Letter from Jamia Millia - One Night in the Boys' Hostel

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A peek into the mind of young Muslims.

[Text and pictures by Mayank Austen Soofi]

Fourteen days after the Delhi blasts, ten days after the 'encounter' in Jamia Nagar, and a day after the explosion in Mehrauli, life is no longer the same for the students of Delhi's Jamia Millia University.

It's night and I'm in the boys' hostel of this prestigious university that, though secular in character, attracts thousands of Muslim students from all over the country.

Amidst rumours of 'plain-clothed policemen' interrogating students, Mr Faraz Husain, final year student in B. Arch, says, "Friends outside the University jokes that Jamia will be banned on the lines of SIMI".

A few days after the Delhi blasts, Mr Husain went for a job interview at Larsen & Tuboro in Okhla where a couple of other applicants gave him a "cautious look" when he revealed the name of his college.

Mr Husain adds, "Earlier when Muslim terrorists staged attacks, we would watch the news on TV and that was that, but now after Jamia's name has been linked to the blasts, we all feel affected."

New jokes have sprung up at the campus. Those who share names with those of suspects are prime targets. Tera naam Tauqeer hai, tu jaroor pakda jayega (Your name is Taueer, you will certainly be caught by the cops). Mohammad Tauqeer is a suspected mastermind behind Delhi blasts.

"It's not about trivializing the issue," explains Mr Ali Rizvi, a first-year student in Mass Communications. "It's about lightening the mood."

There is an uneasiness due to the changing profile of terrorists. Mr Aamir Khan, studying a Masters in Social Work, remembers that while walking in Batla House locality on the night of the encounter, he was afraid of greeting fellow students. "Who knows who is a member of the Indian Mujahidin?" he says.

"Earlier terrorists were seen as religious radicals," observes Mr Rizvi. "But now they are portrayed as educated, smart, working professionals." Mr Husain recently started wearing a goatee, but was advised by his cousin to grow a beard since "the police are picking up smart, clean-shaven people."

Mr Riaz Mohammad, a final-year student in B.Tech, a stream he jokingly describes as a risky choice since "many terrorist suspects are from a technical background", fears for the Muslim community. "Young educated people like me are being discriminated against by these events," he says.

The police are no longer seen as a protecting force. Worried parents call to say, "don't do loose talk," "idhar-udhar mat jana," and "don't roam after dusk."

Nightlife has come to a halt. No longer any bike rides to the ridge, detours to Noida, Sector 19, or midnight dinners at Comesum, Nizamuddin.

"We have even stopped going to the Community Centre where we used to hang out and oggle at New Friends Colony girls", Mr Husain complains.

The students have been advised to be careful of what they Google, and also not to share jokes through sms and e-mail.

Mr Rizvi, an aspiring journalist, is scared of carrying books on controversial themes like terrorism. "The police might think I'm keeping desh-drohi literature."

Another student found himself struggling with choices he never imagined before – should he hide his copy of Osama Bin Laden's biography in his hostel room or bury it in the garden?

Mr Safdar Ali, a final year MA student, simply pressed the delete button on all the films on Gujarat riots stored in his desktop. He also deleted Khuda ke Liye, the Pakistani blockbuster starring Naseeruddin Shah.

Curiously, Mr Shah Hafiz, a student from Imphal doesn't show nervousness. "I don't mind these things as it's the usual scene in my state Manipur," he says.

However, many are nervous about job prospects. "The recent events may affect our placement," says Mr Riaz. "We get companies like TCS, Satyam, L&T, and DLF but if they feel that hiring people from here creates a security risk, they might stop recruiting."

If anything good has emerged, post-encounter, it is that students from different regions, courses, religions, and income groups have come together in a joint sense of pride. "Earlier I didn't give a damn about my university," says Mr Husain. "But now when I see our Vice Chancellor, teachers and students joining forces to protect our honour, I feel proud of this place." "It's not religion that has united us," notes Mr Rizvi. "It's the insecurity."

You think we are terrorists?



Tense times



This too shall pass

City Commute - Lady in Red, AC Buses

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The Delhi Walla takes a ride.

