Its like a New Feeling every time.

Dedicated to Gautam Narayanan (Bro) & Radhika Lakhani (Bhabhi): YOU MADE IT THROUGH THIS, and STILL SAILING...

It’s like a new feeling every time; Falling in love. I am sure most of you would have thrown up by now. But really ... What’s worse? Being in love? Or the fact that at some point, we all have and just hurl to portray ourselves to be above it?

It’s like a new feeling every time, for cynics and critics alike. They fall the hardest- the ones who say “main iss chakkar mein nahin padunga bhai”. Both my best friends (A.S.M & D.S. - let’s stick to initials only) are living legends of the category. But you don’t know what you are missing when you don’t have something. It’s when you get it and it gets taken away from you that you realise what you had been missing for so long.

The palpitations, when you look at your phone and get that message after a long time; When you know that under normal circumstances you would answer instantly, but you restraint your reflexes for fear that it may make your excitement too obvious. You keep waiting for that good morning and good night. And you keep looking at your phone every 2 seconds thinking, abhi toh missed call nahi aayi!?

You keep wondering when you will bump into them next. You keep waiting for opportunities to talk, and speak sensible. You always have your foot in your mouth. You have no control over your short temper, irrespective of your natural temperament. And you never want to be the one to start arguments-although you always end up being the instigator, and God forbid on topics you know you will disagree on.

You hate it when your friends tease you, but you secretly can’t stop smiling to yourself every time their name is mentioned. You make them the reason for the “ek peg aur bas, phir aaj toh bol dunga”, and a fag each time you argue. And you promise yourself you won’t talk when you are pissed, and like a hopeless romantic you give up your anger...because hearing their voice is that drug which makes you forget the reasons for your anger in the first place. And you are pathetic enough to bend and break your own rules that you will not compromise or change yourself for someone...OH yeah! We have all been there and done that...

I see all these young love birds holding hands, locking fingers, guys hovering over their girls, stuffing one of the pair of headphones into each other ears listening to sappy love songs. And I can’t help but be cynical... Why do people make it so obvious? Why are people so in LURVE with each other? If they stood in front of you, and their partner wasn’t even there with them, their vocal modulations would be enough for anyone to guess who’s on the other end of that phone call.

The stupid smiles that we don’t even realise springs up on our face, when we’re lost in some distant thought or the FM just played a song you imagine singing for them. Everyone around you gives you obnoxious looks, as if they were about to hurl, like your self-indulgent smile was that obvious!!! I’ve been on that side, and this side of that smile. And I’ve been brooding after each time someone squashed the poor little heart too.

But it doesn’t stop skipping that beat...Dheeth hai saala, bechara dil kya kare! And it still springs out...at times. And recently, only two things made me do that, Raabta- the song from Agent Vinod, and a face I didn’t even know was a potential for heart-palpitation, but apparently, the heart did skip that beat... “tera milna hai uss rab ka ishara mano, Mujhko Banaya Tere Jaise Hi Kissi Ke Liye” were the exact words to be precise. It CONSUMES you till you get thrashed around, even if you get thrashed around and it just brings out your RESILIENCE even your mom wouldn’t know had existed!

Radhika Lakhani & Gautam Narayanan, I don’t know your song...but hey, you made it through all THAT obnoxiousness! (Kidding) And that counts. I know the heart still skips that beat when you two see each other, anyone who knows the two of you would warrant that...and I hope it stays so...

P.S.:As for my god-damn loser with the FACE, please realise it too... 

The Story of a Million in One

Disclaimer: I am not going to write about urbanisation as if I were an expert, nor am I going to critique Urbanisation, because I am a slave to it too...

I recently joined the journey of the millions of rat-racers on the streets of Delhi. Delhi, the capital of India. India, the cultural potpourri of the world. The befitting capital of a country where culture could mean a million things. From wine-drinking page-3 exhibitions, to the bedmi aloo poori at 8:00 am in Daryaganj, all of which are generated by a million minds interpreting “culture” differently, Delhi is mayhem of affairs. (You’ll know if you read till the end =))

I recently changed jobs, and had to change my abode, from my mother’s nest in West Delhi to miles away in the south- Kotla Mubarakpur. My office is in Mehrauli, the oldest settlement of Delhi, or Mihirwali- as it was called in the days of Raja Mihir so from Kotla to Mehrauli started the journey of millions in one. I told my mother, when she asked me where the apartment was, “Its South –ex, ma..” to which she responded, “Well, that’s too expensive na?”, and when I said, “Its actually Kotla Mubarakpur,” the expression went straight from concern and worry to disbelief and shock... “You are not living in that rat-hole”, she spat out. But I had to. And why not, it is we who made this rat-hole. It is we who judge the same place in three different ways when we say INA Market, Kotla Mubarakpur and South Ex Part II market. Geographically, it’s all the same when you walk in and out of all of them regularly.

