Dated: 24th August, 2011
The preparations: 10:00 am ; Where: Sector 15 Part 1,
Gurgaon
A
day spent well= cherised memories earned
What an office going soul yearn for? A leave. You can sleep
till late- yawning and changing sides while your jealous roomie gets ready for
yet another grueling day.
It is a Wednesday, middle of the week and I am a lucky
person to get a leave approved.
Reason? To buy an admission form of a prestigious B-school.
Objective? To make myself busier and richer.
Destination? Where else, other than my Heartland- Delhi.
So, here sets the wayfarer
on a journey to one of the most hyped city of our country- New Delhi. After
living for four years in Delhi, I shifted to Gurgaon this year. Though a part
of NCR (National Capital Region), just less than an hour away in distance, it
is hundreds of kmph faster in lifestyle. It actually appears to be a walled
city- surrounded by glass walls of corporate buildings- inhabited by mostly
office going human beings. The retired office goers can be found either
gardening in their apartment’s terrace or bungalow’s lawn or playing tennis
with fellow oldies in colony’s sports club. The future office goers are seen
maneuvering with their smartphones with sophistication. The kids? Can be seen
only at the bus stops. Gone are those times when every morning I opened my eyes
to find a myriad of activities going on in the neighbourhood- People sipping
hot tea and taking nibbles of samosa-kachouri at road-side stalls, ladies with
wet disheveled hair with roti and gud in their hands searching for cows,
grandparents buying milk, eggs and other groceries from small stores, nearby
temples vibrating with chants and tinkling of bells. Dear Delhi, where can I
find you again? I am going to visit you soon.
The Central Maze: 12:00 pm; Where: Cannaught Place
My favorite reading place- not a library, park or class room
but the Delhi Metro. I can read a book in a overcrowded metro compartment too,
dangling on a loop hanging overhead by one hand and holding the book in other,
swaying to and fro in sync with the momentum of the train. Nowadays I am
reading a book on Indian Fundamentalism- Holy Warriors by Edna Fernandes. The
book is highly engrossing especially for a novice like me who hardly knows
anything of the religious history of the country. But getting engaged in book
reading can be unpleasant in many ways- You cannot observe your surrounding
hustling and bustling; the auntys and grandmas standing near your seat are become
very unhappy with your upbringing- cribbing that no one has taught the younger
generation how to respect elders; and most important- you can’t keep a track
which station just passed by especially if you cannot hear any sound except the
earphones blasting against your ear drums. But you don’t have to worry for you
are in India- always surrounded by helpful people. Seeing me puzzled and my
eyes wandering from one corner of the window to the other, few of my fellow
passengers offered to help me by their lip movement gesturing to utter the name
of the station- of course they are intelligent enough to guess that I would not
be able to listen to their sweet and kind voices.
Rajiv Chowk Metro Station- always ready to engulf me in its
crowd. It is actually a sea of homo sapiens with a wave moving from yellow line
to exit; another hurling towards Jahangir Puri or Huda City Centre; One more
rushing to and fro a bridge connecting the two platforms of the blue line. I am
as lost as always, trying to figure out/or rather guess from where my friend
will come to meet me. While I was toiling to get through the mob with suitcase
and luggage, another gang of enthusiastic Anna supporters with tri color tattoo
on their face, and Indian Flag in their hands was shouting at the top of their
pitch- their eyes brimming with fervor and the space enclosed by their fists
gasping for air. For a second or two I felt the same patriotism in my heart as
I felt at the time of Cricket World Cup Final when all friends were gathered at
the same place to cheer up for team India together. Togetherness brings
strength- I realized. Meanwhile, my friend found me and I was saved from being
lost again.
Exit 3 & 4- towards Barakhamba Road where stands the
Statesman House- Huge and intimidating but I love this building because of the
book shop it has- The Oxford Book Shop- a feel good destination for a book
lover but alas, I was not able to push the red door. It was a shock to know
that the book shop had been closed for over two months now. We decided not to
stay there more. So we walked out and stopped at an emporium that showcased and
sold exotic pieces of traditional art/craft and textiles/apparels. Marveling on
a hand crafted carpet that we mistook for a photograph, we were actually
discussing few of the concepts and mechanisms that we learnt in our early
college days. The carpet was worth 12 lacs we were told and it took around 3-4
years to actually construct it. Like village kids enjoying each and every
attraction at an annual fair, we were actually trying to touch each and every
creation- a marble lamp stand, wooden elephants and peacocks with silverwork on
them, ornamented key rings and show pieces, wooden chess boards, silk and
velvet home furnishings, hand woven carpets, leather upholsteries, cotton and
silk block printed tunics, denim waistcoats with sequin embroideries, colorful
accessories and last but not least- postcards. We were the most neglected
visitors for the store was full of attention monger foreign tourists. However
there was one salesman who was very glad to explain the kind of effort and
craftsmanship that had gone into each of the products-how they engage artisans
having an experience of atleast 10-15 years and that these art works are not
actually products but collective dreams. Realizing that we were really standing
amidst a range of high end product range that we would never be able to
purchase, we left the place.
Crossing the road, we reached block M to meet a friend who
was a store manager in one of the stores. We decided to take lunch at Dominos-
a good hunger killing chain of food joint serving good and cheap pizzas. After
having a cheese burst pizza, a coke and newly introduced butterscotch mousse,
we left the outer circle. I had two options of transport to consider- the cheap
Delhi Metro or a costly auto ride. Finally I chose the later- to make use of
each moment in the lovely weather- sky covered with grey clouds and atmosphere
mobilized by cool breezes. As I passed through the familiar buildings and
traffic junctions, forbidden memories knocked my eye lids and asked my
permission to slide down my cheeks but I would not let them do this. It is a
lovely day- I told myself while paying the auto wallah the amount displayed on
the meter.