[Text and pictures by Mayank Austen Soofi]

Scene I: ISBT, Anand Vihar. It's so humid that even fish can swim in the air. I have to go to CP and the Anand Vihar-Dhaula Kuan Blueline is gurrring to go. Hey, look – 543. It's red, low-floor and sleek. Is it that AC-walli bus newspapers have written about? But it's heading to Mehrauli. Who cares? Anything to get away from the humidity. I knock on the glass door, the driver sitting inside his 'cockpit' presses a button and phurrr, the door slides open. Noiselessly.

Scene II: Inside, it's as cool as Rajdhani Express while the ticket remains very un-Rajdhani. Just Rs 15 for Ashram flyover. In a Blueline, it would cost Rs 5 less. I'm paying just Rs 5 for AC's thandak. Ah, it was high time to take DTC for a ride.

However, once a DTC, always a DTC. The driver is in no hurry. The door sliding open. People coming in. The door closing. Opening again. Every new check-in enters with eyes wide open and neck turning 180 degrees to take in the scene: wide aisle, large, really large windows, plush seats.

Finally, the bus starts.

Delhi and its dust clouds swirl past outside the window making me feel like a tourist who is sightseeing around Incredible India in an air-conditioned bubble. No dust getting into my ears, no strange sweat dripping onto my arms, no smelly body odours assaulting my nostrils and no Himesh Reshammiya singing out of the 'deck'.

And, the cream on the cake: fellow commuters in adjacent Bluelines are looking envious. What luck.

Bharaak! The bus suddenly stops. But no jhatka. It's Ghazipur traffic light. Three minutes. Ten minutes. Seventeen minutes. No problem. All looking chilled out as if we have found nirvana. And everyone is well-behaved. No spitting, no cursing, no molesting. At least, no one groped me.

The bus starts inching ahead. Fast, but not faster. More bus stops. Doors sliding open. People pouring in and out. We the people, the kind who do railway booking in AC 3-tiers only if there's no berth available in the cheaper non-AC sleeper cars. But here, on DTC's AC bus, it's surprising to find ourselves travelling dust-free and sweat-free, and with our budget and dignity intact.

Soon, the bus is running over Japani bridge. The Yamuna is looking blue, the air is 'feeling' clean, and even the newspaper headline is cheery (Bindra Gets Gold in Beijing). Soon, the door slides open at Ashram.

Scene III: I'm out – back in the heat and grime of incredible Dilli. Why did Ashram come so soon?

A street banner in praise of the AC buses

Bihar Diary-V: In the Heart of Darkness

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Sorrows of a far-flung correspondent.

[Text by Mayank Austen Soofi; pictures by the people of Purnia]

These are jottings that I scribbled on the notepad during my stay in Purnia, the town closest to flooded regions of north Bihar where I volunteered in relief efforts.

I always wanted to be a newspaper correspondent who would cover stories in the world's dangerous hotspots like Baghdad, Mogadishu, Khartoum, Kabul, Peshawar and Kashmir. There I would have clandestine meetings with terrorists, interview dissidents, chat with cab drivers, drink beer in the local press club, attend dinners with socialites and stay awake till dawn to file stories.

So, it was thrilling when I went to volunteer as a relief worker, as well as write stories, in the flood-hit Bihar. But not all shared my enthusiasm. My parents feared that "Bihar is not really a safe place." A friend warned, "This won't be like Barkha Dutt reporting from Kargil". Another scared me with stories of cholera and loose motions. Many others wanted me to call off the trip. But sorry, this was my first 'off-shore' assignment and I was going to have the time of my life.

Action shifts to Bihar.

Oh God. I'm in this godforsaken town called Purnia. I had imagined that there would be four feet of water everywhere and I would be rescuing villagers, comforting the grieved and distributing food packets to the starving millions. No such adventure. The flooded ground zero is still further and this dry, blistering-hot town is as dull as any small town in India. Worse, Purnia-wallas appear to be as indifferent to the disaster as Delhi-wallas.

