,000 crore in corporate taxes to the Indian economy a couple of years back.
Over the past decade, India has seen an IT boom with the establishment of high-technology firms here and Bangalore and Hyderabad have been the areas where the development has been concentrated in. Bangalore is also known as the Silicon Valley of India.

Travel up north. New Delhi- the capital of the country houses all major political leaders of the country. It is the government base; the place where all ministers, MPs and MLAs live. In the given lousy perception of politicians in our country, we can then say that Delhi houses some of the most grumpy, selfish and corrupt politicians in the country. And also some of the most grumpy, selfish and corrupt people in the country.If I were to try and find a common explanation that would link the above statements to one source, a quilt would be it. Your average, seemingly harmless and comfort-providing quilt. After much research and analysis, I have concluded that our country is the way it is because of the quilt. Here is how.

Mumbai and the other places down south are economic powerhouses because they don’t have to struggle with the idea of waking up at 7 in the morning on a cold, foggy day and an even more daunting task of leaving that warm, snugly quilt to walk barefoot on the cold floor and into the freezing bathroom and wash their faces and brush their teeth with chilled water. No sir. They wake up happy and warm, fans running at full speed, splash some cold water on their face, which they find refreshing, whistle as they fill a bucket with cold water for their bath and speed off to work. I am guessing they would be a tad bit more efficient that our shivering Northies.

Students could have been so much more brilliant had it not been for the inviting warmth of the quilts that beckons them to chuck the books away and sleep. There has been no research to establish this, but I can confidently vouch for the fact that come winters, the nutritional intake of families invariably dips since the mothers want to snuggle in the quilts- all decked with woollen caps and warm shawls- to knit sweaters, eat peanuts and watch the soaps on TV or read Rupayan.

I read over the Internet that sunlight helps the human body build vitamin D, which is very crucial in determining the mood of a person. It has been seen that in cold countries, the chances of people getting depressed is very high because they do not get enough sunlight for the cells to produce vitamin D. Delhi people get no sunlight during winters. It is mostly foggy. So they are depressed. Depressed people are grouchy people who do not trust anybody. So they become selfish. When one is selfish, one would do anything to get what one wants, without thinking how it would affect society and the country. Political leaders too, are humans. At least by anatomy if not by inherent characteristics. So I’d say the quilt plays a major part in killing the conscience of our leaders by not letting them get any sunlight and therefore positive, happy thoughts.

I do not suggest that by getting sufficient sunlight or by taking vitamin D supplements, our leaders will be straight, honest and responsible people. Or that Delhites would be a little less ill-tempered. But it is my belief that a little more sunshine and a little less of the unholy quilt would bring some change in the demeanour of the Northies.

Our lives in the aftermath

Mumbai strikes are in the final stages of clean up. The final rites of brave soldiers who gave up their lives have been done. Even in my mind, any words to describe the emotions being felt by people sound fake, deliberate. Things you would expect to hear at such a time. I won't write them. I am very angry. And I need this anger to consume my mind and body for a long time. I won't shout it out and forget about it. I will not give a vent to these feelings. Not this time.

Very important realizations have come out of these attacks. The realization that we are in the middle of a war now. The attacks are to be part of our lives now. There is no scope of denial left. Nobody is safe and there is no use pretending otherwise. If not today, then tomorrow. If not here, then somewhere else. I have had enough of scuttling around like frightened mice. I wrote in my previous post that the need is to come out of the bubble that we create around us. To quit guarding our precious selves so fiercely that we forget to care about the people we live with.

I was ashamed on watching news reports about the 31-yer old Major who died because he did not want to leave his injured colleague behind. I was ashamed when I saw his father on the news- calm and without a hint of tears in his eyes. Pride oozing from his broken heart.
I was ashamed because I had felt the same anger at several incidents in the past. I had been angry during Gujrat, during Mumbai train blasts, during 9/11 and during Delhi blasts. But then I forgot about them and went back to my work, to my life.

This time we won't forget. We will write about it and talk about it everyday so we don't forget. We will paste pictures, print posters, relate songs with this incidence and upload videos so that it is firmly embedded in our mind.

The terrorists in the Mumbai attacks were between ages 21-25. Maybe I shouldn't say this but I am impressed. However barbaric, however insanely devastating their plot was, they showed the sheer power of and havoc that can be caused by an inspired young mind. Learn from this- not to go around bombing the world and killing people. But learn the essence: the sheer power of an inspired young mind. The kind of havoc we can wreak on those who have unwittingly shown us our strengths in trying to break us.