Kotla Mubarakpur is an Urban Village: a settlement that rapidly turned from a village/ agricultural land into a crossword of roads, buildings and shops that seem to have cropped overnight, in a hope to meet the needs of the coyotes and road-runners, Beep Beep.... Almost all urban villages of south Delhi have a million stories wrapped in one, because many are historic villages, dating back to the Tughlaq/ Khilji dynasties and showcasing many scattered remnants of ruins in their Chowk, Mod and Gol-chakars. Like the Tomb of Darya Khan, which is on a roundabout near the INA Market, or the Tomb of Adam Khan at Mehrauli bus terminal, where my bus journey terminates on my way to office each day.

My obsession with the term “urban villages” goes back to my days in college when we studied urban design patterns and town planning theories, the very oxymoron was an attraction. Why I call it a “rat-race/ rat-hole” is because everyday thousands of Indians run out of their shackled up so-called homes, buildings made solely for one purpose- to make rent from the alien office-goer who needs a roof to cover his head; And every evening, they all scurry back into the ratholes. This is true for Kotla, but the vice versa is for Mehrauli. They scurry in each morning, and scurry out every evening.

And these organs of the city- ‘urban villages’- seem to breathe, live and behave like organisms in themselves. Just organisms dressed in mismatched clothes, like a turban of a Kathyawad on top of a suited European banker. Every day I see the juxtaposition of opposites camouflaged behind the chaos: The designer studios and glazed armoires of antiques, right in the heart of the dilapidated and withering ruins, or next to them. It’s too romantic to refrain from discussing.

It is so captivating, its almost like transcending through time within metres. At one turn you are smack in front of the Qutb Complex, the next you are in front of Kimaya, and Studio by-Dunno-who-Narula, and theatre by Dunno-which-philanthropist, designers’ and their exclusive boutiques; another turn and history smacks you again into a tight Terminus doraha(a two-faced fork in the road), right in front of the winding steps to Adham Khan’s Tomb.

Adham Khan's Tomb opposite Mehrauli Bus Terminus

Courtesy: www.flicker.com, by dw ork, no real name given

Let us leave the architecture out, but the shear presence of the building can be felt the minute you see it. It is hard to rub history away, but the real challenge is in keeping the culture of our ancestors alive, and yet not letting it become a hindrance to progress and development. The amount of relief that I get just looking at those who sit on the lawns of Darya Khan’s tomb or on the steps up the plinth of Tomb of Adham Khan, in the evenings, as a respite from all the chaos outside is inexplicable. It feels like the stories of the millions who would have lived in the day and age when these buildings were not museum pieces but were alive, would have been worth a tell. Some of them, especially those on the steps of Adham Khan’ tomb look like regulars, locals who gather there every evening for chit chat and friendly banter.

It is hard to understand what it is that makes me want to switch places with those sitting on those steps and lawns. Maybe it is a manifestation of the fact that in every Delhite, there is always going be a sense of belonging and attachment to the history of the many layers of Delhi built on top of each other. And yet I always walk away, sitting in my rickshaw as I say to myself that there is no hurry for me to experience that lawn or those steps. Because these structures will be there, tomorrow, the day after that, and the day after that. They won’t run away. It is perhaps this- taking it for granted that it will never perish- that Delhi has lost more than 200 of its old historic structures over the years.

Like the other day, our boss agreed to let us get off earlier since it was World Heritage Day and we decided to head to the Qutb Complex, which was a walking distance away. When we asked our receptionist to come along, she simply said, “Qutb? Yahin pe toh hai! Isme dekhne wala kya hai?” (“Qutb, well it is right here, what is there to see in that?”)

To this I just smiled and thought to myself, “You’ll never understand”, but your children will, when you’ll tell them one day, “Yahan pe kabhi Qutb Minar hua karta tha, magar ab bas uski ek manzil bachi hai, unn dinon ticket lagti thi isko dekhne ki...”( There lies the only remaining floor of the Qutb Minar, where there used to be such a monument that we had to buy tickets to enter the complex, in those days.”

Dekhte Dekhte, sab kuch badal jayega(things will change, as we stand and watch)... and the story of millions will just perish, in every time we overlook the possibility. But bas ek baar (just once), when we get down from our rickshaw and enter the complex, instead of running back into our rat-holes, we will feel the city breathing underneath us.

Darya Khan's Tomb at the INA Market Gol  Chakkar
Courtesy: By Mayank Austen Soofi... urf The Delhiwallah, Source: www.flicker.com

Maybe that is why this oxymoron- “urban village”- still lives and breathes alongside us. Because even if it has effectively ruined the historicity of Delhi, it is not that it merely grew out of its own. It grew because we take our heritage for granted. And we are short-sighted when it comes to progress. We carved these buildings out for our needs and blamed socio-urbanisation ...but who makes society- we do. We always would like to get into our rat-holes faster, caring two hoots about the world around us. And one day when we come out, that historicity is in shambles under piles of rubbish and ignominy.  

To some, culture lies in the designer boutiques bordering on the edge of authentic and ethnic to obscenely expensive, thriving on the rehem(grace) of the bribed babus. And to some it lies in sitting religiously everyday on the steps to the tomb that has been there for centuries.

Who’s going to tell me the stories of those millions we lost?

“Server Is Down!”

(Text & Sketches by D.B.)

