Fooooooooooooood Morning Delhi!!!!!

Rain-soaked, shivering, chilly Delhi. 

Tuesday morning, yawning lazily, rubbing its eyes as it slowly takes over from Monday night. The weather and the early morning making you crave for something unhealthily tasty. 

The ideal time for some Delhi-type gallivanting!

A trip to The Pracheen (ancient) Hanuman Mandir (Temple of the Hindu-God Hanuman) near Connaught Place or CP, is sure to get you food, both for the soul, and the tummy, all days of the week, but especially on such a wet, hungry, full of craving, Tuesday Morning.

Located on Baba Khadak Singh Road, the temple comes alive at about 4 in the morning (yes you read it right! 4 am), with a long queue forming for the Aarti or morning prayer. Tuesdays are particularly busy and full of excited energy. 

The temple complex, right opposite the long lane of State Handicraft Emporiums, has interesting flower and prasad shops, the typical offerings for the "Monkey-God". His favorite sweets 'Boondi' and 'Ladoos' are in ample supply, catering to the needs of the hungry souls and stomachs! 

In addition to the "sweet-tooth addict's dream come true" yummilicious Boondi (see picture above), the complex also offers some very interesting options like fresh and piping-hot bread pakoras, sinfully fried with besan (gram flour) on the outside and deliciously tender, with melt-in-the-mouth stuffing on the inside!

However, the star-attraction of the morning, in addition to Hanuman-ji, is not the bread-pakora but another deeply fried, oh-so-awesome, eagerly-awaited, snack, that has a long line of contenders waiting for it at the halwai-shop (sweet shop). 

While the batter gets literally battered, to get molded into these part-round, part-UFO  shaped delicacies, the crowd grows. People on cycles and in Audis, on foot and in Mercedes,  on Scooters and in rickshaws, stop and eagerly count the people standing in front of the shop, mentally estimating the time it will take for them to get their hands on some of the beautiful, golden-brown, fried awesumness. 

And then the wait ends. 

A huge basket of too-hot-to handle kachoris or fried flattened balls made of fine flour stuffed with a heavenly mixture of pulses and aromatic spices arrives. The excitement and eagerness is palpable, with all conversation ceasing, and everyone waiting to count how many are being bought by the people ahead in the queue. Hoping, and silently praying that all the hot ones wouldn't finish before their turn comes. 

The speed and efficiency in distribution is amazing. Out comes a small disposable bowl, in goes one kachori, on it goes a huge spoon of some spicy potato-gravy, and you are good to go. Oh, take-away is possible too. Some take 30 kachoris, with the potato-gravy packed separately, evidently to feed a waiting-in-anticipation family back home!

It is impossible to eat more than two! 

Heavily stuffed and smoking hot, the Kachoris are a perfect match for the rainy Delhi morning. Interesting, spicy, full of flavor and character, and perfect with a hot cuppa of tea, the snack is a reflection of everything Delhi is. 

So, while the homeless sleep on the footpath in the complex and ask for food as Tuesdays usually witness many people offering free food to those sitting around temples, people drive down in big cars to enjoy Kachoris and bread pakoras. The same contradiction that silently lives in all our cities.

But we overlook it. We are untouched by it. It is almost like a shadow, one that we can avoid.

We are happy to come for Aarti and bread pakoras, for tea and Kachoris, for peace for the soul and the stomach. We are happy to feel bad for "them", feel the correct amount of sadness while we devour the snacks and sip the tea. 

We go back, to come again another Tuesday morning, looking for God and food...for peace and satisfaction, and for the best Kachoris and tea in Delhi. 

A Show of Pride and a Symbol of Hope

They are not very different from each other.

Tall, handsome, broad-shouldered with pride and glory, shiny with their polished-to-perfection boots and medals, fervor, pride, or hatred setting their faces aglow, some real, some for the show. 


They know they can whip the crowd in to a frenzy, and their drill becomes sharper with each clap and whistle, each smile and hoot. They stamp harder, march swifter, make angrier faces at the enemy, as the crowd's pulse quickens. They give the people what they want. What they need. They are trustworthy, in a time when nothing much else is. 

People throng to see them, to see a rare display of belonging and pride that lasts all of thirty minutes. Clap for them. Get photographs with them. Almost worship them. For doing something that they want the country's leadership to do. Stand up for itself and for it's people. Stand up and have a spine. Stand up for the country's flag and its pride. Wake up from their stinking slumber that reeks of indifference and of shamelessness, and of selfishness and unlimited greed. 


Men, women, and children, shout and sing patriotic songs while seeing their brilliant faces, because it is a hope, a slight hope that maybe all is not lost. That maybe somewhere, the two countries' hearts and spirits, and their very souls, are still alive. 