Don't forget. Don't forgive. And most importantly, don't live with it. I won't.

Extreme ways

We have been hit. Again. With every attack, the feeling of helplessness grows stronger among us. We were supposedly the next super power. We were doing extremely well financially and were developing. Yet, as of 7:26 pm on Nov. 27, 2008 a country on its way to being a super power has been smashed, tattered and raped.

Ratan Tata said today that while this was no time to point fingers it was clear that the govt. had not learnt its lesson the last time. Had it done so, it would have put up a security infrastructure in place. He wished we would all learn the lesson now.

And he is not wrong. We may have always been a peace-loving country but it was in a time when the world still relatively played by the rules. Desperate times call for extreme measures. We have lived safe, almost self-centred lives for too long now. If we have to live in an environment such as this, which threatens to catch us off our guard, we have to learn to be on our guard.

We need a compulsory 1 year army training for every person after class 12 to enable each to defend himself and fight. More importantly, a training that will make each one of us understand that our country comes before us. It is not enough to talk about it, harp on the sentiment, send SMSs to news channels and then forget about it. It means understanding that my life is far less worthy than that of 50 others who may be with me when disaster strikes. That I will not run for cover when someone comes charging at me but I will stand and fight, and by God if I die even without so much as making the other person flinch, I will die a happy person. That I will not be bullied into looking the other way if I am not the one who is being hurt.

There has been too much of blame-putting. Too many questions, too much expectations for a hero to save the day. Each person needs to realize the hero in himself. To quit being scared. Heck, if we continue living like this, we will all eventually die in one bomb blast or the other. We might as well fight it.

Can do versus Want to do

In my previous post I ranted and raved against the brainwashing of young minds. While it is not easy for those who shuffle with the crowd, it is an equally rough deal for those who attempt to live on their own terms.

Each person has his own dreams and aspirations. They tend to evolve and change with time. The more creative and imaginative a mind, the more distracted and confused it is about the things it could do.

We have placed so much importance on career and jobs that we often mistake it as being synonymous with life. I don't know what I want to do career-wise but I do know that I want a quiet life, just about enough money to pay my bills with some time for myself. I do not want a mobile phone and I prefer desktops over laptops. I don't want a swanky car but a rugged and tattered open jeep. I want a small house on a hill and a little way from habitat and I want it near a town, not a city. I want to be part of a well-knit community where everyone knows everyone. And I don't want to change the world. Every career-choice I decide on has one underlying principle: to lead me to my life's goal.

Sometimes, it may be worth your while to consider what a person wants to do, as opposed to what he can do. Everybody has the right to work hard for his own fairytale life. The fairytale may be set in a grand castle or in a hut atop a hill- if it special to an individual, it should be worthy of the respect of those around him.

The big brainwash

I had the chance to cover a career councelling session at a popular school in Dehradun for my paper a few days back. This was the first time I was going to a school since I left for Delhi 4 years back and got back from there. I was appalled to see the kind of things that were being talked about during the panel discussion on various career avenues for the kids.

The panel in the said discussion comprised professionals from the "popular" careers- there was a doctor, a CA, an engineer, an IT professional and so on. The first speaker came forth to talk about where to begin. His first statements were as follows:

"Be sincere. Don't think I can do this and I can do that also. Be focussed on one thing. Choose now and do it. Then you will be able to do something good in life. Otherwise you will only do simple graduation."

It took supreme effort on my part to not jump on the dias and strangle the piece of lard blabbering before me. How can a school student here be expected to know for a fact what he wants to do in his life? There is the make-slips-and-pick-one or go-along-with-your-friend or dad-knows-best ways of deciding. But seeing as this may be considered a life-changing choice, the least one would want was to know each career avenue entailed.

But the school auhtorities are smart. This was why they had called professionals to talk about their respective careers. Here is what the CA said:

"If you become CA, you have to do many things. You have to maintain records, do audits and compile books and compund interests and taxes. So CA is for the students who have a flair for finance or legal matters because CA has to take care of many legal matters."

Sure. Couldn't be clearer. After all, if a 17-year old doesn't know if he has a flair for legal or financial matters, he has no right to attend a career-councelling session.

School students, especially those who are taking boards have to attend school and study. Period. They spend their "free" time over the phone or on orkut. None of them have worked a single hour in their lives and the only people they talk to are their close-knit gang at school or in tuitions. Analyse the situation- they see nothing, they know nothing- especially where their interests lie- and they have to decide what they want to do right after school and in many cases, during school.