Paying attention to the Nature’s call: 3:00 pm; Where?
Qutab Institutional Area
One of the most lush and green peaceful corner of Delhi I
have seen. A hub of so many institutes separated by green animated walls formed
by a combination of varities of flora and fauna; I wanted to experience more of
this solitude so I switched off the media player and decided to walk till I
reach the Adhchini Bus Stop. On my left hand side were big buildings- each constructed
in a unique way to qualify its name and fame. On my right hand side were small
dhabas- usually a big open van in the centre with metres of plastic sheets
canopying over plastic tables and chairs. There was a mix and match of black
and white figures- carved in various silhouettes and fittings- groups of
management students- separated by the ID cards of their institutes but sitting
at the same road side eating joints, ordering for same dishes, discussing
similar business plans, buying and selling same dreams. Few metres ahead was a
Hindu Crematorium- abandoned and neglected but true to its existence- like
death itself. A big statue of lord Shiva that smiles and assures of providing
protection appears cleansed after a few spells of rain.
On my left I found a pleasant surprise- a Buddhist
Monastery, fresh and glowing in bright colors- red, yellow and green. In a
place like South Delhi, in middle of a jungle of institutes and offices,
finding a Buddhist Monastery is like discovering South America while searching
for India. Growing inquisitive I decided to enter the building. After answering
few questions and entering my name and details in the visitor’s register, I was
let inside. I realized that it is an institute- Karmapa International Buddhist
Institute. It is like any other institute- with class rooms, hostel blocks,
lecture halls, dining halls, offices and café. The only difference is that it
also has a big Buddhist Temple- with an enchanting peaceful ambience.
Breaking this intoxicating solitude, an open jeep passed by
with a tricolor flag dancing against the wind and the riders happily singing in
praise of the country. Reacting to the swift visual treat, a poor middle-aged
man clad in a perforated vest and faded lungi
with a more impoverished stall with few boiled eggs boiling slowly in a
tumbler, and more raw eggs and packets of bread kept aside with salt, pepper
and mustard oil talked something about some Anda Hazare. Well, it may sound
inappropriate and I may be caught by neck for intentionally mocking the brave
soul of India. I am ready to fold hands in apology but being a good narrator, I
am bound to mention the most interesting part of my walk. I tried to decipher
the tone which was an alloy of curiosity and ignorance. Either the person was
given to cynicism or is really a poorly informed person trying to do his share by
atleast discussing the issue in his own way.
Now I am out of the Qutab Institutional Area, approaching the
rush of delhi traffic. I am thirsty but there is no cold drink seller or
refrigerated water seller in sight. I want to take rest for a while but
something urged me to keep moving. Sun was also tired of the clouds which had
screened it for hours and demanded to be given the stage. I decided to sit at a
bus stop and wait for the Sun to calm down. There was no one at the bus stop.
Buses came, stopped either before or after the bus stop but never at the bus
stop itself. After watching people come and go, I walked towards the bus stop
on the main road. On my right hand was green Mahrauli Nursery and to my left
hand side was an Aurbindo Ashram for Yoga and Meditation.
I had now walked for almost three kilometers and was very
thirsty. Luckily, I found a Mother Dairy Ice cream vendor at the stop. God
knows how much I missed a orange lollipop- the cheapest and ugliest of all ice
creams- not fitting in the category of ice-creams. I asked uncle for an orange
lollipop but he had a mango bar only- vanilla centre covered with a layer of
mango parts. It was not exactly what I wanted and I was sure to get thirstier
but something better than none. The mango bar was as orange as the board and
building of the Indian Oil petrol pump just across the road and as yellow as
the TATA Nano waiting at the pump for its turn to get petrol.
The divine speedbreaker: 4:00 pm; Where? Ahimsa Sthal,
Mahrauli
Though I got a bus to the nearest Metro Station- Qutab
Minar, I could not defy the need to stay in Delhi for atleast an hour more. I
did not even let the conductor count the change as I snatched all the money he
had in hand for me in exchange of Rs 100 note that I gave him. Ahimsa Sthal is
a Buddhist monument with a huge statue of Mahavira erected on a very high
platform surmounted on a bed of rocks. The monument that appears to me as small
hill has plants and climbers all around so as to give it a more natural
ambience. The monument is surrounded by a big green lawn. Climbing the stairs,
I reached the top of the monument. I could see the lean and thin and tall
monument Qutab Minar surrounded by smaller monuments on one side, lavishly
built Chattarpur Temple distantly visible appeared to merge with the red
horizon on the other side. Here I was, somewhere in the middle- a small figure
squatted in front of a gigantic god- a god who assured the disillusioned man
that peace still exists amidst a chaotic life- you just have to raise yourself
higher. I could also see the Delhi Metro running on the tracks and creating an
illusion of drawing a line joining all these places- different in all aspects-
time period, make, style, faith, care takers.
Continuously interrupted by curious gazes of the care takers
habituated to loneliness, I came down to sit on the green grass and write down
my memories of the wonderful rendezvous with my favorite city. After I had a
stomachful of water from the cooler and a shady place to rest and think, I let
my emotions spill on my office notebook.
“God knows the number
of trees or the amount of electricity of the recycling plants I must have
wasted while trying to introduce the section- Wayfarers. One of my favorite
but most prone to be typecasted as just
another travelogue. A wayfarer is one who travels with a route but without a
destination. … I want the most apt intro… but… can I find the true words? I am
not sure if I can but I am sure my writing will……..”