That might be because Bihar's people, a senior journalist told me, have grown so used to man-made miseries that they have learnt to take everything in their stride. Even if this time it's one of the state's worst floods ever.

Yesterday I spent my day in a refugee camp and found the 'survivors' living quite a 'normal' life -- sleeping, talking, eating, feeding, bathing, and even smiling. There was no drama. Tragedies can be banal. All that heart-tugging action – wailing people, shrieking babies – is more likely to happen on manipulated 'exclusives' of TV news channels than in real life.

I was…how to put it, disappointed.

As a big-city guy who sacrificed one week's worth of browsing in Bahrisons bookstore, eating blueberry muffins in Oxford Cha Bar and watching movies in PVR, I'm just getting no payback thrill here. Better donate one day's salary for the victims and remain in Delhi than slosh around amongst a people for whom, perhaps, most of us are unable to feel anything beyond textbook sympathy.

Last night I set talking to the senior roving editor of a national daily. He is cooped up in the same hotel I'm in. The editor was wondering if there's a real disconnect between the metropolitan India and the rest of the country. I think he's got his answer.

Missing Delhi in Purnia



Game for a Bhojpuri film?



Textbook sympathy for the starving millions

Capital Nonsense - A Chick lit for Delhi Girls

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Offering a book proposal.

[Text and pictures by Mayank Austen Soofi]

I'm determined to write the world's chocolatiest chick lit and determined to dedicate it to the chicks of Delhi. The book will not only be about Louis Vuitton-carrying, Jimmy Choo-wearing, BMW-driving, Khan Market-shopping girls of Golf Links, but also about the Janpath jhola-carrying, Osho-slipper wearing, auto-riding, Sarojini Nagar-shopping girls of the rest of the Delhi.

As I follow the eye candy, my only constant companion will be a much-thumbed copy of The Complete Novels of Jane Austen. I have reasons. The landscape that Austen wrote about in 18th century England finds its reflection in 21st century Delhi. The choices available to the girls of both – Devonshire, then, and Dilshad Garden, now – are remarkably similar.

For instance, a large income has always been considered the best recipe for happiness, whether its London or Delhi. Besides, it's an acknowledged truth in the entire NCR that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife. Alas, there have never been many men of large fortune, neither in Longbourn nor Lajpat Nagar, as there are pretty women to deserve them (inflation makes it only more difficult). And yet, there remains only one goal expected of most Delhi girls, employed or unemployed, MIG flat tenant or HIG flat owner: marriage.

However little known the feelings or views of the girls, this remains the truth fixed in the minds of their families from Gurgaon to Ghaziabad. It is supposed to be the only honourable provision for 'convented' young women of any fortune.

So, I will listen to everyday stories, the secret dreams and sinful fantasies of Lizzies and Emmas living in Janakpuri and Jahangirpuri, Gargi College and JMC, and mash them into a quickie pulp. I will attend the kitty parties of Karol Bagh, talk to aunties in Pitampura, look for their daughters in Buddha Garden, and search the Jane Austen in their private worlds.

My book will also poke the divide between south Delhi and the rest of the city. How different are the lives of young women in Saket and Seelampur? Does a bare-chested Johnny Depp adorn bedroom walls in both Vasant Vihar and Mayur Vihar? Is it Akshay Kumar in Shahdara?

Of course, the book will have lots and lots of Jane Austen: lots of badmash Lydias (who flirt with every guy in town), lots of wicked Wickhams (who think they are cunning but get trapped by such shrews). Jane will be proud. My promise.

9/13 Opinion - Scavengers in the Blast Sites

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To be or not to be a reporter.

[Text and pictures by Mayank Austen Soofi]

As a David Remnick wannabe, it's a dream come true to tumble from one disaster zone into another.

On 9/11, I was in flood-hit Bihar. On 9/13, my train chugged into Nizamuddin station. Just in time. That day, at 6.32 pm, I was in Khan Market when Barakhamba, Central Park, Karol Bagh and GK I M-Block Market were rocked by serial blasts. This was a big Delhi story and I, The Delhi Walla, thought if I do the right reporting, take the right quotes and write the right adjectives, I would be able to impress my readers and my friends.