This is the reason why most professionals are disillusioned in the first year of their high-paying jobs. It is a fact that simple graduation is not such a bad option when you don't know what you have to do. Parents would come after me with forks and torches to burn me alive for this blasphemy but another fact is that it is OK to NOT know what you want to do. If you are in standard 12 and your life is remotely similar to what I have mentioned above and you think you know what you want to do in your life, then you probably don't.

I am all for taking as long as it takes to figure out what. Because it is important. Because it is something I have to do- not my dad; not my best friend; not my teachers and not the damned career councellor. Me. I think it should be made mandatory for all 11th standard students to travel for 6 months- backpack through the country, meet people, volunteer at hospitals, schools and theatre groups. Do an intership with MNCs or media houses or under lawyers and CAs. See everything, interact with people, ask questions and then decide where they want to go.

But this education system that takes in individuals and churns out a standard, study-work-marry-die human force has gripped entire generations of adults and children.
The top 2 questions that a child who has recently learnt to talk knows the answer to are-

1. What is your name?
2. What will you be when you grow up?

The big brainwash.

Analyzing the importance of company in one’s life

A day off alone in Juhu has made me realize the importance of company in a person’s life. At PVR Juhu around 1p.m. for the 4:30 movie show, I figured roaming around the fancy Shoppers’ Stop with a basement Crossword store will help kill time easily. Who needed anybody, I thought to myself as I walked through rows of fiction, while ignoring the bitch of a “Like you have a choice” reverberating in my head.
It was a battle between my inner voice and me. The Crossword-browse was stretched for about an hour and a half and when I couldn’t take it anymore; I thought I’ll get lunch. There was a place called Brio in the same complex and I happily walked in, determined to eat like the ladies to stretch it up to an hour at least. I ordered chicken spaghetti and peach-flavoured iced-tea. I sat myself out in the open with the intention of looking out to a nice view. Sadly, all I got was a table at the end of the café overlooking a bunch of valets standing outside the car-park. Without my bag and the book in it, I took to browsing through 5 measly SMSs in my phone and a couple of photographs there. It was pathetic. The peach iced-tea was, too.
I hence learnt the following things about life:
1. When you need your friends the most that is precisely when they will be unavailable.
2. Ditto for your mobile service provider.
3. When people say they like to spend time alone, they are bull-shitting. Try eating lunch alone with no books, no music, no company and no phone.
So armed with no dignity whatsoever and this new found gyaan, I strode back into Crossword, picked an over-priced writing pad, which are stacked for desperate company-seekers like me and on which the gloating idiots probably made a 100 per cent profit, bought a PG Woodhouse book and went back to the café I had lunch at.
Daring the waiter to ask for my order, I am now sitting at the exact same table, scribbling away, unaware of time. I don’t like hanging around with people meaninglessly but I now know that I am not a loner. Nobody is. You can’t spend an hour without your writing-pad or your books or your music or paints or dvds or whatever it is that keeps you company.

The day Syapa Singh and I ALMOST went to Mussoorie

I got up this morning feeling old and eroded. Like there is nothing left on this planet anymore. So the rebel bit inside then squirted out the adventurous hormones, if there is such a thing and I dropped in, on Syapa Singh [my school buddy, in case u haven't heard the name earlier] when I was supposed to go to office to decorate it for the 2nd Happy Badday of the newspaper.

You must know that every time I call Syapa Singh and announce my arrival, she waits until she hears the screech of tyres outside and then locks herself inside the bathroom the moment I enter her house. Then we have a screaming match from each side of the bathroom door until she finally comes out. Bitch! But today I didn't let that happen, and poor Syapa Singh had to wash her face, pull on a pair of jeans and a tee and tell her mom that she is accompanying me to enquire about a course and we rushed out before we could be hammered with questions. The pathetic lie called for a whack on Syapa's head. Me taking up a course? Going to the temple would have been a more believable, though it would guaranteed Syapa's mom fainting.

So we left for Rajpur Road, intending to drive up a little way till our pet Maggi point. We bought a can of diet-coke each, which Syapa pretended was beer and took swigs from, with all the tashan that the thought of alcohol induces. We started talking about the various trips that we have discussed a thousand times before. We start from Mumbai-Goa, then change our minds and turn midway to go to Dharamshala mid-way, with Syapa telling me about her friend's boyfriend who owns a place in Dharamshala, then we come nearer home and consider an overnight Mussoorie stay and finally promise to chalk out a plan after settling on a dawn-to-dusk trek. Which, of course will NEVER happen.

