What It Is

One of the many things that living in R for a little over two years has taught me is the art of eating paranthas. Growing up to my own food whims at home, the tomato ketchup was stormily avoided, and curd regarded as a spoiler, thanks to the logic that curdling being a process of bacterial growth, dahi wouldn’t form an ideal combine with Sunday morning’s hot, fresh stuffed breads. And I’d always hated the chip-chip oily feeling in my hands after having the ones with butter spread all over. It might be the desperation for half-decent food here, or a more abstract maturing of the taste buds, but I’ve begun to accept, and even cherish, these methods of devouring paranthas, apart from the ketchup, of course, which I still believe is an integral part of an evil alien conspiracy to take over the planet. Of course, like any other learning experience, I’ve burnt my hands in this endeavour, too- more often than not, literally. But, getting it right is a most satisfying feeling, and like most such wonderful feelings, extremely short for you to recall perfectly. While sipping a Dew Shikanji in the canteen earlier in the night, I thought for long about how I’d got it right ten days ago with Dela’s favourite cheese paranthas. It was probably the curd tinged with chaat masala that made the difference- a luxury not afforded in the canteen. The thought process took so long that the paranthas went cold, and the butter refused to melt. The drink was still satisfactory, though. After hearing the gory story of how Ravindra’s Shikanji (Lemonade) was, and is continued to be made, I was quite hesitant for a long while. But the love affair that started way back in mah first month in the insti with the Kshitij recruitment treat at Ganga canteen with Sprite Shikanji, refused to go down meekly, and I’ve been regularly downing various variations of the same lately due to the prevailing weather conditions.

It’s getting more and more irritatingly sultry here- a sort of weather which is a way of life back in Visakhapatnam, but a rarity in R. That’s made the classrooms a favourite, strangely, with all on the second floor of the Electrical department being air-conditioned. So much so, that the one-hour gaps in the afternoons between elective lectures and laboratory sessions are now preferred to be spent in the confines of the lecture halls, rather than Nescafe’s booths. The first-years, meanwhile, have caught on to Nescafe like Veronica Lodge to the latest lipstick flavour. Hordes of random freshmen and women pass by daily, with now-almost unsurprisingly bad manners, best summarised by the quip- “Bhaiya, yahan Coke nahi milta? Ye kaisa Nescafe hai?” We surprisingly managed to find a few with much better sense- and manners- at the recruitments for the magazine from the two first-year fortresses.

That consequently included my first and, in all probability arising from commonsense, last visit to a girls’ hostel. I’ve always wondered if living there is even half as close to how living in Rajendra and Azad has been, and part of that unfortunately came true as many young ladies passed by in their night-suits, which forced me to restrict myself to the lounge lest I feel further embarrassed. I politely refused a chance to visit the Nightingale’s Nest last semester and am sure I’ll be less circumspect if by the greatest of Improbability Multiplications I get another pass- the sight of flowery curtains and stick-it notes in a few guys’ rooms is sickening enough for me; I’m not sure I’ll be able to bear almost an entire hostel like that. As soon as I typed that last line, I turned to my tablecloths to notice they both had flower patterns on them, and so does my bedspread. But, I scarcely mind that, and, to be honest, I love it as it reminds me of Ma, as does the empty jar of laddus. The little hair gel box Pa had bought is glanced at, too, as it goes on in its annual dust-catching procedure. I find it almost weird to have my room arranged really well, but Pa’s words of a man being a good manager for others only when he can manage his own things comes to mind. My tennis racquets lie outside catching dust, too. A short session with the newly-turned sophomores a fortnight ago made me feel I’d discovered my touch again, especially with the Justine Henin-inspired single-fisted backhand. But, I was to be laid low soon by an injured toe, crushing daydreams about representing the insti at the 2012 Sports Meet, which might as well be held here. But that’s OK.

P.S.- I thought it isn't worth a mention after Dela's post on reaching the milestone, but, I shamelessly admit, that after counting four deleted posts, this is my half-century on the blogosphere- and I'm not even halfway through my time in R! I'm definitely the Shahid Afridi of R's bloggers- and you can guess why I chose that certain batsman and not any other dasher!