You all must have experienced or have come across this menace, at least, once in your life. The three words that ‘slows down’ the process, it may be the process of getting a document signed or the process of progress of ‘the nation’, anything and everything could be easily delayed due to this ‘technical’ problem about which none can do anything! This blog might seem to be an aftermath of a personal bump into such a condition, which is apparently true, but more than just that, it is about handling, seeking the solution and questioning the mushrooming of this parasitical – custom of ours, which has grown equally in technical and manual facets of our ‘office’ culture.

Origin

As the name suggests, it started when the ‘server’ came into existence. For someone who is not technically sound, like me, it seems to be a body or a system that governs and contains all the files and data of user (or users), connected through a network. The name ‘server’ suggests that it is meant to ‘serve’ the user, not to ‘govern’, but I used the term on the basis of my own experiences.

Effects

All the offices, be it private or public, do have a server these days and thus they get an infallible advantage of shutting down their work, anytime, without notice. Paying of bills, transactions in the bank, upgrading of official documents, these are only some of the many ‘tasks’ that an average man has to deal with, almost every month. And the same ‘average’ man puts these inescapable duties in the ‘weekend-jobs-to-do’ slot. Note: First, an average man is the one who is also in the majority and second, most of the offices are half-day-open on the weekend. Result: Long queues in the offices!

"Actually, I am helpless!"

A hot June-morning in Delhi, bathing in sweat you reach and stand in a queue to pay the bill. You cannot even see the counter-window due to the ‘long’ queue in the front, though you can see people standing hopelessly, with pankhas (actually, a newspaper or for instance, the same bill) in their hands, trying to get some respite from the summer-heat. You witness some wearing helmets and some with a wet piece of cloth on their heads. The childhood manners, ‘stand-in-the-queue-with-one-hand-distance’ comes into scene unintentionally, as no one wants to get his hands on other’s ‘sweat-shirt’. The females and the senior-citizens have an upper-hand in this scenario, as they have a separate queue for the purpose. Dealing with all this, suddenly you realize that your position has changed. From being the last in the queue to standing in middle of it, you wonder whether you have moved ahead or people behind you are increasing with an unstoppable speed. The self-realisation leads to a thought, “Why am I not moving..?” The trauma intensifies and you step out of the line to examine the position. You have not moved at all! The shock instigates you to finally ask the person standing in front, about the situation, which leads to, “Arey kya hua bhai?” , “Aagey kyu nahin badh rahi line?” and many such comments and queries start flowing in. The movement reaches its peak and a reply comes back, “Server is down!”   

You cannot find a single come back for this. No one can. The queue gets dispersed that very moment, without any revolt or showing any piece of aggression, which normally, is not in our habit. But, if a person says that server is down, no one questions him. We all are now habitual to this, we have actually adapted this ‘failure’ in our routine and we have customized ourselves accordingly. Now we know that “Server is down” means “We cannot do anything..!”

It is spreading

Just imagine, all the viruses that are being generated in computer programs get an access to human brain, what will happen? Something near to that is happening these days. Technically, the ‘server-down’ situation slows down the process; manually (or rather physically) also, it is happening. I might sound like promoting the famous TV series “Office Office”, but unfortunately, it is happening. More unfortunate is that even after years of continuous attempts of satirical attacks by the makers of the series, we have not changed! The purpose of the series was to expose the flaws in a lighter way so that we could learn from our mistakes. We got busy in taking the humour with gusto and forgot to learn from it.

Mssg service was fast, then.

They say, in earlier times, one of the fastest means of sending messages was through bow-arrows. The ruler of the state used to place his best archers at long distances near huge trees. They were so profound that they used to attach the messages with the arrows and target the trees. Thus, from one to other and so on, the message was sent. These days, we have an office, made up of few rooms, and still the message, or for instance, an ‘office file’ would take days to reach its destination. As architects, whenever we design an office, the basic idea is to utilise the space in such a way that everyone is positioned according to the hierarchy thus facilitating the movement, which shall be effort-less and effectual. We spend nights envisaging how we can make the space workable and flawless. But, we seldom consider that a space can become workable only when - ‘what occupies it’ - is working; after all it is just an empty space without humans.

'Manual' - Server - Down

Why we still don’t have that office culture where things are properly managed?

Why there are no ‘priority lists’?

Why we have so many formalities to reach to the desired person?

Why the applications or requests linger around for months?

Why can’t we have a Diwan-e-aam, today? 

Why we still stick to the 9 – 5 timings and stop working after that?

Doesn’t all this sounds as if our own ‘server is down’? Why, in fact, only our ‘server is down’? It is not just the architecture of ‘Googleplex’ (California), ‘Red Bull’ (London), ‘Twitter’, ‘Facebook’, ‘Pixar’, (for those who don’t know, these all have made to the list of the coolest offices in world), that makes them the best. They are prolific in every term. Being coolest in terms of architecture is one thing; with that, they are the successful ones too. What makes them different from us?

If only we could trim down the gap between ‘public’ and the modern babus, half the troubles were gone. The office formalities, ‘paper-work’, and other indirect approaches don’t actually solve the problem, but delays the process. I just wonder what would have happened to our ancestors if this had happened earlier.

Give it a thought!

Sending Message......

Message Sending Failed!!!!

