All thanks to our seniors for such beautiful accounts.

• Daal Fry at Lamboos
• The Great IET Story
• The Great IET Story: The Story continues
• Of cobras and chains...
• Cricket : IET stories
• The washing machine that laughed
• LOCATED MEMORIES Part 1: Badi hai kaal ki Baazi
• Of Broken Drumsticks and Torn Hair
• Shared Reminiscences

Daal Fry at Lamboos

The road that goes from Lucknow to Sitapur, passing lamboos dhaba in madiyaon, actually does not go anywhere. It stays put, much like lambu and his dhaba. When I think of lambu, I am, strangely reminded of royalty. This cannot be caused by any mysterious wealth that lambu stashed away in his liquor store. This is because I am yet to see a person as royal and regal as lambu. If I take that road to Sitapur again I shall salute that dhaba and I will tell myself – I have walked this road before. In the blazing sun of a summer afternoon and in times when the midnight- summer wind would caress my hair.

I have walked this road before. There are other roads that I have walked. Like the one leading to Gargi and also away from it. I have sat on the divider and seen the moon climb up. Some of us have also seen go down. Many of us have held hands on this road. Some of us for the last time and some of us – forever. This road has seen a lot. And it is yet to see. Because it will stay there and countless pilgrims shall trudge by.

I have walked this road before. It overlooks the cricket/football field where once DJ bowled, and Parmar batted and the girls yelled. The yelling got DJ a fractured leg and Parmar a six. It was told that Roop was to blame. We are all wanderers, gypsies who camp from one place to another. Gypsies. So let it be told. So let be written.

I have climbed these stairs before. That lead to the common room of D bock. This is where Sanjiv Sharma made many pump iron. And Suvrat Nautiyal would smile indulgently. If Suvrat was the handsomest of them all then Priyanka Hangal was the prettiest of them all. You don’t agree? Ask Anand Prakash – the official snapper of encore in which she dazzled us all on the ramp. When the snaps were exhibited it seemed we were having an exclusive Hang – all display. Would you blame the snapper?

I have climbed these stairs too. They lead to the roof and I go there because the lights have gone out again. Because GN Pandey couldn’t get us off the rural grid. So there I am. Looking at Gargi on a moonless night. From there, someone is flashing a light. Blips and dashes I imagine. A love letter in morse – I hope. And then PK Rai’s yezdi growls to life and speeds towards lamboos. In its headlight I see a multitude walking in congregation towards the same destination.

I have heard that rumble before. Milling thunderclouds unleashing a storm. Bolts and thunder and torrents of unending rains. The noise of crickets and the croaks of frogs. The gentle dhub dhub of mukerjees enfield. KK being applauded on his yet another win in debate. Or Praveer. Karki is busy mcing with Nitin Gupta and Dimri which is less noisy because nitin is sleepy.

I have heard this trying- to- make-music noise before. Must be Shashank Rastogi on his guitar. I wonder if the trying has ended. Because I seldom see such passion.

I have smelt that odour before. Its Bagchi and his famous pipe. The sweet smell of undried burning tobacco. Mithunda never smoked pipes but Bagchi loved pipes and Mithun too. After disco dancer there was no one who danced better than him. Bagchi sang too and sang well. And then unfortunately for all us Agnipath came and mithunda had another performance to his credit after Mrigya. And we kept our distance from Bagchida.

I have seen this sight before. Jambwant swaying as he walked in the corridor. Shivam practicing his follow- through as he walked past the workshop. Paliwal sending a powerful smash down the line and making another point.mechanically. men walking away from Gargi when night call had been taken and the gates would close.

Then night grew and the night creatures would emerge for their last destination. Lamboos. Some a bit high and some plain hungry. Sapeda, lamboos diligent cook, would throw in the spices and make the daal dance. One by one people would come and go. Chakru for his cigarrette Sameer on his hero puch, Ajay Garg for a leak atop a resting truck. I have seen this night before.

I want to walk these roads again, smell those smells again. watch the rain beating down on my window sill. i want to go to aminabad to buy curtains for my little window. to get those kebabs, those books.

I want to step on the same path again. Because roads don’t go anywhere. It is only we who go and it is only us who can return.

Will you?