BUT TODAY my adventure hormones were in full swing and Syapa's are usually in top-gear so we were destined to do something wild. We drove past the Maggi point and before we knew it, we had crossed Shiv Mandir and Kuthal Gate too. Syapa Singh knew it. I knew it. But didn't say it lest we realize it. We drove on. The music was nice, Syapa's imaginary drink was making her imagine she was dazed and happy, and she was giggling about everything.
You must know another thing. Syapa Singh likes to, what we usually call reminiscence, while she is living the moment. So there we are, driving up on the mountains we know are forbidden but which have been calling out to us everyday since we got here, and suddenly Syapa says, "In retrospect, this could only have happened impromptu."



The panic hormones started flooding in as the emergency sirens began wailing in my head. Syapa was oblivious to the damage she had done and mumbled something about the fact that she had said she'd be home in half an hour and that I was supposed to be at work, in between fits of crazy laughter. It was not quite so peaceful on the beautiful mountains with Syapa cackling on one side, a cheesy "Botalan sharab diyan akhiyaan teriyaan" screaming in the music player in front, and a hysterical me shouting "Bhen**** I am driving to f***ing Mussoorie."

But we calmed down and I put on the "sanely happy" folder from my MP3 to help us set the mood and we continued driving up as I am sure the blurred and painted-on kilometres to Mussoorie on milestones reduced. We even managed to stop at a few places to click stupid pictures that determined for once that neither of us possesses what it takes to be a good photographer- especially a good camera.








It was pretty cool. The view was great, the weather was incredible and Syapa's unintended jolts of shock did not do too much damage then. Even when she observed on coming across a broken down car during a particularly mean turn- "You know, the engine often heats up and the car stops during such drives."
We intended to drive up till at least Mussoorie lake, which Syapa guessed would be either 3-4 kms or 7-8 kms from Mussoorie. A disturbing point was that Syapa was carrying no money today and I spent the money I had on our diet cokes.

Then my editor called me to ask if I intended to come to office today (he wasn't so mean but what's the fun of writing about someone who doesn't EVER not co-operate with what you are doing?)

So Syapa Singh and I looked at each-other, sighed, smiled, hi-fived, turned the car around and drove back, wondering aloud if Dharamshala is actually that impossible to happen?

The Cell phone: then and now

During our school and college days, the cell phone was something we MUST have with us at all times, including the shit time (literally).
The basic, gareeb models we then had, the most attractive feature of which was probably its built-in torch was invaluable to us. SMS tone ringing 24X7. Phone calls were rare and if the phone wouldn't shut up after a couple of rings, know that it is from home.
Now, when the cell phone is a super sleek, PDA gadget, it has become something you HAVE to carry with yourself at all times- including (you grudgingly tell people) the shit time.
Real responsibilities, which would flutter around at a vaguely visible distance have suddenly begun to settle down rather heavily on our shoulders, and put forth a hundred reasons why we can't just get up and leave like earlier times, on our whims and fancies. There are chains binding the hands and feet- imaginary ones no doubt, but stronger the iron ones so you really can't break them.

Among the clasps of deadlines, appointments, and commitments, there is another one- seemingly inconsequential but when you come to think of it, more binding than the others. For when you take the day off, the cell phone is what will keep you bound to your desk in your cubicle at work.

In those days, the only you wanted was for someone to call, text or even buzz once. Now, all you want is for the phone to shut up so you can enjoy your precious holiday in peace.

Then, you would never dream of switching off your cell phone. Now, it is what you dream of most of the time.

Then, you thought you had all the freedom only because you could talk to your friends (including boys) at any time of the day or night.
Now, you feel you are free when you switch off your cell phone and toss it god-knows-where while you take a break from work.

Ode to the Bygone, Absolute and Sweet Nothings- The Sequel

I sat down to read my blog after a long time. I have always enjoyed reading my own stuff. I'm funny. But it was different this time. I could see the different bits of my moods showing through each post.
From the marijuana-induced neverland thoughts to the society clean-up obsession; from bitterness to apathy and from humour to nostaligia- each transition is blatantly apparent.
Then I realize I have grown. And for once, not in size. By definition I am still young. But in essence, I am not so sure.

Young was when we thought we could take on the world. Young was when we would come up with new tunes and lyrics in a 60 minutes' lecture. Young was when we would make an award-winning anti-tobacco campaign while smoking our lungs out. Young was when we would quote literature in the BUsiness Strategy paper and then boast about it. Young was when we were dreamy, irrrational and spontaneous.