Nappy Time @ The METRO...Babies' Day Out

Weekdays in the Delhi metro is like a trip through the tumble dry washing machine. You are pushed, pulled, slipped... and if you are in someone’s way you will be attacked, like the dirt in your laundry. Your hand may be stuck between two other peoples’ arms and may be stretched about two feet from you in an aerobic pose. Till someone three feet away stares at you wondering where your hands were and what the hell were you doing in that position, and you burst out laughing imagining how ridiculous you may be looking. And just like a tumble dryer you come out moist and ready to soak the sun....yuck =)

A day in Delhi Metro,
Posted May 27,2011:Socially Wicked
courtesy: http://madhurikhanduja.wordpress.com/2011/05/27/a-day-in-delhi-metro/

And then there are Weekends, when all mommies and their bachchas come out to shop and play. All pappas must have been beaming the day their nearst metro opened, because now they wouldn’t have to stear their wife and babies around like unpaid chauffers. Instead they could laze around at home while the kids and mommies were out on their trips.

I was travelling back from Gurgaon today, and Gurgaon to Janakpuri West can be a long... really long, actually too long a journey to be honest. But by Jove, I had underestimated the entertainment that a ride in the metro can bring to you.

The kids and mommies started streaming in. The commotion started. At first it was the scrambling for seats. With each station, the seats were reduced till there were too few and too many mommies, with kids ready to bounce out of their arms. And after the ever prevalent DHEETH (read as stubborn-assed) metro travellers, who conveniently turn a blind eye to the ones who could much rather use the seat, had to give up the seats, many more were adjusted after KHISKOing our asses to saturation. And finally, the mommies settled down...

But wait... the kids knew that if their mother settles down, they could be unleashed on to the metro at their will. And it was Party-time for the toddlers. The pole is the first attraction, TP no.01 (TP-Time Pass). They all like breaking into a running frenzy round and round, around the pole. I wonder if it ever makes them dizzy because they can go on and on. They even create their own games of making a small gesture at some nearby commuter, a smile or a high-five after each revolution, just to add an incentive to each round. 

Website for the image: www.hdwallpapers.in

And then God forbid, if there are two who haven’t fully developed their words yet, they will scream at each other in a language none of us can decipher. They’ll pull their moms hair, smack the face of the adjacent commuter and laugh it off, and so will the adults...sometimes I wish I could do all that too, that’s the art of getting away!!! Till one of them starts to wail because he was dancing from one pole to another and just then the driver hit the brakes, and the bachcha must not have seen that coming. He smashed into the pole face on...oh poor dearie. And even as the kid is wailing away to glory, all the instinctively motherly girls will ooze out their “ooohs”, “tschhtscch-es” and “oho baabu” to the baby, some will even giggle, enjoying the melodious cry of the baby. Little do they know the pain!

Website for the image: www.mumstreet.co.uk

The last thing one should be doing in this scenario is picking the baby up to a height where he/she can reach the hold-on straps on top. That just ignites the monkey-man in them. They will swiiiiiing from here and swiiiiiiing from there. Swinging from the hold-on handles is TP no .02. If one does it, they all will want to do it. Even in this lot, there will always be a Shah-Rukh-Khan-Baby, the cool one. The one who will overlook the ones doing all the jumping, squeeking and screaming and brush off such bachpana, and more often than not the SRK Baby will have a uber(UBER)- mod (read as hot) mom, with her goggles perched on top of her head, who will only talk to her baby in English; As if the baby could tell any better, he’d care two hoots if she spoke in Malayalam. Invariably, they get off at Rajouri Garden ready to hit the malls of Rajouri, mommy and SRK baby.

Alas, soon came Janakpuri East, and I got back to reality. All the squeals faded, and I wished the journey had been longer. At least those kids were having more fun with a mundane metro ride than us frequent travelers.    Metro ka Nappy time khatam hua...agla station Janak Puri West hai. And I got off...

A Traveller’s Blog

(text and photos by Dishant Bhatia)

My distant memeory

I was not a ‘traveller’at all, during my early days. My school was just three kilometres from my place and that gave me the opportunity to have a ride in the bus for almost 15 valuable minutes, both up and down. Course it was much secured and was away from the menace of the heavily-crowded roads, especially during the ‘peak hours’, as we call them. When I was a kid, it was fun as I used that ‘precious’ time for thinking and day-dreaming which apparently has been my best time-pass (till date). In my eighth standard, the introduction of CNG Buses raised the transport charges to such extent which was not acceptable by many, particularly for those living near to the schools. 


That, unexpectedly, gave me the chance to ‘step out’. I was introduced to a much capable, cheaper and lenient mode of transport – DTC. I got a bus pass meant for students and when I say it was cheap, I mean it, as it was mere Rs. 12.50 per month, with which one could travel in any DTC Bus, anywhere in the city. I was told that the sum had been the same since the time my dad used to travel back in ‘60s - ‘70s. Clearly, I picked the DTC over School transport which would have costed me 50 times more. That gave me the opportunity to move about and provided me with a sort of independence. I could go to different parts of the city which also helped me become a part of it. Thanks to my dad, I was roaming around Delhi and was inadvertently getting trained about the paths (arteries) of the ‘heart of the nation’. (Now when I witness people, knowing anything about City & Urban Planning, mentioning Delhi - being radially planned - as a ‘confusing’ network of roads, I disagree with them due to obvious reasons.)