The Great IET Story

 one of the great sights that iet offered repeatedly every 24 hours was -
the 9 o'clock,or thereabouts, nainital express. usually the time when we
returned from our after dinner walk or cigarette stroll till
gupta's/lambus and while the pretty girls were hounded back inside the
walls of gargi for a safe night(!!),the nainital express would announce
its imminent arrival from a distance. and some of us would wait at the
crossing as indeed would some girls at their windows to see that
beautiful sight. and suddenly it would be upon us -- a musical on rails
with little openings emanating light, reaching out in a weird enchanting
dance on the sides of the rails almost in tandem with clickety clack of
the rails. And then it would be gone. Taking some people to their homes
some people to a nice little sojourn in the hills, some to their
colleges and some to their work. But, we stood there, rooted, left in a
strange mix of feelings.

there was a little homely bank across the tracks where all of us used to
have our accounts. our pay slips from home we would scurry to deposit
here through a short cut in the fields from behind the faculty building
across the tracks. this is where we stored our small money that would
eventually buy us a ticket to a big life. And it did. after many years i
have and i still wonder, if that bank with its smiling helpful people,
is the same as we left it? does it still roll out the same tokens? do
they still smile or has time and times put scowls on their faces? does
innocence still survive in madiyon?

on the other side, from behind the mens hostel, led a small way towards
aliganj. in days of yore, seldom did vikram's come to this little "T"
which later on a became a crossing, mostly one walked down to sector q.
And from there vikram would take us to mayfair. To my 7th screening of
"dil hai ki manta nahin". Bhala kyoon mane dil? Jab Amir ka nahin mana
to main kya cheez hoon? usually it was the night show and for my nice
friend gulati it was a late chiken dinner tht would end around 12
midnight. at 12 or roundabout, ganj was a delightful sight. wide
expansive smooth roads, almost no traffic. sodium lit. one could walk
here forever but i never had the right person to hold my hand. i had to
manage with sunil pathak -- our inhouse rambo, which tells you why i had
an arm ache soon after. when, for returning, one would finally board
another vikram, it was time to be pleasantly surprised: familiar faces
would be already seated there, some returning from novelty and some from
sahu. and from sector q we we would again walk back to our college with
the night wind in our hair.

i want to go on. i cant.Too long an exhibition of innocent nostalgia is
clearly out of favour.

but come to this alumni meet. And we shall talk till the moon comes up.
And then we shall go for a walk. Hand in hand.
 

The Great IET Story: The Story continues

Let the Muzik play, as Shamur would say or would the Finnish OEM vendor. For, nostalgia is never out of favour. Even if it gives goose bumps and a throatful of lumps.

Even if the accessibile romance of a level crossing on a Meter Gauge rail track has given way to concrete ambitions of a convoluted flyover. Trains still pass by the GB.s. 1 and 2. But there is no IETian crossing the tracks when Nainital express or even Sitapur Local goes chugging along, what it still does with a precise routine, who can notice the few peeping eyes enjoying the passing trail of lit squares. For, the passage at the corner is closed. So is the passage to the Vijaya Bank through the village by the Cold Storage Plant. The branch where the current account of Encore93 was kept. Many new blocks have come up in the campus including the administrative building for the UPTU, the auditorium, Post Office and bank, the New GB.

The Band Samosa of Guptaji's dhaba are no more now. As is the Dhaba. The over-bridge has routed away this settlement by a Neem-grove. The serenity of this corner has since been buried under the noise of hot rubber tracting on cold tar. The Mishraji ki Dukan is still there-supposedly the hygienic-est of 'em all by large.

The city has arrived to the 'Engineering College' and gone beyond towards Sitapur. The pond behind the playground on the way to the village (that was) Madiyaon has been reclaimed and has been inhabited by the urban man. The landfill pond by the road to Sec-Q has been reclaimed as well and monstrous structures in this place have been sliding up the sky-scape since the summer of 95.

This has brought about shrinkage in the catchment aera of the IETiens. The exit in the wall behind D Block and A Block have since been closed. The height of wall makes IET a little fortress.

Now no Policemen can extort food from the C-Block mess on special day (Wednesdays) and get the chase and subsequently beating of their lives. Later Sarswat would be in his full character shielding the freehitters from police. I do not know whereabouts of the mess manager of C-Block. He was ever so polite and provided fingerlicking yummy food. The Bread Rolls out of his kitchen were the tastiest one would have ever had (No one has my wife's number). The custard on Saturdays lunch menu, (well, now lump drowned in saliva, almost) forced local hostellers to stay back for it.

Then during exams Babulal and Ramkumar would call "Bhaiya Chai" at about 11pm. The tea was served in the mess to prepare for the overnighter. The huge 'Bhagona' would store the tastiest tea. Then there would be sounds from the D-Block top floor abode of SMT, Saket, SK-II. The Ghost of 11ft height had reappeared draped in white and knocked on Alok Dwivedi's door.