Young was when we were fearless.

Does growing up have to mean losing your zest for life? Is this reality I have a feeling I have succumbed to? I never thought we would. Not us, not this bunch. Yet, today after a mail from the past, I see this routine I have become.

So now at almost two in the morning, I am stepping back into the old shoes. I am tossing my schedule out of the window, I am digging out the long-stashed cigarettes. I am tiptoeing up the stairs and then noisily opening the door to the terrace and I am lighting up. I am lying on the dirty terrace floor in my t-shirt and shorts. I am star gazing and I am freezing. I am writing for the sheer love of it and not caring if I sound silly. I don't even care if I am scribbling on the sheet or not.


It hasn't left us after all, Khattar. Not yet.

This senseless chain-reaction

The blame of a caste-based or racial aggression in India falls, among other things on illiteracy and on the lack of social awareness/civic sense. My observations over the years at times of such riots/aggressions tell me that racial distrust is present among the literate and the illiterate alike. The only difference may be that the latter take to the streets during such aggression, and the former don’t.

The educated class also feel resentment towards “the other caste or religion”. Their bitterness reveals itself in small comments and gestures in everyday living. It is exposed when a Hindu mother expresses apprehension over her daughter passing through a Muslim colony alone. It slips out with some angry words from a Muslim whose Hindu neighbour may have the Sanskar channel turned on loud. It is frequently heard in lame jokes about Sikhs, which is shrugged-off as humour. It has been shooting off in all directions with the North-South hostility. Intolerance is something that we have acquired from the generations preceding us- it registers in our minds sub-consciously when our elders make these supposedly “inconsequential” and harmless racist comments.

I am an ashamed Hindu today. The latest Tehelka sting operation that has exposed the people behind the anti-Muslim riots in Gujrat has left me feeling horrified at the cruelty that people are capable of. What is even more shocking is the fact that people from my religion and caste do not necessarily condemn it. And we’re talking about the educated lot here. The standard feeling is that these riots were in response to the Godhara case, where “they had burnt our people alive”.
The pregnant Muslim whose belly was slashed open and foetus thrown out had nothing to do with the Godhra Kaand. Nor did innumerable men, women and children who were killed in the riots. The irony is that the fanatic religious “leaders” are all holed up in their comfort zones during such incidents.

India is not secular. On paper, yes. In truth, no. In the quarrel over what “they” did that triggered this reaction from “us”; or the incidents before that, that led to this senseless and brutal chain-reaction, aren’t we forgetting about today and now?

It is not just about religion. During the honouring ceremony of our victorious twenty-twenty squad at the Wankhede stadium, Sharad Pawar had rudely shoved aside one of the women who were carrying bouquets to the stage. A very small incident, the common reaction to which is “Hota hai”. But we did not shrug-off the episode where the same Sharad Pawar was shoved aside by Ricky Ponting during a presentation ceremony.

Of course all issues are turned into political scandals and plots by the ministers and their respective parties. This time too, questions are being raised on the timing of this sting operation, and on the authenticity of Tehelka.

Assuming all clarifications and counter-allegations by the concerned party is worth something; one hopes that there will be some concrete action out of this “breaking news”.

HOW MEN CAME TO BE AS CLUELESS AS PIGS

Pigs are nice. They eat, roll around in the mud, and oink sometimes. They don’t complicate their lives. Dogs don’t, either. Nor do cows for that matter.
But men do. Men weren’t happy being furry, jumping animal and they weren’t happy living on trees. So men evolved. They showed signs of insecurities pretty early on. Maybe they was jealous of how magnificent the tiger looked, with his stripes or how interesting the zebra’s hide was, so they made themselves clothes. Then they took some caves and made them their home. Then followed civilization. You know, settling down in bunches, inventing fire, farming and all that jazz.

Pigs fight sometimes. Maybe for food, or for the muddiest, smelliest spot in the sty. Dogs often fight too- when another dog crosses over to the territory the former marked with his pee or when they may be showing off in front of a bitch. She doesn’t have to be hot. She just has to be. I haven’t seen cows fight, they are quiet things, mostly eating. Good thing they are incapable of multi-tasking, else they wouldn’t chew their food that good.
Men fight. A lot. Men just don’t fight for food or the muddiest, smelliest spot in the sty, or territory or to show-off in front of a female. See men like to complicate things. When whoever created life created life, the simple rule was this-

Quite a lot of food- slightly more mouths. Now fight.