Delhi's life-line on a chilly morning



The radius of my scope of travel expanded rapidly after my shift to College, in the ‘J’ part of state of J & K. What was once a short ride in the bus, now transformed into a Journey of 14 long hours. A person, who used to travel within the city, now had to cross many cities so as to reach the destination. My love for travelling eventually became directly proportional to the amount of travelling. More the number of ups and downs, more I started loving it. The 640 kms of distance also gave me enough time and space to think more. Travelling in a private bus service or government roadways, whichever the way it gave me a chance to ‘move out’ further. Studying and memorising the activities going on around me was already in my blood (thanks to the training I had in my early days). What enhanced it more was the longer span of the distances. Now, instead of city roads, I was travelling on Highways. I learnt a new language - A language of driving on Highways. It was all together a different and a larger domain. I started meeting different people of different tastes; Haryana, Punjab, Jammu and even Punchh, I met them all.



On NH-1, one of my favourite captures



Punjab’s hospitality – The bus broke down in the middle of nowhere in a place called Tunda and an early morning breakfast of pakoras and ghar ki chai was arranged and served by the villagers and mind it, it was for forty people. The bus conductor of Punbus (the official Punjab Roadways bus service) in Jalandhar city shared his lunch with this college lad just because the boy was looking weak and was starving as he didn’t have much money, I’ll never forget those ghar ki bani aloo poori.. The stress is here on ghar ki bani and not on the aloo poori! (Any person who has ever lived in any hostel will understand this). 


Haryana’s Dabangg­–attitude – the understanding between the driver and conductor (I call it the best relationship on Earth), the experience they have gained from continuously riding together all these years. For those who don’t know, these guys have shifts according to the number of chakkars (rounds) they complete in one go and thus a driver starting from Delhi completes his shift when he reaches back Delhi on the next day. Hats off! They also get an extra point for their hospitality, despite the fact that their voice ranges so high that others think they are howling at them. Not to forget the hawkers, those who can sell the whole world in just 10 minutes with their confidence and expertise. Sometimes I feel that the kar lo duniya mutthi mein concept was actually coined looking at them. From pens to diaries, the handy juicer machine to table mats, the artificial jewellery to the ‘all-ailment-healer’ medicine, they have it all and that too, for very cheap, with a price range starting from mere Rs. 5 to Rs. 20.

I have grown used to all this by now and find pleasure in these ‘negligible’ activities and events going on around me as I learn something from them every time I travel.



Highways @ night.. Through my eyes!



I started with saying, “I was not a traveller”, but now I am and I know that sitting at home/office, watching T.V. or working on your laptop, listening to you favourite music or watching the movie you are very fond of, having the ‘home-made’ stuff and spending time with the family and friends can give you pleasure. Still, you are missing out on Something! As a traveller I would advise you to ‘Move Out’ and explore where the ‘joy’ lies instead of bringing it into your place in terms of materialistic comfort!

As I end this I really wonder why I always loved the Royal Enfield commercial with the tag line – LEAVE HOME!

RAIN

(pics, sketches and text by DB)

It’s been pouring since two days.

 We all have read many poems and tales about rains. Maybe that’s the reason why (almost) everyone is a bit emotional about this weather. Indian authors in literature have always demonstrated the ‘pouring sky’ as a sign of positive energy and as the time (or ambience) which is very romantic in nature. On the other hand, English authors have a totally different outlook for the same. Thus, influenced by the context of the Indian literature, rain does leave some eternal effect on our mind and body.

The continuous sound of water droplets seem as if two friends are chatting with each other after a long time without bothering about what others might think about them. Accompanying them is the flora of the place which suddenly becomes ‘lively’ and starts enjoying like a kid playing in mud and water. The nature actually starts dancing along with the ‘full-of-life’ atmosphere of the surroundings and at the same time everyone gets relief from the daily hustle-bustle of life and finds out a moment to spend with one’s own self or to relax. Birds hide themselves under the nooks and corners of the niches shaking their feathers on regular intervals drying themselves up. Sometimes one can even notice them shivering in the chill. That sight is astounding to see.

One starts drowning along with the continuous ‘flow’ of water. The sound refreshes the memories of standing aside a river bank. You feel that nothing is in your control. It keeps on flowing without any concern. Suddenly, you notice the pathway which was not being used by anyone since morning (because of the down-pour) is finally occupied by some users. All, holding an umbrella with one hand and the other in their pockets minimizing the surface exposed to rain, heads down and moving with a constant speed towards some definite destination. It appears to be a perfect composition for canvas and then unexpectedly someone, without a shelter, comes into the scene, running, giving motion to the picture all of a sudden. The lush green surroundings get a tough competition from the vivid colourful umbrellas, some matching and some totally opposite to the appearance of the person holding it. Imagine a person wearing formals and holding an umbrella with floral design on it and, that too, pink coloured.