The badminton court of the C-block was witness to some of the fiercest matches. HKP, TJ, SK et al used to be the stars. The sound of shuttlecock being powerfully, repeatedly, smashed by a tight net was music enough to entice the padhaku-est of them all out to the balcony. For other times there always was Rajiv Kanaujia with his Enigma graveyard shifts. So were the guitarists from the north east. Or one of the RDLA's playing 'Nothing Else Matters' in full blast. Life was music.

The Ganj has been won back by the Nawab of somewhere near Sitapur. Mayfair had shut it's screen down many summers ago. But now you have PVRs in Sahara Ganj. Innocence has been taken over by the media.

Cricket : IET stories

Dear All
The word "SHORT" used for the match is bothering me. Let us keep it 40 overs a side ( Ha Ha!! we can settle it at 25 overs as it used to be in IET in the late 1980's.) Would like some old stories told several times at Lambu's Dhaba ??
One Mr Sanjaya Yadava(who very lovingly made the new cricket pitch overlooking the Gargi) could never get it ... enough and always wanted to make it a two innings affair. I also wanted one two innings match but it I could never make it. Of course Sanjaya's team did very well in that only two innings match.I hope old timers remember hat new matt which was purchased by Sri Shivam Khare for the 1988-89 local tournament, made that wicket real fast and bouncy.Even the spinners used to appear like Colin Croft on that wicket.

Thought immediately goes to 1989 Feb (just before Encore) when we went to IT BHU for the tournament and the match against REC Jabalpur was a nightmare. In the 35 over match the first three batters scored more than 225 in about 30 overs and after that the ball which we took from Lucknow turned into pulp.Bowling after that was real easy. We were given a target??of about 270 and then came the fastest one THE "CALAMULLA". The bowl which REC Jabalpur had brought was of dark chocolate color - I remember very well- as the establishted openers wanted to provide stability at a later stage. The "CALAMULLA" bowling in Amphi Theatre ground was to seen to be believed.( Tiger point can further elaborate on that in his slick language ) That bowler was real quick and absurd in line and length. We were battered and shot down for 66 (and really some of the seniors wanted to return after that match. We fought in the hostel to stay for the remaining matches). I wish someday IET team can give same thrashing to REC Jabalpur. In my mind I have played that match again and again and that really hurts.

In the next match against REC Durgapur we managed 175/5 in 35 overs and lost the match in the last two overs when Chakru Sir wanted to polish off the tail. That was better and it feels better.In the last match against Roorkee we made 122 and they were 85/8 but we managed to lose. 4 losses in 4 matches 18 years ago in the first major cricket tournament IET participated. HAS IT BEEN AVENGED?? IF NOT, WHEN IT WILL BE ??? I want to be updated.

One last question : to AMITABH PARMAR sir. Why you were not there at IT BHU with the team?? ( He was the best batsman who loved to bowl fast in-cutters and used to imitate a Lankan bowler)
I remember hitting Parmar Sir on the box with a fast one and next two balls were hit with greatest force seen in IET ( Ist towards the Directors bungalow and next below the water tank). At least for me cricket meant Parmar Sir. Of course there was there opener Gupta : very wristy and flicking the balls on legs and bothering us but Parmar Sir was a different class.

I also recollect one match in which my two favourite juniors Sanjaya Yadav and Ajay Garg were acting umpires.[Both very good and capable cricketers. Of course Garg was a very good line and length bowler except for the times when he wanted to spit fire -"AAG UGALNA" in his own words. And Sanjay a very good cricketing brain who loved thin handled bats (a point of conflict) and was capable of lifting the ball over the bowlers head for boundaries. We had a good partnership once.]I had full faith in there umpiring capabilities but...... In that match I kept on hitting the openers on the pads regularly and was not getting favours . TWO BALLS .. (I felt that even Shakoor Rana would have given Javed Miandad out against India at Lahore on a similar delivery) in a single over and in a brief spell of madness I kicked the stumps on the bowling end and it landed some where near Square leg umpire. I was thrown out of match and ground. Anyway after all these years sometimes on Saturday nights when kids are asleep ,I feel that wind was strong and the ball was moving towards the leg... or was it too high??? Of course things once done cannot be undone but I want to say sorry to umpires and I really really mean it. I agree with the view that both of them held one should always give the benifit of doubt to the batsman.

Bye for now

Dhananjaya
 

Of Broken Drumsticks and Torn Hair
 

Dishayan’ 91-the Encore limited- was growing into the ‘nite’. This was a musical ‘nite’. Yaraaaa dholaaa... the so far masterly rendered song was reaching the crescendo when the voice cracked… She was straight out of the fresher function and competing with the best of the lot. She made an indelible impression in many places for herself and a question for the institute. “Who she is”? She was the only contender in the event from her batch. A prodigy had been unveiled. The rest envisioned, “can I sing a duet with her?” Pipedreamers!