But men had a lot of brains. So this arrangement was boring for them. They did a lot of things, the order of which I am not so sure of. They cut down a lot of trees. So animals died. They also killed animals because there were a lot of guns lying around, and there was a lot of time with very little to do. Then there was sex. A hell lot of it. So there were a hell lot of babies.
There was also a new arrangement, whereby things weren’t yours anymore. Men started paying for it, first with other goods, and then with money. Food was also to be bought with this money. And you earned money by first slogging your ass off for a good degree, and then to find a good job, where the slogging-you-ass-off routine was repeated pretty much till the mortal forever.
This whole fiasco resulted in a new rule, which was like this-

Men fight FOR a job to earn money. They fight IN their jobs to earn money. They fight AT HOME with their parents and siblings and sometimes WITH their PARTNERS to earn money. Then they buy food and a lot of other things. Those who can’t earn and buy food fight, steal, kill or die of hunger. Now this was something worthy of men.
The rules for other animals are different. There are two types of countries. Developed countries and developing countries. The difference between the two is NOT the extent to which you can slog your ass off but the amount of money you can earn consequently. But anyways, if you are a pig in a poor country, you can splash around in really dirty drains and roam around freely with your piglets. If you are a pig in a rich country, you will live in a farm. You will be fed with really good food, and men will be your god, who will decide when and where you are to be transported to your next life, where you are called bacon. The rules for dogs are different, as are those for cows. Basically the rule is that if you are not men you shut up and watch. Believe it or not, a lot of men do this too, especially the ones who are called leaders.

Pigs are hungry for food. As are dogs, and cows too for that matter. Men are hungry for food and for power. Men explain the meaning of power very frequently (though they may not realize it) when they say- “I am right. Do as I say. Do not argue.”
All men want this. Some men can say this to the whole world, some to a country or region, and some to their partner and kids. Some men cannot say this to anyone, though they dream of it quite a lot. Some of these people protest to put across their point, but it doesn’t really matter.

All men think different. Which implies that all powerful men in all countries think different. And all powerful men in all countries say- “I am right. Do as I say. Do not argue.” This, as news readers say, leads to a lot of friction among the countries when in fact this leads to a lot of friction among the powerful men of the countries- same countries and different countries. Pigs don’t think. Pigs are nice.

(We don’t know who, so we say) THEY say that anger makes men do strange things. So to show who is more powerful, these powerful men do a lot of strange things. They develop their factories and businesses, which make very good things. The factories also generate a lot of harmful things, but men don’t see bad things until these have spiralled out of control.
Among the good things is very good food. But when whoever created the world created the world, another rule was like this- What tastes good is bad. What tastes like shit is good. So when they make good food, which is actually bad, people start getting diseases.
Pigs don’t get diseases. Pigs eat polythene and shit it out whole.

The powerful men build big houses so show how powerful they are. Now with all the sex still happening, there are a lot more men. And big houses mean less space for other men. So the other men start cutting down trees. They cut down whole forests. They have a lot of brains but they can’t understand that they are destroying somebody else’s house to build their own. So then the earth becomes warmer. Then they make air-conditioners, which makes it really cool inside but way hotter outside.
The powerful men also make weapons to kill other powerful men with. But they mainly kill a lot of men who are not powerful. Then the other powerful men either support or condemn the killings, and then they hold summits and meetings to fight over why they are supporting or condemning the other powerful men. Like this very powerful man in the US who kills people in Iraq and Afghanistan for no apparent reason.

So all of this has led to a lot of madness everywhere. Men are killing and dying. Some even kill themselves so others will die with them. They are creating diseases and then trying to find cures for them. They are ruining things that matter, and are making things that mean nothing. They are even building a road to the Mt. Everest because they want to run on it with a torch. But you really can’t say anything because all men think they are right.

But there are some others who know they are not right. They know what the matter is. They know that the mind of men will always find reasons to justify their plans and the resulting actions- in the name of modernisation or development, of discovery or knowledge, of war-for-peace or jihad, of religion or terrorism. The justifications are numerous. The summits and meetings will go on, the protests will go on, the wars and attacks will go on, injustice and inequality will continue to prevail- all because men refuse to see and accommodate the point of view of other men.
Simply put the few men who know what the matter is know that power is stupid. But since they don’t believe in power, they don’t say “I am right. Do as I say. Do not argue.” So nobody listens to them and nothing changes.

When men created their own rules, they thought they knew what they were doing. Pigs didn’t think that. Pigs don’t think. But now the men are as clueless as pigs are. And as dogs are. And cows too, for that matter.