The droplets still manage to settle somewhere. It seems as if they also want to take a break from the continuous flow. You may find them on leaves or falling on floor making random circular patterns and vanishing in a moment making way for the next one. Matching the speed of the drops are the thoughts going in the mind. Most of them filled with memories of times spent especially associated with this weather. Memories which fill up the dull faces with sweet smiles, which refreshes the mind and a force drags us towards the window/balcony and we keep on gazing at the rain, the drops, the surroundings. Filled with such thoughts one wants to relax on bed, take a nap, and have a cup of tea. One can find a group of close friends laughing out loud and enjoying, or a couple having a warm conversation, making the best use of the moment. For many (like the one observing all this), the warm memories from the past are enough to fill up the ‘empty’ spaces. 

All in all, the sudden down-pour acts as an excuse for everyone to get what their ‘inner’ self wants keeping aside the regular duties and responsibilities. The rain becomes a short vacation and one enjoys it with a thought in mind, “It won’t last forever!” 

Dress me up....with Style, with Goonj

Girls Girls Girls...we are obsessed with clothes, we love junk jewellery, we love humongous glares, we lurve our fuschia pinks, parrot greens and electric blues. We like the Amritsari jutti and the Hush Puppies, just as much. The Latte and the Bhutta, both look equally yummm in our hands...now, now.

Delhi is known world over for having the best chic-magnet markets, shopping areas, style sense, fashionistas, informal hangouts and the most vibrant summers, be it street-vendors or showroom-shoppers (mostly window),  or the 'just chill'-dudes.

You want it...Delhi's got it.

I remember, back in my fucchha days of college, when we were still getting the hang of being an Archi, my teacher once said, "If you have to be an architect, you have to be as labourious as an ant, and as attentive as girls on a shopping spree". We all giggled (predictable), because we knew exactly what he meant. Sadly, the guys didn’t, most still don't. Can't blame them, because when they take their girls out shopping, they fret and fume over why the womenfolk took so much time to make up their mind, and the girls fret and fume too...because its stressful to decide when there's too much to choose from, or too little to choose from, and also if there is too much that you want but can't afford....(mostly it’s the latter that’s frustrating)

Phew...It Was Stressful!

Let me explain, courtesy this Facebook illustration my friends once uploaded :

How do guys and girls see colours--------------------

THIS is what it meant!

God seems to have blessed the Female with the ability to scrutinize each and every commodity with such great detail, that it could drive men insane.... and let’s not blame them; their eye to brain coordination doesn’t go beyond the sports' field or bird watching! 
They just function differently. 

I remember, when I was young, my parents were very simple and pushed us more towards studying and hardly on my dressing. I was constantly conscious of myself when I was out in public because whenever I went to birthday parties, more often than not, I repeated clothes. Buying clothes was sacrosanct as we were taken out only once every year to buy two pairs of new clothes for the whole year: 

One for Deepavali, and One for the Birthday.

And I waited for shopping day with such eagerness...it was unnerving! 

Me and my brother used to endlessly make a list of all the possible permutations and combinations we could achieve by choosing the right pair of  tops and bottom, and I was obviously much more articulate....I mean for girls, there was just such a plethora to choose from...The math was of monumental value (Forgive me the melodrama)

It could be a skirt, but the top had to be common for both trousers and skirts, and the other set could be Jeans and top or dungarees or a frock, for special occasions...and the list was editted, shortlisted and FINALLY, two sets used to make it to the end.

And we were a fairly comfortable Middle Class Family.

As I entered college my parents realized that nothing could stop me from being a Girlie (just imagine!)... I too loved dressing up, and I too loved looking the part. Of course, I never overdid it, but the sheer freedom to choose my clothes was empowering...really. It helped me define my own style and my own personality and really made me more confident.

My friend’s mother once spoke to my mom and the two ladies, in their moment of motherly (mamata bhare) discussion, were discussing their daughters. When my mom expressed her shock on my sudden inclination towards shopping and clothes, my friend’s mom was surprised at her. She simply said, "Mrs. Iyengar, if you want your kids to feel good, you got to let them look good. I agree it has limits, and our kids know their limits. But honestly, let her do as much as she needs to feel confident to move out...its peer pressure you know."

And that was it, it was Peer Pressure.

There was pressure to look good, feel good, speak well; walk good...being a teenager was stressful in itself and having to deal with Mom's issues…it was too much.

But that perspective changed when I got over myself, when wearing casuals and not uniforms became normal. When the initial overwhelm wore out, I realized that it was merely a fascination. Janpath, Lajpat, Sarojini, and Kamla Nagar too became window shopping addas, and Dressing up or Dressing down wasn't as much of a cool-factor anymore.

And then Goonj happened. I was back from college and had gained a perspective on things,like they say…

We came across a banner one day dangling over a nearby tree outside a neighbourhood school asking people to donate whatever clothes, used, unused, spare, gadgets, blankets, chappals, shoes, napkins, bottle, books, pages, pencils…anything and everything which they thought they didn’t need. And it said Goonj in big black words.

I collected a few things and got to the venue on time on the day of collection and realized there were truckloads of donations from people. A volunteer spoke to us about how Goonj started. It was merely a thought that had popped up when a guy, a founder, saw street kids walking around with no footing or scanty clothes in the cold. 