Musical Nites were regular, unlike the sporadic Encore. The arts of Gargi would be on display in the library corridor at their creative and inviting best. The art gallery used to come alive in this season. This corridor had been walked by most. Some walked to, others away from the library.

The non-co-ed types would stop by to exchange a sheepish hello. The stares of envy would cement the sense of achievement in the exchange. The ego would inflate beyond repair.

A few guys were spared from the usual ragging only to sing non stop. He had a certain melancholy and similarity to Mukesh in his singing. The reigning Mukesh was Ajay Saxena, though. Time stopped when he crooned Jindagi ki na tute lari… in Dishayan’ 91.

An unlikely couple had just adequately sung jaanejan dhoondta fir raha hoon....The transformation of melancholic Mukesh into exuberant Kishore was quite complete.

This has taken many musical nights. The unwarranted side effect was that people had started taking two names in same breath. All warriors. Conspiring to foist victory when there was no war to begin with. The bait was bitten. Only slaughter remained. Who needed foes with friends like those!

Jhankar, the musical nite was attaining youth. The ones engaged in the running the show would later come to know that it had facilitated quite a few moonwalks-hand in hand, wind caressing hair and works - things the romantics would care for.

Rehearsals were on.

Before rehearsals there were screenings. The favourite fresher failed as his voice cracked at mujhako rula rula diya jaati huee bahar ne…. It had never happened to him before. But the destiny had something else in store. Despite broken voice he was selected, based on his performances during ragging!

The guitarist was just not able to give timely cue and right chords for the slower and lower half of Pyar hamein kis mode pe le aya… being done by the ultimate yodeller Kartikey Pant, along with the band comprising of Vagish Gupta the RD Burman and others. Despite the versatile Sanjeev Bajpai (brought from NIIT band by RS Bhoomla) being on drums and guiding the musicians through it. This was the nth take and beyond this KP would have none of it. It went well though.

In other corner of the music room some upstarts were practicing goriya re goriya re mera dil churake leja. sajana we sajna we meri neend ura ke leja… With sizzling embellishment of ‘heart beats’ in between the stanzas…

Sunil Pathak was practising Pal Pal dil ke pas… so well and was least concerned about the rhythm. Such a regal voice. Alas, only if he could remain on the beats, the musicians wondered.

On the D’day the stalwarts fell, some to the wrong chords and others to wrong partners. The pyar hamein … song did not take off in the first go. However, the seven brothers stood there to pull it off fairly well in the end. It ended with quite a bang.

KP had earlier cast his spell in the Kitne sapne kitne arman… with a yodeling tribute to Kishore Kumar. Mukesh soundalike had sung jane kahan gaye wo din, as a precursor to the days to come. Nightingale sang Agyan ke andheron se hamein gyan ke ujalon ki or le chalo... Another entry was ja re badara bairee ja…both prize winning entries in their categories. Devesh Chandra did his baritone number that was youn neend se wo jane chaman jag uthee hai..pardes mein fir yade vatan jag uthee hai…

Wonder whether he and others in pardes still sing this song…that went …wo bhuul gaye hain hame ham unko nahin bhule…or it was the other way round. 15 years is a lot of time.

DC also sang:

There used to be two music coordinators from third year. He was the boys. He had picked up hitting the drumset with all the four limbs in synch. It is tough, as I know. Used to keep the keys to music room-the room was strategically located at the Gargi end of the faculty, with fat chances of whatever sounds created in the room-noise, music etc traversing across the streets to the doorsteps of Gargi. The room had seen and heard a lot. But there were no Morse codes in return from the little fortress. Nonetheless, when Yezdis and Javas would rumble towards the Lambus, a couple of nimble feet would traverse the almost haunted faculty to the Muzic room. Despite the desolate look, the faculty building was so benevolent and accessible in the night. You could go into the electronics lecture rooms and see the engraving on tables. The benches stood silent testimony to the fact that the class belonged to the branch with the most number of Gargiannes.

The faculty corridors gave one the liberty to strum away or sing one’s heart out, enjoying the echo penetrating and returning from nooks and cranny of the building. Including the lecture rooms. Some distant harmonics might still be struggling to die away.

The sounds reached GB or not is a question still standing. Albeit irrelevant. The songs were not to be taken seriously. Seriousness is cause of broken drumsticks. Take light.

