Reunion with the old New Delhi

Dated: 24^th 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……..”