So while they march and stamp, show anger and arrogance, to the screams of their countrymen, they become a symbol of all that is unsaid and un-vented, and that finds no other channel to be expressed. As people shout out expletives to the other country and its people, much is said about 26/11 and Kasab, about Guru and LeT, while much is also screamed out about Kashmir and Jihad. As Vande Mataram and Pakistan Pakistan fill the air, the gestures become angrier and the crowd more expressive. 


You just cannot sit there without screaming your lungs out. Something in you doesn't let you. Neither can you stop saying, again and again, that we are so much better than them. It does not matter in what. You just believe there, in that moment, that you are the best. You wipe away that tear of pride when the flag is brought home, and squeal with delight when your country's flag reaches home before the other's.

You shamelessly join the crowd in the chanting, and, whistle and clap, thinking that you are showing your neighbor how strong you really are, how you would have shot Kasab if you could have. How they have never actually won a military conflict or war, how you have not forgotten Kargil or Ahmedabad, or Pune, or Mumbai, or Delhi for that matter. You feel strangely elated. 


It takes 6 men to do that, to keep the promise of bringing the flag home, every evening, and to show people what we can be.


Another evening approaches, another show is awaited. 

Go Travel!

Woke up with this Henry Rollins (The Punk Rock World Traveler) thought today and wanted to share it with everybody! Go Travel!

6 States, 1000 Kilometers, and an Amazing 3 Day Journey

Ferozepur, Punjab, to Babina, Uttar Pradesh. 
A long line on the map....and a longer journey across (the unpredictable) Indian roads!

Starting from Ferozepur, a small city in Punjab, known mostly for its strategic location due to the border that it shares with Pakistan, and ending at Babina, a small city right on the border between Uttar Pradesh and Madhya Pradesh; the journey took us across diverse landscapes, temperatures, and road qualities!


So while the countryside of Punjab offered lush fields and green streams, and roadside eateries with yum food (also called 'dhabas') aplenty; our drive through Delhi and the region surrounding it took us over some of the best roads the country has to offer. 


Agra, and the wondrous Taj Mahal, and hundreds of temples, Gurudwaras, and Masjids, also, luckily, charted themselves on to our course.

However, the thrill of the ride went up a notch, only after we entered the 'not so famous' Chambal region, beyond Gwalior, towards Jhansi. Once the abode of Phoolan Devi and her gang of dacoits, the terrain of this area as seen in the picture below, offers an almost perfect breeding ground for the dacoits to quickly escape and hide from anyone. 

These shallow valley like formations flanked the dusty roads all the way between Gwalior and Jhansi and the driver's constant narration of dacoity stories on these roads did nothing to help us feel more secure!! The windows were securely wound up and nobody asked for a drink or pee break as we negotiated the broken down and in some places made completely of sand, roads, till Jhansi.


The countryside between Jhansi and Babina, where the border between Madhya Pradesh and Uttar Pradesh lazes along like a snake on a hot summer day, has a striking feature. Though mostly barren and with small shrubs as the main vegetation, each hillock in the region has a small temple or sacred rock formation, right on its summit. Whether meant to plead for protection from the dacoits or to please the Gods to ask for rain and less harsh weather, these temples or formations are usually small but stand out due to the barrenness of the area surrounding them, and give the region a surreal feel, especially as the sun sets.

The traveler, having made this intriguing and interesting journey, however, did not lose her focus on health :) The first learning from the journey was that across the 1000 kilometeres traveled, we did not come across a SINGLE trauma center or a medical facility capable of handling road accident victims, or even people with basic medical needs, except within the cities of New Delhi, Agra, and Gwalior. It is scary and surprising that one might be expected to travel 10o-odd kilometers to access even basic health services. 


Another observation is the complete lack of facilities for clean washrooms for women, across the entire distance traveled! So while men attend to nature's calls right at the side of the road even within the cities, women are expected to use only the toilets in restaurants (if any!). A huge problem, especially in the completely barren terrain that offers no huge plants or trees to squat behind safely!!


One striking observation is that the more I travel on, the more I realize that the basic problems plaguing health in our country remain the same, whether it is a Gadchandur, an Ahmednagar, or a Babina. While the public health system of the State is defunct, and completely impotent, the medical practitioners of the government hospitals practice privately offering services inaccessible to almost everybody for whom the State's health system is meant. In addition, quackery, as well as uncontrolled private sector health facilities with almost ZERO quality control are rampant. 


The lack of awareness among people, and an almost God-like respect for anybody with a stethoscope, are exploited beyond imagination to lead to a situation where people reject even the few services which are infact offered by the State's health system, and instead opt for private nursing homes which poison the health of the community while maintaining a vice-like grip on the minds of people through their disinformation, and administration of 'injections' which is considered to be the only effective treatment by many. 


I am sure these issues bring back memories of my stories from Gadchandur. They also apply to the area you live in, and if you ponder a little, they apply to the entire country!! But here, I digress :) 


We are currently writing from Babina, and exploring public health in this part of the country. The stories, hopefully, shall continue. Amen.