The Enchore’94 had the star-nite of the velvet prince Roja sensation Hariharan. He was a second choice to Baba the thanda pani fame. His only otherwise known work was Hazir with ustaad Zakir Hussain. Having him for such a function was a courageous decision. People kept demanding encore of Roja which did he many times. But in retrospect, it was a wasted opportunity. The silken pony tailed singer lost more than a couple of grey strands during the show.

As TP3 would testify, one was indeed standing by the pandal coming to terms with the reality that whatever left of it is going to be over soon. While Hari was singing: Ye khabar hoti to karata kaun barish ki dua. Pyaas se ham mar gaye rota raha baadal kahin…Dard ke Rishte…

The preceding two months or so had comprised of a lifetime, of burning midnight oil, petrol and heart. Getting sponsorship was a tough call. The end of the days would be like:

The nights were spent in planning for the event, preparing stationery, banners, posters, invites, certificates. Lot of self was being consumed in the process. Seeing someone rehearsing dance with someone else used to be the most self consuming.

In it all, Innocence was the underlying value. The inspirations were dil hai ke manta nahin....and jo jeeta etc…Innocence is so harmless. It is respectable, worth celebrating. It IS being celebrated on 18^{th march at Mohan Maekins.}

Don’t be deterred by the war calls. From inside it is all very friendly. In the spirit of innocence. Otherwise they wouldn’t have dared.

The washing machine that laughed

A was in the bathroom. His passionless laughter reverberated through the corridors, making the laughter-challenged also laugh in the process. (I know who you are thinking of...especially when cricket is around the corner, but please do not bring in extra-human references.) He had been in this process since afternoon. Dinner was about to be served but this guy was still unfinished with his chores. Strange for a non-fashionable and average looking young man, who would dump laundry back at his local home every weekend? Not really.



A non-habitual person taking generous dose of ‘Bhang’ is not strange on Holi of Avadh. It was Hostel Holi that day. The pond was dug up between new boys and D Block. People had been taking and giving holi dips for the entire day and now was the washing up time. The sins had already been rinsed off in the pond.



Washing colour off is not such a good idea but people do so nonetheless. First you get ‘coloured’ and then work hard on discoluoring. As if in the defiance of the dictates of thermodynamics. To show to HKP that Heat to Work and Work to Heat are equivalently convertible. Sink retained no heat, only some coloured muddy water. But profoundly thought, it is like dying the soul colorful. The interiors gets soaked and then the superficial excess is to be washed off (thermodynamics was correct after all). Efficiency of the dyeing lied in how less colour you rejected to sink.



The chromium, copper, strontium, cadmium salts etc are actually good for body and soul (As are the crackers!); environmentalists, doctors and neo-rationalists be damned. At least these (the coloursJ) make one bathe off the winter deposits in one straight session, whose length varies depending upon the dose. If you bathe daily even in winters, you just might do without any dose. On the other extreme, if your frequency was sessional (one at mid and the other at the end) you might have had to take a golf ball.



Coming back, whereas many had finished theirs, A was still going strong, washing laughing laughing washing…sucked in the vicious circle. The laughing washing m/c humming and hawing…and occasionally crying too.



Anyone who has heard that laughter of late and can point to how and whereabouts of A is welcome to do so…

Many such stories are up for chewing a lavish lunch with on 18th.
 

Of cobras and chains...

The PC AT had to be booted up with a floppy drive- 5.25". Then only
you could invoke your gwbasic floppy and run the programs to segregate
odd and evens, to display on screen "welcome". Before that you had to
remove your shoes prior to entry into the lab. The cool vinyl carpet
would sooth your feet. There were some guys who were keyed in to the
things from the day one. They knew all about index holes, sectors,
function keys and so on. These were the guys that would later design
and printout fanfold banners for ISSAC events.

We used to read about the advent of Pentium and the Indian connection
in the Newsweek - a prized possession of the library, with dreams of
walking the land of Intel and IBM. Many have come true. Many would be
revised latter. Now Intel et al have set up labs and has made this
land as one of theirs.

Our passing out period was vaguely coincident with the advent of
mobile telephony in the country. Many would be placed in one of the 42
operators then. Others would have to pay for even receiving a call.
But now you can make transcontinental calls at rates then local. You
do not need a pager (do you recall?) to message.

Back to college, there was a subject known and dreaded as Engineering
Drawing. Glass Sheets and Table lamps would be in short supply during
the odd semester. Topology and Topgraphy would assume new meanings
altogether.

Chaining had nothing to do with tender necks. Very few were in the
possession of those, in any case. It was rather process of measuring
the ground beneath your feet. Theodolite was a very effective
instrument to go through the windows of GB.