Ode to the bygone, absolute and sweet nothings

The events and characters in this post have been modified. The writer has, at some places, used the names of the mothers of the real-life characters from whom this is inspired- both to avoid potential embarrassment to the characters, and potential physical harm to the author.

“It is time we get Sunita married”, Kamal said to the room at large. While all others present (comprising the proposed sacrifice’s aunts, cousin and mother) nodded their heads in assent, I demonstrated my shock by a rather weird-sounding WASSCHIZZZZZZ???!!!
The elders (pun intended) looked at me with the motherly concern, washed so clearly over their anxious faces, and which comes so naturally to them. “I am fine”, I hastily explained, and demanded they tell me what they were plotting. (At moments like these, I almost agree with my father when he says a conglomeration of two women or more should be deemed illegal) “Sunita is 23, has completed her engineering, is working in Chennai now, and obviously has nothing more to do, so we think it is about time she settles down.”

My repeated announcement over the years, of not understanding mothers found a new dimension that day. If Sunita is working, how can she have nothing more to do? The last time I heard work was still work. The Almighty’s angels on this Earth (who obviously take their job too seriously) explained that she could work after marriage if she so pleased but it was time a suitable boy was searched for “our beautiful and smart Sunita.” The Venus inhabitants settle on the appropriateness of this time on the basis of how much of it can they afford to spare for a cup of tea in the evening, over which event such life-changing decisions are usually decided. If time is short, they will settle for topics hovering around domestic helps, neighbours, in-laws, or other individuals comprising their sex.

I like to believe that I have a witty and complicated way of expressing the dullest of incidents. But my brooding over something is always written as: “I kept pondering over such and such incident the entire day/afternoon/evening/night.
I don’t know why but I find it impossible to rephrase this activity.

So I kept pondering over Sunita’s proposed wedding the entire evening. It was absurd, the whole idea. Who gets married at… 23?? Seriously? When did that happen? Grudgingly I realized for the women to start thinking about it is, after all, not as absurd as I initially felt. But I permitted ONLY thinking. In my 21 years of living, I have learnt through experience that you expect of others what you, yourself are prone to do at a given situation. Plainly speaking, I am a lazy bum, who can never stick to her plans.

The next day Sunita flew up to Doon from Chennai. In the evening, the six of us sat down together with stacks of photo albums strewn across the room. That is when the subtle clues of us having grown up became startlingly clear. The “Remember the time when” and the “Oh we were so silly then”, followed by a stray “I wish we could go back to that time again” brought this image in my head where I am sitting in a cosy bubble filled with our football, blackboard, ribbons, bicycles, water-bottles and lunch-boxes, and then I draw a needle from my pocket and burst my beautiful bubble, and am falling down… no idea where I will drop.

From the time when we would snigger to see our elder brothers speak with girls to sitting and talking about their girlfriends, from fighting over whose school is better to brooding over when we will meet next, and from fat little pieces of lards adorned with sweaters, gloves, caps, scarves, and boots, who would bunk school with their parents’ assistance to go to Mussoorie, to good looking (I know, I know- me excluded !@#$%^&), and educated young men and women, it has been a beautiful life.

We have grown up, we are all different, we have our own strengths, and our own weaknesses. We are all standing at the threshold of a new chapter, a new phase in our lives. We either are or are about to become full-time professionals and business owners, possessing for the first time, money that is NOT borrowed or stolen. And someday, not far from today, we shall all bear the responsibility of our respective partners and child(ren).

It has all changed, and I am amazed at how fast this transformation has taken place. What remain are the memories, the learning, and their offshoot- the strong bond we share, and the love we hold for one-another. It is what redeems us in our moments of weakness, what gives us the pride and the confidence we possess, and what makes us return to this beautiful, lazy town to indulge in long days of absolute and blissful nothings...

More on Food- Al Bake Shawarma- part of the article written for The Students Inc.

...I went to Al-bake, popularly known as the “Shawarma point” after its star attraction. Located at New Friends Colony’s Community Centre, the place is swarmed with visitors, mostly students all through the day.

It is a small, crowded place that claims to serve “authentic Chinese, Lebanese and Tibetan” food. Not that we know what the difference between the three is. Anything with noodles in it, and anybody with slanting eyes is Chinese.