So, there I was, camera round my neck, notepad in my hand and oh… a slight hitch. “No, you aren't going to blast sites," parents commanded. OK, I'll go the next day. A journalist friend (let's call her L) called and we arranged to meet at Ram Manohar Lohia Hospital the next morning.

At RML, like a scavenger, I clicked 'great' pictures of grieving relatives of blast victims – injured and dead. I also talked to a few of them and took 'newsworthy bytes'. Next, we were in Central Park. Pictures, again. Next, Karol Bagh. Pictures, again. And then the script went out of control.

We walked into a street and met an injured eight-month pregnant woman with glass shards still stuck in her flesh. A crowd of bubblegum-chewing reporters, like me, were crowded around her, asking questions in babalog Hindi.

Following the blast, as I soon learned, the woman was taken to a private hospital where doctors sent her home after applying some very basic first-aid. In want of a full check-up, she was now wincing in pain. But no one cared. You see, most of us reporters only wanted the right visual and the right quote.

I, too, did my number and was ready to leave for M-Block Market when something happened to L. "We are taking her to the hospital," she declared. OK. Quite noble, but it was hot, I was tired, and well, was this really my job? However, I did whatever L asked me to do (arranged for a rickshaw, got her into the car etc.) while still scribbling and still clicking.

Once in hospital, L got a doctor for our patient who continued moaning in pain. But the doctor got distracted by our journo status and instead of attending to the victim, he got busy asking if I would publish his name and picture in The Delhi Walla. It hit me, then: even if somehow I managed to impress my readers and my friends, what would be the point?

So, how you feeling? (at Barakhamba)



Live from the Emergency Ward (at Ram Manohar Lohia Hospital)



Now, just one more minute (at Ram Manohar Lohia Hospital)



Reporting from 'ground zero', (outside Central Park)

Bihar Diary-IV: Love and Loss

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Don't forget Bihar's human tragedy.

[Text and picture by Mayank Austen Soofi]

I spent a week volunteering in relief efforts in flooded regions of Bihar.

The abrupt shift in Kosi's course in Bihar has flooded farm fields, submerged villages, drowned people but it has, so far, failed to snuff out the romance in the life of "perhaps 18 or 19-year-old" Mr Tuntun Kumar (middle in the picture), a "flood victim" at a relief camp in Purnia's spanking new Aastha Mandir.

Despite the catastrophe unfurling around him, Mr Tuntun Kumar remains lost in the thoughts of Mrs Archana Devi, his "perhaps 16 or 17-year-old wife" who is still struggling to survive in her marooned village.

Though Mr Tuntun Kumar and Mrs Archana Devi married last year, during phagun, their union was to be consummated in the October of 2008. Till then, Mr Tuntun Kumar, a handsome lad with a pencil-thin moustache, was to continue living a bachelor's life in his village, Borarahaha. While Mrs Archana Devi would stay on in Ratanpatti, a hamlet around 10-minutes away from Bororahaha, if you are riding on Mr Tuntun Kumar's Rajdoot motorbike. (Both villages, I was told, are in Madhepura district)

But nothing works as it should.

On August 18, the 'barrage' in Nepal burst open. On August 20, the sarpanch in Mr Tuntun Kumar's village warned of the approaching waters. On August 22, as the sun was shining, Kosi river "suddenly appeared" and like a fuming Kali devoured everything in sight: trees, grains, cows, goats, wells, temples, huts and people.

Mr Tuntun Kumar's family – his parents and two younger brothers – clambered atop their house and helplessly watched as Kosi took over their 10-acre dhaan ka khet. The river snaked inside the huts and wrecked beds, bartans, sandooks and, most unfortunately, all the crops stored in boras. The shock of the loss, amounting to half-a-year worth of earning, around Rs 50, 000, made Mr Tuntun Kumar forget Mrs Archana Devi – for a while.

She soon returned to haunt him. But there was no contact with her village. Was she safe?

Nobody knew.

After spending two days on the roof with the water showing no sign of receding, Mr Tuntun Kumar's family decided to escape. They left behind the buffalo and the father ("otherwise who would take care of the buffalo?") and waded for seven kilometers in 4-feet of water.