Biogash was what we were subjected to by Dr Amrik Shing. His biomash
and biochemistry would render many a villages lit later on. No wonder
bio-etc is a full fledged department with Dr Amrik Shing as the head,
doling out Master's degrees.

FCC, BCC, HCP were the terrorists unleashed by Dr. Amrik Shing again,
on the unsuspecting class. Iron-Carbon diagram, was their merciless
mother.

Many still shudder when they see bridges/roofs made of trusses. This
was the iron-latticed conspiracy that made most get back to odd from
even!

Other terror was the thermodynamics that had rendered many suffer with
hypothermia and motor-ataxia. Over that there was a drunk Cobra (PK
Nag) in and around over rooms. There were many who could tame and
domesticate it. That most of us are alive and kicking indicates that
we managed to live with the menace successfully and rewardfully. Most
of them have registered for the meet.

Have you?
 

Shared Reminiscences

Memories are very subjective and personal. One's cherished moments
might have passed unnoticed to the rest. While Lambu ka Dhaba is a
shrine for many, still many others don't even remember that and where
it really was. While cricket ground is the place where most of it
happened for many, many others do not even recall where it was. The
general and common reminiscences are usually impersonal for most. Many
personal memories are shared, though. To C block residents, watching
HKP making irrevocable points in his own mechanical style is a shared
memory. But A Block and B Block residents would not be able to
connect. It would carry straight to wicket keeper. But they will
immediately locate the memory of RS Bhumla's sonorous voice
reverberating off the corridors and in the mess. In fact I used to
pass by the hostels till a couple of years back anticipating some
residual echos or new excitations. But the things have fallen much
silent it seems.

For someone, a very fond memory would be the competition to hit the
street light poles with stones thrown from a certain distance during
the after dinner walks. For others winning the dumb charades.

Many others would remember the Mr IET competition, ruled for a few
ages by a certain Mr. Rahul Srivastava. One wonders whether rail
sleepers can act as the weights!

Very few would recall the 26th Jan1992 flag unfurling. But in someone
else's memory it would remain etched forever like an oil painting.
Very few would be even aware that a team of warriors of IET had gone
to MNREC cul fest in 1993. But some would remember even winning there.
Sarlin War's role was played by Virendra Thapa. Temple of Doom. Before
curtains were raised, in the background enigma was playing. Only
rhythm on drums. Or so everyone thought. Actually someone was just
warming up the drums for temple of doom.

Ask Sarlin War, who never learnt loosing in any competition. But she
was not there. Cause she had sung Let me be there in your Morning, let
me be there in your nights, let me be there... in Encore'94. The drums
and heavily distorted (metal) guitar to everyones amusement were
played by the members of the Rock band Olios. She won hands down and
notes high. But how many remember this. It was a path breaking
performance. By all measures. The adolescent boy Provin Gurung sung
Some Guys have all the luck...And the accompaniment on the guitar was
simply AWESOME. But who remembers. There was a dancer from IHM
Lucknow, who had to do Encore of Moonwalk. Many times. He won hands
down, hat high. There was a good representation from NIIT Lucknow in
the cultural events. Their music troop was by far the best. They had
sung the group song Yadon Ki barat nikalee hai aaj...really really well.
I remember Gagan Gurnani. He sang the duet Achha ji main hari chalo
man jao with Dipannita Dey if I recall right. It was a close second
(or fist?) to Jaanejan...But how many other care and remember! Their
western solo entry was Suzanna...It was a winning one. Here. Not in IITK
where they lost to the hosts.

How many remember the sterling performances of Palash Ranjan, Manisha
Garg and Shalini Malik, if I recall right? Palash Ranjan and Manish
had enacted so well the roles of flustered couple. How many remember
the Play that never converged, written and directed by the
incorrigible Bhauchak. Antics of LMS and SMT in the Qawwali...

How many remember the Choreography done by none other than Preeti
Sangal and Devesh Chandra. The number was freshly arrived Dangerous.
The catwalks where Anamika Bhatia and Vineet sethi and others had
scorched the ramp.

Memories are personal. And subjective.

How many remember the Huzoor-e-Wala number.

Or the girl staying on the road to sec-Q who owned a Doberman of a
dog. Or that she was nick-named Kuttewali. How many know the twist in
her tale that she eventually married a prominent IETian. Or was it he
who married her. Whatever, they were married to each other.

How many remember the corner shop opposite the power house at the
'Tea' point behind the hostels. Or the grave near the New Boys hostel?
The former was more dreaded when 'Katiyar' and 'Mukherjee' had been
sighted at their fav spot.

