A Soul Stirring Article By Harsha Bhogle

Remember when you failed an examination. How many people recall that,
your class, friends, relatives? You failed to make it to the IITs or
IIMs. Who remembers. How many times have you had the feeling of being
the best in your class, school , university, state….., you failed to
get a visa stamped this quarter…, you missed a promotion this year…,
how did it feel when you dad told you in your early twenties that you
are good for nothing…..and now your boss tell you the same...

You keep introspecting and go into a shell when people most of whom
don’t matter a dime in your life criticize you, back bite you, make
fun of you. You are left sad and shattered and you cry when your own
kin scoffs at you. You say I am feeling low today. It takes a lot from
us to come out of these everyday situations and move on. A lot???
really?

Now here’s a man standing on the third man boundary in the last over
of a world cup match. The bowler just has to bowl sensibly to win this
game. What the man at the boundary sees is 4 rank bad bowls bowled
without any sense of focus, planning or regret. India loses, yet again
in those circumstances when he has done just about everything right.

He does not cry. Does not show any emotion. Just keeps his head down
and leaves the field. He has seen these failures for 22 years now. And
not just his class, relatives, friends but the whole world has seen
these failures. We are too immature to even imagine what goes on in
that mind and heart of his. That’s why I would never want to be
Sachin.

True, he has single handedly lifted to moods of this entire nation
umpteen number of times. He has been an inspiration to rise above our
mediocrity. Nobody who has ever lifted the willow even comes close to
this man’s genius. His dedication and metal strength is unparallel.
This is specially for those people who would have made fun of him
again last night when India lost. They are people who are mediocre in
their own lives. Who just scoff at others to create cheap fun. Who
have lived in a small hole throughout their lives and thought they
have seen the oceans.

Think about the man himself. He is 37 years of age. He has been
playing almost non stop for 22 years. The way he was running and
diving around the field last night would have put 22 year olds to
shame. The way he played the best opening quickies in the world was
breathtaking. He just keeps getting better which is by the way humanly
impossible. Its not for nothing that people call him GOD.

But still I don’t want to be in those shoes. We struggle in keeping
our monotonous lives straight, lives which affect a limited number of
people. Imagine what would be the magnitude of the inner struggle for
him, pain both mental and physical, tears that have frozen with time,
knees and ankles and every other joint in the body that is either
bandaged or needs to be attended to every night, eyes that don’t sleep
before a big game, bats that have scored 99 international tons and
still see expectations from a billion people.

And he just converts those expectations into reality. We watch in awe,
feel privileged.

Well I think its time that his team realizes that enough is enough.
They have an obligation, not towards their country alone but towards
Sachin. They need to win this one for him. Stay assured that he
himself will still deliver and leave no stone unturned to make sure
India wins this cup.

This is not just a game, and he is not just a sportsman. Its much more
than this. Words fail here.....

--- HARSHA BHOGLE

Gully Munching

I

n Delhi, finding a locality without an eatery is something I would never bet against. It’s amazing how this place harbours amazing culinary talents from across the nation. It is a foodie’s paradise. There are enough places to provide a gamut of cuisines for one’s taste buds, varying from classy restaurants serving continental or desi food, to tapree or roadside mouth-watering grub. We can be blamed for our (so-called haughty) attitude or flashy life style (I prefer cheerful and vivacious), but no one can deny that we are the uncrowned food capital of the country.  

After my twenty years of experience with Delhi, I have one piece of advice for every gastronome that stumbles upon this blog. If you come across any eatery where you see people pounding on each other just to get their plate… Go, crash in. These places might seem a little tacky and unhygienic at times, but they could be serving one of the best eatables you may ever get to have. Don’t worry about digestive troubles. Few months of street food in Delhi will give you an iron stomach and you will be ready to digest just anything.