All over, the farmlands had disappeared. The stately trees had bent down, their top branches looking like forgotten watchtowers. Dead cows floated past. Did Mr Tuntun Kumar fear the snakes? "I feared for Archana Devi," says he. "I had no idea of her whereabouts."

The dry terrain was reached at a place called Bhangaha. A further 10-minute-long walk took them to the highway at Mirchi Wali Chowk where a Tata Balero carried Mr Tuntun Kumar, his mother and brothers, 50 kilometers away, to this refugee camp at Purnia.

It's been more than a week now. A cooking gas range has already been dispatched to the father 'back home' who is still there on the roof "milking the buffalo and cooking the khichdi".

However, a complete silence from Mrs Archana Devi's village remained a constant source of anxiety. "Tuntun wouldn't even eat properly," says Mr Anil Kumar, a fellow refugee. "My wife has a beautiful voice," Mr Tuntun Kumar says. To hear that voice, he would repeatedly call on her mobile phone but the line remained dead at the other end.

Then came the afternoon of September 6 when Mr Tuntun Kumar again dialed; again expecting a dead-end. But magic -- Mrs Archana Devi's phone rang and Mrs Archana Devi herself picked up.

"Hum kub milenge," she said in her familiar "meethi voice". "Wait for the paani to go down", Mr Tuntun Kumar replied. "Phir mil jayenge."

9/13 – Memoirs of the Day After

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Making sense in the aftermath.

[Text by Priya Sen; picture by Mayank Austen Soofi]

India Gate, September 13th, 6.20 or so in the evening. I had decided to walk from Triveni Kala Academy towards Khan Market.

India Gate was as India Gate is on a weekend evening. Walking through it made me think of other times I had been there, a few specific memories and a general sense of being in Delhi - of familiarity and ease from having been here for as long as I have.

It took 15 minutes to cross over to Shah Jahan Road.

Later I heard there were a couple of bombs that were defused, one at Regal Cinema and one at India Gate. I realized how many stories there are now. Of yesterday. Of where we were when the blasts took place. Of places we know so well. Of our lives up until the moment life changed for so many people in our city. Of the things that make our days what they are and will continue to.

Everyone will have a story because everyone needs to claim something from moments like these.

Today, Delhi feels quiet . My sister called me this morning. She was in tears. She couldn't sleep because of all this and was feeling restless because lakhs of people are going to be out on the streets for Ganapati visarjan in Bombay. For her it's about Bombay as well, the place where she has her life.

When public places become vulnerable, it means having to make decisions about things one doesn't necessarily think about. It's about everything outside of us that is essential to how we construct our lives. It's about everyday decisions, small things, immediate concerns. For a few days we will be excruciatingly aware of how we move around the city. There will be remorse, anxiety, anger and conversations. We will share a common grief, in degrees, and it will bring us together more intensely. We will blame and speculate. And then we will, thankfully, move on.

Right now though, I would rather not. I just want to be with what this city means to me. Aside from its symbols, its creation of itself, its skewed power dynamics and unbearable inequalities.

I'm glad I was in Delhi when this happened and not anywhere else.

9/13 Photo Essay – Delhi in Grief

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Let the Capital cry.

[Text and pictures by Mayank Austen Soofi]

Ram Manohar Lohiya Aspatal. List out. Chandarbhan - 50/m. Anu Rani - 25/f. Neha Sharma - 22/f. Male injured - 36. Male expired - 3. Total injured. Total expired...

...Grandfather missing. 5-year-child in bandages. An 8-month pregnant woman moaning with pain...

Please do not salute the spirit (whatever it is) of Delhi. Let us not carry on with the daily business of our life – at least for one day. Let the city cry.

Life can change in an evening



Have you seen him? (at Ram Manohar Lohiya Hospital)



Do you know any of them?



Do you know any of them?



Do you know any of them?



Never imagined I would be on TV this way, Ram Manohar Lohiya Hospital



Me too, at a hospital in Karol Bagh (his mother is injured and grandfather is missing)



Remember the dead, blast site in Barakhama Road

9/13 – Serial Bomb Blasts Rock Delhi

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O Delhi, my Delhi.