How many remember the dim lit room of Amit Singhal in D block top
floor, from where Jaggu always kept streaming out in dim light. And
the mahaul. Aah ko chahiye ek umr sahar hone tak..kaun jeeta hai teri
zulf ke sar hone tak...The baithak was always jawan. Subah ho ya shaam.

Mera qatil hi mera munsif hai...
Kya mere haq mein faisala dega...

How many other remember the resident Jagjeet Singh Tarun Jain? He used
to sing the best of his Ghazals in masterly ways.

How any remember the scene when on returning from the Applied Mechnics
Paper Gunjan Ghai was welcoming others from the door of New Boys
Hostel "Abe, L... Gayee...."
It was one of the most hilarious sights.

Who remembers Khadim ki shayari and Vagish ki Kavita?

Who remembers the fete organized by the 1992 batch when ye lamhe ye
pal was requested so many times that the tape had to be replaced. Ham
rahe ya na rahen kal was yet not born.

Or how many remember when RS Bhumla sang in the freshers function 1991
"Jab IET ki yaad tujhe aegii, teri ankhon se ye neend rooth jayegii".

If you do, you can catch RSB singing once again. And a lot more. Just
remember the date, time and venue- 18th March, 9am onwards, MMCG.
Mohan Nagar.

 

LOCATED MEMORIES Part 1: Badi hai kaal ki Baazi

LOCATED MEMORIES                                                     
Part 1: Badi hai kaal ki Baazi

In any conflict, know a warrior when you see one. Or loose the conflict.

Workshop lawns. D block lawns. Encore grounds. Cricket grounds. L1.These are locations where things happenend. Things of a more personal kind happenend elsewhere. The ones I aim to recall today are the more public ones, etched in general memory. Strange are the ways of reminiscence. Different people recall with different set of emotions and with different focus.

SPIC MACAY had just about started doing a wonderful job. D block lawns used to be wonderful place in October evenings. I was by then a man accustomed to enjoying Hindustani classical performances. If you ever go to Varanasi, sit by the Ganga and listen to the river's rippling music. D block lawns and Balamuralikrishna, Carnatic vocalist, a light October-evening breeze carrying the scent of winter. Pretty fairies with long beautiful eyelashes playing veena. I remember the artist was introduced by one of the most graceful and beautiful ladies I ever saw. And then Murali sang and a small crowd sat on the lawns and heard him. Watched him rather. That evening I was reminded what singing is and why they say music knows no barriers of language. D block lawns.

Annually, another ritual was carried out. A music competition (forgive the cliché) and its decisive venue: workshop lawns. Apart from the regular singers/instrument players such as the somber looking Himanshu Pant on his guitar, two young girls stepped on the stage and sang "bujh mera kya naam re.Nadi kinare goan re.peepal chayyian more aangna." phew! Sangeeta Thakur and Surakhsha Bansal? This used to be a post dinner event and people would grow in numbers gradually, so that by the time it ended it was already lamboo time. There are other people who broke the ritual of same performers trooping up and down the stage. Sameer Tripathi for instance. Somewhere on his way to the stage he found " rah me ek reshmi roomal" and so he sang ".aate jaate khoobsurat awara sadkon par.." Tell you what Sameer was a surprise package. Kabhi kabhi ittefak se. This baritone rendition still reverberates in my mind. Or in my mind's ear. Sorry for that cliché too. An open air make shift stage below a starry sky, sometimes moonlit and from behind us some hostel room windows, curtains drawn aside, sent fluorescent light streaming onto the lawns. For girls reaching this part of the campus at this time of the evening, must have been another major event and I wouldn't know who they would be dressed up for.

Bheed me khojti aankhen,

Aaj idhar bhi hain

aur udhar bhi hain.

And while this went on some shadows could be seen walking hand in hand on the un-built road between the faculty and the cricket ground.

This was one such opportunity when dejected lovers walking back every night from gargi gates at 8:00 pm could make up for the lost time with some vengeance.