A 20 rupee hawai chappal that was just so L.S. for us…it was a luxury for some.

The thought was perennial and brave. And all I was doing was giving away things I didn’t need. And it would benefit those who didn’t have anything they needed. Soon we made many more trips to these camps. We still do it when we can.

I searched more on the foundation and found out that what we discard as waste clothes, Goonj used them for street kids, especially during harsh winters; they used it for the development issue in rural India (a concept of Shramdaan- where you do labour and get the community involved in development), as a bridge between rural and urbane schools in the country etc. They were doing work as intrinsically sensitive as empowering and educating women to use cloth and cotton to make sanitary napkins, these women hadn’t heard of any sanitary napkins for crying out loud! They used paper, tissue, ash (the thought is a horror in itself) and god knows what other atrocity to get through their menstrual.

That thought stayed with me, and I am sure you don’t need to be a girl or a guy to understand the torment that these women and children went through if they didn’t even cover their vitals that counted as basics for survival…its plain agony.

And so each time I donate my clothes, my books or my slippers to Goonj instead of waiting for them to tater and shred, till they can’t be used anymore, I feel a sense of empowerment...and not in a typical "Nari Mukti Morcha" kind of way, but more like 'womano-a-womano'. 

I feel like if I am helping even one girl in some 'oolu' place somewhere, cover herself essentially, and one woman somewhere protect herself from her torment, to the say the least; even if it is just one…I can live with that. And this is not a promotional ad, it’s just something too personal…

Visit: http://goonj.org/ , if you are in the least interested…

...........

 Have you ever written a diary? Even if you wrote say five to ten pages and then forgot all about it. Then one day while cleaning your closet you find it just lying there, guarding your secrets, fantasies and desires.

Its kind of a mixed feeling isn’t it. Some pages make you cry, some make you laugh and a few make you feel angry. But reading the pages of that long lost diary help you relive those moments again.

I too found such diaries in my closet. Yes, diaries not just one but three diaries and in each one of them I had hardly written thirty to forty pages.

They truly are our best friends. Each and every page of the diary told a different story about me. What kind of a person I was and what I wanted to be? What I dreamt about life and how it has turned out to be…

It told me about things which I used to cherish as a kid and now I don’t even think about them. Not just this but it reminded me of all the promises I had made to myself. Someone once told me “no matter how much you try you can never be the same rebellious teenager, standing up for what is right and at one point of time you’ll have to be ignorant” to which I completely disagreed and I still feel the same way. I still fight for what is right and I’ll never be one of those ignorant people living without even knowing who they actually are/were. It’s a different story, that I still remember this particular incidence but there are people who forget, “who they really are and what they really wanted to be” just because they don’t pay attention to small and simple things in life. They become ignorant towards life.

Why do we let ourselves miss out on the things which make us feel happy or make life simpler? Why make your own self feel miserable when you can actually do better than that…

My point here is, cherish what you had, love what you have and never let go of who you really are.

Jaan - Pehchaan

Jaan – pehchaan

In the times of social networking, where we have the liberty of making ‘friends’ with just one click of a button and also separating them into categories like ‘close’ ones or ‘acquaintances’ (although, now we have the freedom to ‘unfriend’ them also), we, at Panwadi Tales, would like to stick to the basics. Thanks to our rich culture, we have in our blood, the habit of making friends with almost everyone. “Arey! Uski bahut jaan – pehchaan hai!”, is an expression which acts as a ‘status-symbol’ in the society like ours. Right from the M.L.A. of the District to the person who updated you on India’s score against Australia in the last match, sitting next to you in the bus.. We are friends to every one!

Thus, to keep up this tradition and to expand our ‘friends-circle’, we introduce ourselves:

Ar. Anusha Narayanan

She is the ‘think-tank’ and initiator of this blog. A person full of zest and ideas, ideas to do something new always; One who is not satisfied easily and thus keeps on looking for more! An Architect by profession and living as she takes it seriously, graduated from School of Architecture & Landcscape Design, Katra, J&K, a writer by passion, who loves to move around and explore new places and ‘spaces’, the ‘new’ might include old ruins too, a Tam-Brahm with an attitude of a impure Delhite, one who loves family and friends & one who enjoys dancing and singing, she’s currently with her pals on this chit-chat journey, exploring, and bringing to notice – ‘The Details of Life’!

Divya Sharma

Hard to define, but sometimes, in a moment of simplicity she can be boldly obvious. Not too good at reading between lines, but quite adept at writing with hidden undertones between her lines. A passionate basket-baller, an aspiring social servant, a photographer and a writer in her secret life, a Himachali half-Rajput, and a thoroughbred Delhite, an IT engineer and a soon-to-be MBA grad from BVIMR- Delhi, she plans to venture into social entrepreneurship. Someday she hopes to reinvent herself truly, as and when the timing is right. As of now it’s nothing too big...just baby steps leading her to her calling.