[Text by Mayank Austen Soofi; pictures by AFP]

Two days after 9/11, at around half past six, I was browsing at Khan Market's Bahri Booksellers when Mr M Singh, the bookshop assistant, cried out that Delhi has been hit by serial bomb blasts.

Kahan? Where? Kitne mare? How many dead?

Five blasts in three places.

In Central Park. Just opposite Gate No. 1 of Palika Bazar. Another, next to the metro station at Barakhamba. One more at Ghaffar Market in Karol Bagh. Ek aur at M-Block Market in GK-I. And…a breaking news on TV by Delhi Mayor Ms Arti Mehra – “A very recent blast inside Palika Bazar.”

People have died. Many have been injured. More will die.

TV channels are beaming images out of Central Park - injured bodies of young people being carried by cops and by-standers to ambulances. These are couples who come here to have good time.

An unexploded bomb has also been discovered in Children's Park, near India Gate. Another bomb has been defused outside Regal cinema (I saw Om Shanti Om there).

According to Delhi Police, the blasts seem to be coordinated. CNN-IBN news channel has claimed to receive an e-mail from an organization that says, "In the name of Allah, Indian Mujahedeen strikes back once more. ... Do whatever you can. Stop us if you can."

NDTV news channel has described the bomb site of M-Block Market as a place “which is a shopping destination, not for the middle class or lower middle class, but for the Capital’s upper crust folks.” Very Delhi.

Actually, there is nothing shocking about 9/13. Indian cities keep rattling with blasts and Delhi had it coming, sooner or later.

A gentleman, next to me, shook his head and said, “Arre, tch, tch.” One white shopper looked down mournfully on the floor. A boy who was carrying William Dalrymple's The Last Mughal swiftly took out his mobile phone and hurriedly dialed a number. But soon after he blurted that the phone lines were busy and he was unable to reach his brother. Addressing us as if we were his close friends, he said that his brother works in Connaught Place and commutes in the Metro. He was panicky. One gentleman consoled by saying that there were 13 million people in Delhi.

Meanwhile a hysterical woman exclaimed that more than 50 people have been killed in the attacks. (This was wrong information; at the time of writing this piece, the total number of dead stands at 18.)

It was time to board the bus back home.

The bus was stopped for security checks at two police barricades. Most commuters were discussing the blasts. The man sitting in front said, “India should bomb every Muslim country and wipe off the problem for once and for all.” There were different interpretations and different statistics as to the number of dead and wounded people. A debate started.

After reaching home safely, I have decided to donate blood tomorrow at Ram Manohar Lohiya Hospital.

However, tonight, like many Delhi wallas, I have a gut feeling that one evening it would be my turn too.

O Delhi, my Delhi

Bihar Diary-III: Papa, I Don’t Wanna Go Home

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The Delhi Walla in the flood-hit Bihar.

[Pictures and text by Mayank Austen Soofi]

I spent a week volunteering in relief efforts in flooded regions of Bihar.

Beside drowning, disappearances and death, one of Bihar’s worst-ever floods has, ironically, also brought good tidings in the life of at least four children whom I met during my volunteer work in two camps.

Better than home



The two-year-old Mr Bishal Kumar looks like a typical BBC-CNN disaster survivor you could have seen on a TV telecast beamed live from Rwanda, Mogadishu or Bihar – blank eyes, vacant face and a swollen belly, courtesy malnutrition.

Mr Kumar’s mother died just as he emerged out of her womb; his father, a landless farmer in a village called Pakilpur, was so poor that they were occasionally forced to skip a meal (the history of the child’s swollen belly could be traced from there).

And then Kosi came.

Mr Kumar’s father took him on the shoulders and they waded through the floodwaters to reach at Bageecha relief camp, around 50 kilometers from Purnia, a town in north Bihar. Good times, so to speak, soon began. Here was food (two meals a day -- rice, roti, dal, chokha), medicines and doctors, luxuries unavailable in Mr Kumar’s remote village.