One Friday, my mother asked me and my cousin Rohan to go to a near by market and bring some snacks for the evening tea. Since he is very fond of samosas, I took him to a place that makes the best samosas in our area. It is a small ten feet by five feet room that sits at a corner of Delhi Development Authority’s market complex, right next to a glowing yet quiet Subway restaurant having nearly four times the area. Still it is one place that enjoys the maximum footfall in that commercial area. A mere five bucks samosa beats the hell out of the sixty bucks ‘healthy’ sandwich sold at the next door. Where the neatly dressed staffs of Subway eagerly wait for some customers, the business of the prosperous neighbour depends on the adeptness of a short and lean boy in managing the horde of customers at his counter. Everyone calls him ‘Chhotu’ here and he is the only interface between us and the mystery cook sitting behind the dark wooden divider that separates the kitchen from the counter. I’ve seen a lady sitting at the counter sometimes, but I never saw her move an inch. She just plays a silent owner with a rare and lethargic smile, watching the snacks and money change hands.

Rohan flinched on seeing the bustling crowd at the shop. I convinced him that it was a routine show there and dragged him with me to place the order. I pushed through the crowd and reached the decrepit rosewood table to place my order, where a bewildered Chhotu stood overwhelmed with so many hands offering money to place their orders. Hesitantly, I too clutched a hundred rupees note and moved my hand forward, following the ritual. Chhotu sighed with mundane eyes and began to collect the money and write the orders on a piece of paper. I was the last one to place my order. My voice was subdued by low pitch male roars for the high calorie grub.  After taking all the orders, Chhotu told us that they will take around twenty minutes. For the rest of us, who were kind of regulars at this place, it was no problem. But the new ones like Rohan, make the one big mistake of leaving their place and stepping back. It had happened to me when I first came to this shop. I placed my order and then stepped back to attend a phone call. I kept on roaming near the shop, talking on the phone, assuming that I will know when my order arrives. I reached my spot exactly twenty minutes later only to find that my order was given to some other person who was there at the time when the samosas arrived. It’s a matter of seconds. You never know, the pile of fresh samosas may appear a tad before the scheduled twenty minutes and then if you are not at your spot, someone else who came after you may get a walkover. This was a lesson learnt and so now I wasn’t going anywhere till I get my oil soaked packet. My brother grouched but in the end joined me.

This is what happens next. The twenty minute wait is the most uncomfortable yet humouring at the same time. We keep standing over the counter in an equilibrium state. Everyone pushes everyone and everyone is pushed by everyone, and so there is no net movement. Anyone standing at a distance might see it as a group of humans glued in a formation. We all have our eyes on Chhotu, the one who might at any moment move towards the other side of the room divider and bring the prize to the table. The abashed Chhotu, fully aware of the eyes watching his every move, tries to restrict his movement in hesitation. He stares at the table and then towards the partition, as eager to hear a call from the cook as the rest of us, but ofcourse due to different reasons. Hunger churns my stomach further when the sparkling sound of snacks being dipped into the hot oil reaches my ears and the aroma of the frying samosas suffuses the whole area. The steam rising from behind the partition dances out of the kitchen and sinuously crosses the counter to tease us, making our stomach skip a beat. In response to the impulse enticement, my stomach grumbles harder and I take a gulp to pass the moment. I could see the same expression on every other face near me. Just that second, a deep voice comes from the rear.

‘CHHOTUUUU’

A rush of excitement flow across all of us as Chhotu rushes to the other side at the cue and we begin a mental countdown in our minds. As the scent of the samosas grows stronger, we brace ourselves just like the court men who prepare themselves for the arriving princess.

Finally they arrive, glistening golden treats, fresh from the kitchen. The customers, who were patient till now, burst again to fetch their packet from the counter, and the dauntless Chhotu shows immense skill by handing over the right packet to the right person, despite the clamour. With a focused eye, I swiftly grab my packet from his hands as soon as my order gets packed. My brother, new to all this hustle, is left stumped in a corner, while I reopen my packet to take a whiff of my favourite nosh. This is a Delhi experience of earning a scrumptious street food.