More about Al-bake’s claim to fame- Shawarmas. They are these incredible chicken rolls of sorts served with mayonnaise, writing about which is a Herculean task owing to the distraction in the very nature of the subject. Not that it is the only thing that is served here. The menu makes a very interesting read, with over a hundred items (written in appalling spelling, I may add). Now most of the people who go to Al-bake do not know a menu card exists. They come, they sit, they say “Shawrmas”, they eat, they eat some more, they leave. And it’s a good thing they don’t try other items on the menu.

The fried rice is bland. The tangri kebabs are over-cooked (I’m being demure here, I was screaming “this is burnt” when I was at Al-bake’s), the chutneys and even the onions served are mostly non-edible. The mutton momos are decent, but since I am not a very big fan of momos, I wouldn’t count on my judgement to decide how good they actually are are.

The major issue with Al-bake is hygiene. Rats are abundant. Occasionally, you shall experience your blissful moments with shawarmas, ruined by an un-godly shriek that can mostly be traced to a deceased insect in a plate of chilly potatoes or chicken momos.

Price wise shawarmas are not expensive at all. For Rs. 20 you get one plate. The “plate” is worn-out, orange porcelain with 2 shawarmas and some mayonnaise sauce. The problem is you don’t know where the shawarmas go. So you order another plate, and another and another. So managing a trip to Al-bake without spending a minimum of eighty or hundred bucks would be quite an achievement.

Happy indulging!

Khan Chacha. Written for "The Students' Inc", the fortnightly tabloid for DU students

Delhi is a crazy place. You can get lost here with its “gone-in-the-blink-of-an-eye” pace of life. But for a certified gourmet like me, who is almost always tight on money, Khan Chacha spells salvation.
You may have read about the place in numerous eating-out guides, but here is a first-hand, student review of the place that sells the best kebabs there are, by someone for whom writing about food comes as naturally as eating it does.
Situated in the upscale and expensive Khan Market, it is the location and setting of Khan Chacha that makes it so popular among the student community. In a city marked by large malls and shopping centres, this tiny 8X6 shop in the back lanes of the bustling khan market, with its brick-paved lane give, in a strange way, a sense of belongingness to the loyal Khan Chacha fans.
And the food… oh, the food… tender, juicy kebabs wrapped in the soft rumali roti, with onions and chutney that innocently drips on your clothes while you are indulging in its sinful taste, and which, you only see when you get back in your car or home… The kebabs, my friend, are not food, they are poetry.
(My request for forgiveness for dramatic comparisons still holds.)

Many a food critics were entrusted with the task of describing and rating all the items on the menu for Khan Chacha. And till date, it is a task unaccomplished. For, once you order a mutton/chicken seekh (with or without the roomali rotis), you will never find the need to try anything else. I have heard that the mutton tikkas are brilliant too, but if I, with my gigantic body proportions, am unable to eat anything after a roll and beer, I am pretty much sure no one else can. Ah! The beer… the icing on the cake… of course, you will not get any at Khan Chacha’s but there is a theka nearby. Just make sure, you wrap the can with tissues to avoid unpleasant incidents with the thullas nearby!

After food, the best thing about Khan Chacha, which is also the reason for its almost fanatical fan following, is its prices. Now, Khan Market will present a number of options for foodies, from Big Chill to Barista, from Café Turtle to Fab Café. Yet Khan Chacha, with its modest settings has held its own, owing to its great prices. Assuming that you have an appetite that is worthy of being considered “competition” by me, a meal at Khan Chacha’s would cost you nothing more than a hundred bucks. A roomali seekh kebab roll is for 50 bucks. All other items on the menu are priced likewise. A beer-can will cost you another 40bucks. Do the math and you will realise that when the huge pockets of your baggy jeans are mostly empty, and you need to take a couple of people out for lunch, Khan Chacha is your saviour. Peerless food, peerless prices!

And all the vegetarians out there, who are missing out on the best things in life, are welcomed by Khan Chacha with his (so they say) sumptuous Paneer Tikka Rolls. Writing this meant making frantic calls to the precious few vegetarian friends I have and I lay down that I should not be held responsible for any bogus content. If you feel I am guilty of exaggerating just how good Khan Chacha’s chicken kebabs are, hang me till death, for I refuse to budge from my stand.

For me and a lot of college students, Khan Chacha is not just another eating joint. It’s a place that holds memories to the best times spent with friends- a reason to celebrate when there is no apparent reason, the distraction that has led to many a mass-bunking, the comfort zone when times are travelling downhill... this cosy back lane provides a combo that kicks the arse of all the fast-food joints’ combos- melt-in-your-mouth kebabs, beer, suttas, and friends.

Cheers to the Chacha and his kebabs!!