Mr Kumar’s father says that the child was a silent-type back home but here he has grown cheerful, often plays with other children in the camp and gets better nourishment. But the father fears what would happen when the floodwater recedes, the camp is closed and they have to return home. Life would then return to square one.

All play, no work



In the same refugee camp as Mr Bishal Kumar’s, I met Ms Dulari, a shy seven-year-old girl who has never been to a school. Her life seems to be a bit better here. Although the family is forced to live in a tent made of saris and polythene, the little Ms Dulari has to do no household chores, as was her routine back home before the flood.

Here she is not expected to make rotis or clean the floor or collect wood from the jungle. She has also made friends with “Anita, Sanita, Gunjan, Sunjan.”

When I asked Ms Dulari what she wants to become in her life, the girl stared blankly at me. Her mother replied saying, "ghaas-bhoosa karegi, aur kya." That’s something Ms Dulari wouldn’t have to do as long as she remains in the camp.

New bonding



All day long, Ms Sanju Kumari and Ms Baby Kumari walk from one classroom to another, from one playground to another with hands held together as if guarding against any possibility (like a flood?) that might separate them.

Both girls are “around 15 or 16-years old”, hail from different villages and both are now refugees in Bellori relief camp, originally a school, on the outskirts of Purnia.

The day I met them, Ms Sanju and Ms Baby were wearing washed and ironed salwar suits that had the same colour – pink. their lockets too looked exactly the same.

"Sanju is my saheli," says Ms Baby. "We eat together and we oil each other’s hair too."

"Baby is like my didi," Ms Sanju says.

While they came to the camp seperately with their families, both girls bond so well, they almost look like twins, that it is difficult to imagine them apart. “One day the camp will be shut down and you would have to return to your villages,” I said. Both Ms Sanju and Ms Baby looked at each other and giggled as if that possibility doesn’t exist.

Bihar Diary-II: Misery in the Water World

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The Delhi Walla volunteers in flood hit Bihar.

[Pictures and text by Mayank Austen Soofi]

I spent a week volunteering in relief efforts in flooded regions of Bihar.

I’m told that the people of Bihar, one of India’s poorest states and also one of its most beautiful, are used to man-made tragedies. This flood happened because someone up there in the government failed to provide for the maintenance of the dam in neighboring Nepal.

So, cracks appeared over the years. Those who should have been alarmed did not care. Fast forward to August, 2008 when the monsoon lashed the land as usual. The rain fell, the dam’s walls further softened, the river Kosi flowed with a stronger current and all hell broke loose.

Whom to blame?

The engineers, bureaucrats and ministers responsible for the mess-up must be punished, of course.

But what would be the compensation for the people who lost their lives, the goats and cows that drowned, and the temples and mosques that vanished? What would be the compensation for the devastation of farm fields? What would be the compensation for the trauma caused to women, men and children as they waded through neck-deep water for dozens of miles in search of dry land?

Just how to calculate the total compensation for Bihar’s misery?

All's lost



Now, this is home



Whom to blame?



Unicef's orphans



Hope too has drowned

Bihar Diary-I: First Impressions

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The Delhi Walla goes to volunteer in the flood hit region.

[Pictures and text by Mayank Austen Soofi]

These are jottings that I scribbled on the notepad during my drive to Purnia, the town closest to flooded regions of north Bihar where I volunteered in relief efforts.

I left Delhi yesterday, left Bhagalpur railway station a few hours ago and now this ramshackle, over-heated ambassador car is driving, or rather bumping its way through Ganga, though Kosi, towards Purnia. I'm going there to volunteer in flood relief efforts.

I stop on the way. Water everywhere. I see the sky with my head down. The river Kosi is not looking deadly. At all. Instead, it is flowing serenely. On the river's surface, my eyes are following white cranes following each other.

Is this the river that has ravaged north Bihar?

As I drive on, it is hard to believe that an unprecedented human tragedy has been unfolding in such a beautiful landscape. Perhaps hell too is stunning to look at.