Dishant Bhatia

"Sasuri Dilli, kaat kaleja leh gayi...", thats him... an avid traveller, a pure-hearted photographer and a true romantic. He has an eye for detail- being an architect in the making of course, not just an eye, a lens, an arm, a leg and a head full of it too; and a cheery disposition to make friends with anyone and everyone. He loves Delhi and Mumbai: the vada pao and the chhole-bhaturey, in their entirety- which is contrary to popular belief that no person can love both cities equally, with his unconventional liberal mind - he does. He is currently pursuing his Bachelor’s in Architecture from SMVD University, Jammu & Kashmir. Among his many achievements has been the applause and appreciation he received at the recently concluded IIID Showcase Exhibition at Mumbai, March 2012, for his photographic genius: “Order in Chaos”. A multifaceted, attentive, inquisitive, creative and well-informed civilian, he’s many virtues in one body. And, by Jove, his eye meets more simple pleasures everyday than we can think of.

Salonee Chadha

Do not be mistaken by her sane exteriors! We have a serious hunch that her thick curls are a reaction her head had to those thoughts running haywire inside! Curly haired Delhite-bred Ms.Sunshine who on any regular day,has oodles of unexpressed craziness and unexplored excitement generated from the smallest of things, wrapped inside. An aspiring architect who got acquainted to us during her architectural internship, pursuing her B.Arch. from Sushant School of Architecture, the acquaintance has helped all three share newer experiences and realms of FUN. She is an avid reader and relishes the vintage Print-Media more than the Digital in today's day and age. Punjabi Loud is so not her style, but neither is the Urbane Suave, its somewhere in between the two. More like Punjabi yet Suave who enjoys being a "Retro-Drama Queen" to cut away from the sanity of life...our very own Chadha Sahab!

New Beginnings - Shri Ganesh

Dearest All,

Some would ask why the name,"Panwadi tales"? There is a beauty to the feeling of being a local, familiar with the streets , lanes and gullies that the word generates, something that is undiluted and Local about it, nothing cosmoplitan, nothing classy, nothing elegant- Just Plain Street.

There is nothing more commonplace than Panwadi ki Dukaan at the chowk, the nukkad, or across the gully. And there is no dearth of Chaurasia Paanwala's in the city I call home- Delhi. But then there are those who wouldn't bother even asking about the name and they are the real subjects of this Blog.

The I'm-too-cool-to-notice group...Oh yeah!

Notice how, when we walk the streets, we feel the most ease in walking up to the Panwadi for directions(despite what guys may say about their navigation skills, they do it too!). In any city, locality, or neighbourhood, be it in any state of India, they are a perpetual given. They're always there, always helpful, and mostly mind their own business, not so much of bleak-holes. A Panwadi on any given day meets hundreds of people from all walks of life: from the Spoilt Brat to the Nouveau Riche, from the under-aged to the elder folk, from the Hukkah to the Beedi, from the shy guy who scrams as soon as he's done buying his daily smoke, to the unabashed girl who ups her cool factor by walking up through the male-dominated swarm....a panwadi meets them all.

So to me , a Panwadi symbolises that part of the Indian streetscape that remains unchanged through time and place and transcends the superficial class-creed barriers; a freedom we all share as people. Something that the rich and poor have equal access to. Someone whom you see everyday, you walk past blindly, you blissfully ignore, and you only realize his significance when you walk up to him in the middle of the night for petty change for your auto ride (A situation I face almost everyday because the rickshaw drivers of Delhi find new ways of tormenting us daily... they never have change, and they always overcharge...but that's a different story).

The Panwadi to me was reminiscent of the Meetha Paan(kattha, gulkand and calcatta patta) when I was ten, a rebellious dare to walk up and ask for a Smoke in a truth-or-dare with friends when I was fifteen, a hive for miscreants when I turned eighteen, and a permanent entity I used as an ATM for small change when I turned twenty-four.That's exactly what this blog is about.

We, I and a few like-minded friends, began the thought of writing about the smaller pleasures of life, the innocent joys, that we step over each day. Things that we walk past everyday, but their shear beauty gets lost simply because we never take the time to think about it, or even evaluate it as an entity worthy of our attention. Things we could consider small, or we could also give them a minute of our attention and see their blatant boldness.

Lets count things,

Would you know how many shades of yellow and orange are there in your green grapes?

Would you know how little the fingers are that made that ethnic purse you were carrying?

Would you know how many people fought to keep that place from demolision...the one you just spat on?

Would you know how many different formations of clouds are there in the Thar...the rain thirsty desert?

Would you know that people actually donate clothes to street dogs in harsh winters in Delhi?

Would you know that Street food may be more hygenic than Fast Food?

Would you know where the street-performers hang out in your city?

Would you know where to dispose your e-junk near your home, instead of the dumpster?

Would you know how many of your public parks have become junkyards, uncleaned and unnoticed?

Would you know how many types of Paan are there?

Would you know how many types of Kaala-Khaata are there?

Would you know where to get Manchurian Dosa?

I wouldn't know most of these too...but what I do want to explore is the idea of writing about all those seemingly little people, places, incidents and events we walk past everyday. That which we have easy access to and turn a blind eye to, that may seem little or even minuscule to us, because we are too busy to notice. I just want to explore. So lets just keep this about exploring "The Smaller Pleasure in life" as Devadeep Gupta (alias DD) put it.

And I wish you could join us.