Where on Earth is Gadchandur?

Back in Mumbai, in the college campus, I still find it hard to explain to people where I was, for the better part of the year, and where this entire blog's story is situated.

Gadchandur is still Gadanooor or Gadachooor for people...and some just presume that it is Gadchiroli. In fact the most common response to my speaking about being there is, 'koi naxalite dikhe?' (did you see any naxalites); as one would ask a Tiger-spotting tourist returning from the Corbett.

Well, for geographical context, the place is called Gadchandur and it is situated in the Chandrapur District of Maharashtra, part of the Vidharba region, and bordering Andhra Pradesh. This confluence of cultures is reflected in the language, mannerisms, dress and jewelry, and the food of the place. 


To reach the town (or village,depending upon perspective!), of Gadchandur, one can either spend about 21 hours in train from Mumbai to Ballarshah, the nearest rail head, in a passenger train that is nearly almost late by several hours, and follow this up with a 2 hour journey by road over a track that is more dirt and soul-shaking potholes than concrete;  OR  alternatively, one can spend about 14 hours in a train to Nagpur from Mumbai and then take a Video coach (read headache bus), for a 7 hour torturous journey over some of the worst roads in the state! 


Thus, as one may notice, getting there is half the battle won! 


The stories already on this blog, and the ones that will follow, are all situated in three 'talukas' of the Chandrapur District, i.e., Korpana, Rajura, and Jivati, where I got the opportunity to study and work across a space of 7 months. 

Gadchandur itself is within the Rajura Taluka, and is at a distance of about 3 hours from the District Headquarters at Chandrapur. 


Now that we are on the same page about the whereabouts of Gadchandur, the Scooty Diaries  shall continue......

The Gadchandur-ed Me

So, field practicum placement over, report submitted, even grade received. 


Back in the campus and in the city that never pauses, Gadchandur seems a far far distance away, another world almost. A world that feels almost like a dream one woke up from...with the edges of detail blurred and smudged a bit. 


And why not, the love and warmth, the endless cups of tea offered and consumed, the innocent, soul-baring smiles and laughter of Gadchandur cannot be in the same age and time as the constant push and pull of life, the mutual distrust of people, and the dirty looks from co-passengers in the local trains of this great metropolis. 


An eye-opener and a turning point, the time spent in and around Gadchandur, is by far, one of the most cherished and most exciting memories of my 28 years on the planet. 


Never once falling short of love or goodwill, cooperation or trust, emotion or friendliness; I was in Gadchandur, happier than I was as a rent-paying vermin in Mumbai, and that changed me forever. I think it messed with my head in ways I don't understand fully now, but that have Gadchandur-ed me in to something better, happier, and more thankful for life and all its myriad and colorful gifts that make my life unbelievably amazing!! 


A supari (betelnut) trader and tobacco products supplier who would hide his 'kharra' (chewing tobacco) packets when he saw me, for a landlord; a Maharashtrian woman, who would cook and relish rajma (kidney beans) for the Punjabi in me, for a landlady;  endless kids with runny noses and ready homework questions for the 'doctor didi' for neighbours; enthusiastic men and women who would drop off food, snacks, and sometimes even me from the bus stand, for colleagues; what a blessed time!! 

Some of the pictures (as uploaded above) manage to just take me back to some place in time that I left a part of me at.....It is difficult to say which one is more difficult..to take away Gadchandur from me or me from Gadchandur but one thing's for sure...some 'jodis' (couples) truly are made in the heavens above :)

A Gadchandur Goodbye

I asked where, they said, Gadchandur,

I stared, thinking, 'must be pretty दूर';

Cribbed all the way, cried and fought,

It was the last place, I expected to be brought;

Language, food, culture, everything was new,

Friends, movies, hanging-out, were bye-bye, I knew;

First few days were all a pain,

Kept wishing I could take the very next train;

One week went by, and then another,

Slowly things became less of a bother;  

Scooty, बैल बंडी, sometimes the walk,

Learnt the world through hearing people talk; 

The stories were crazy, sometimes insane,

Realized the world has so much pain; 

Understood public health like never before,

Found my calling, never gonna run after that crore; 

Laughed, joked, argued, sometimes shed tears,

With the women, men, children, and even the peers; 

Field-work became the reason of my being,

Forgot the wheels of time.........whirring; 

5 months, was it? Went by in a flash,

Just remember the first day, unpacking the stash; 

A cluttered room, half-stuffed still-open bags,

Behind the brain, the heart still lags; 

What to take, what to leave behind,

People, culture, smiles, and love, clogging my mind;

One more photograph clicked, another cup of tea,

Anything to keep the thought of tomorrow, away from me;

Gadchandur has become so much, a part of I, 

It feels almost unnatural to say Goodbye;

But moving on in life is a must,

For what is life, but for newer adventures, an endless lust......