Some traditions are, strangely, discovered repeatedly. Each such illumination takes on a different hue. So it was with ENCORE. And its traditional venue. The grandest of all parties, the longest one and unarguably, the most comprehensive one. Aborginals could find mates from foreign settlers. Impressive wares would be displayed by the IITians starved of female companionship in their arrogant forts and ITians would act coy at the attention they received. Meanwhile small wars would be fought between these tribes wearing fierce badges of their tribal identity. An IETian, IITK, ITian from BHU some from HBTI and so on. The regular battlefields with their regular warriors. Battle hardy and smug in their "quiz" knowledge. Control Room. Reminiscent of Orwell's 1984. Big brother is watching, yea little smelly piglets!! That reminds me of someone else though. MONTY. This fellow was a very good watcher of all and sundry. I don't know what to say of MONTY. I leave that to your own imagination. But Encore was gripping. Valentine month and the spirit of romance. Lots happened there and sadly much was undone too. Including that palatial pandal once the event was over. Bit by bit it was taken apart. And nothing remained. Each year and ever after. You know something? To the final year undergrad curtains on Encore was the final signal, an alarm bell that said "its time to start leaving" there would be no more Encores. Time to take stock. Time to step into the real world. It was depressing and challenging. Everywhere everything seemed to say: soon u shall be gone. I wonder if in the lengthening shapes thrown by the evening sun some little bird flying in the twilight sky would remember my shadow. If the wind that blows here shall remember the caress of my hair, if it shall still carry my scent and my voice. Will the roads remember the trampling's of luna's feet? Will they miss that gypsy? Will lamboo write off my account as an NPA and still remember me fondly? Standing on that Encore ground while it was stripped and laid bare to its usual façade, the finality of going away sunk in totally.

Extremely unforgiving and cruel.

Customary and essential, however.

naa maOM baMQaa naa maOM mau@ta
naa maOM ivart naa rMgaI hao .
naa maOM kahU sao nyaara huAa
naa kahU ko saMgaI hao..

Na Mein Bandha Na Mein Mukta
Na Mein Virat Na Rangi Ho |
Na Mein Kahu Se Nyara Hua
Na Kahu Ke Sangi Ho ||

War time.

C block badminton court. Enclosed and flushed with lights, no escapes allowed. All corridors became howling galleries chanting away in abandon. A Roman circus. The whole structure reverberating to the madness quietened by the referee's: silence please. A small expectant serve kissing the net, returned on the sly again upclose to the net. A high - back return to the back -hand, a flurry of movement, oh dear! He's taken it onto to his forehand, a jump in the air timed to perfection and a smash down the line. The roar is up again. A serve is changed. The show must go on.

Same venue, same lights and the same galleries. Phagura loosing to Pathak in an enduring battle of arm wrestling. And Pathak straining to block Pam's strange wrist. Not succeeding though. Warriors all, for I know one when I see one. C block badminton court. Once PTs favourite ground. It still resounds to his dance like feet movement that gave him astounding court coverage. Usually, people remember places. Sometimes though, places remember people. And that court shall remember PT. Believe me, because I know.

Cricket grounds. Football grounds. Behind the director's residence was a small village. Some of us went there and taught there. Kids and elders alike. I will be surprised if that village has forgotten these warriors. Shashank Rastogi learnt the off break grip and would let go of the bowl in an enchanting loop. But Chakru would have none of it. A thirty yard run up straining against a cigarette weary pair of lungs, hardly any pace but Chakru would remain the strike bowler for his team. Mayank had a swing and always wondered how he did that trick. Temperamental yet effective. Another warrior. That one time when IET went to IT BHU I saw another one. Dhananjaya Singh. Calamullah bowled with venom for REC Jabalpur. And as DJ points out, many pretentious warriors opted to come down the batting line. So warriors were unmade by Calamullah .But,this one remained. Hurt, bruised and battered he kept going back to the wicket after treatment. And he stood there. That he shall ever be avenged is a lost question. Unless such stories are told again and again.

Sadho Ye Murdon Ka Gaon
Peer Mare, Pygambar Mari Hain
Mari Hain Zinda Jogi
Raja Mari Hain, Parja Mari Hain
Mari Hain Baid Aur Rogi
Chanda Mari Hain, Suraj Mari Hain
Mari Hain Dharni Akasa
Tethis Koti Devata Mari Hain
Badi Kaal Ki Bazi
Naam Anam Anant Rehat Hai
Duja Tatva Na Hoi
Kahe Kabir Suno Bhai Sadho
Bhatak Maro Mat Koi

Another place. Another battle. Nobody avenges. There is only revenge.

Kabhi samay tha ki rang de basanti ke kiradar hum khud the.

Badi hai kaal ki baazi.

Just see what has become of us. Warriors have become sundry competitors. Those who would look at starry skies on moonless nights and break into a tune have forgotten what the moon is.

And time has brought us to Mohan Meakins. Clear blue skies, a slight breeze and the taste of good old fresh beer. Old memories and the smell of lamboos daal fry. The promise of new memories. A new war. Another warrior and another revenge in the making. And time has brought us to Mohan Meakins. Shall we bring time to Mohan Meakins?