"This was all khet," the driver says. Now it is all ruined. Huts half-sunk in water. A half-submerged hand pump. A takhat floating past a village well. An old woman, perhaps alive, sitting still on a dry spot. Three young men waving goodbyes from a transformer that appeares to be abandoned in the middle of water. And yes, lest I forget, occasional refugee camps lining both sides of the highway.

Used to seeing the dry bed of Delhi's Yamuna, I look out of the window into the watery expanse and rub my eyes in disbelief. All this was farmland. All this was food. Makai ka khet. Now, it’s over.

At one turning, I see a cow calmly gazing towards the flooded fields. She seems not to be worried where her next fodder would come from. Lucky one.

However, as I near Purnia, the water world is giving way to green fields. Once in the hotel, it is like being back in civilization till the receptionist reminds me that "the ground zero starts not far away." But it's already very late. I'll go there tomorrow.

Take us to some dry place



Open air hamam



SOS



We don't need hand-pumps

City Guide – Thank God It’s Ramzan

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Festive guide to Muslim Delhi.

[Pictures and text by Mayank Austen Soofi]

Trnnnnnnnnn. The siren is booming from Matia Mahal to Ballimaran to Jamia Nagar. It’s sunset, time to break the roza. Good evening Delhi. Good morning Jama Masjid. As the day is preparing to sleep, some parts of the Capital are waking up. That’s Ramzan.

In a city with no shopping destinations open through the night (CP closes by 9 pm, Khan Market by 8 pm, Pacific Mall turns off the lights at 11 pm), Ramzan’s special bazaars are like PWD puddles on an otherwise smooth, dry highway. The Delhi Walla presents a guide to Delhi’s month-long special nightlife that boasts no malls, no nightclub, and no fine dining, yet so much fun.

Matia Mahal Market, Jama Masjid

In the night, no control. Forget the waistline and gorge on mithais and snacks. Kalan Sweets, opposite Jama Masjid’s Gate No. 1, is a mithaivore’s delight. Everything is cooked in desi ghee. Paneer ki jalebi is out of this world. Besides, there are there different kinds of samosas: aalo-samosas (for samosa conservatives) and qeema and khoya samoas for others. The guy at the counter promised that the mithai shop would be open 24/7 during Ramzan. So, come whenever you like – 2 am or 2 pm.

For size zero aspirants, there are stalls selling pineapple chaat. Try the special iftari that has patta bowls of papaya, apple and banana slices along with pieces of khajoor. Chicken lovers needn’t go beyond Al Sahi Chicken Corner, a short walk from the Kalan. Juicy murgas, poked through iron rods, are roasted right in front of you. “Around 100 chickens go off daily during Ramzan nights,” says the guy behind the counter. For veggies, there are pyaz/aloo/gobhi pakoris on offer.

Er, want to pack sewai for momma back home to cook in milk? There’s a stall next to Al-Jawahar. The roasted variety, called sewai, is for Rs 30 but the fried, called pheni, is Rs 70 per kg. Make up your mind, quick.

Matia Mahal is also about pajamas, jeans, jootis, bed sheets and even jewellery. Shops like Amaan Garments and Fashion Zone stock cargo trousers, T-shirts, track pants, and kidswear. Prices range from Rs 150 to Rs 500. Bargain recommended. Though these shops, too, remain open quite late into the night, I suggest that if you want to buy clothes, come when the night is still young. I’m told that these are still early days of Ramzan, and nightlong shopping would take place only after a week or so.

Another place to hang around in the Jama Masjid area is Shahi Galli, a tiny lane that faces the Red Fort. Go there after a week when the mood is in full swing.

Do you love burra meat (buffalo meat)? Try Lalu Kababi’s bhais ka tikka, in Urdu Bazaar. Lalu claims to sell 2,000 kebabs each night during Ramzan. He is open till 4 am.

If street fare is not your style, there’s always Karim’s – at your service from 5 pm to 5 am!

Ballimaran, Near Chawri Bazar Metro Station

China is everywhere, including in Mirza Ghalib’s Ballimaran, recently re-immortalised by Aishwarya Rai’s Kajra re Bollywood number. Quite a few ‘chowmeen’ stalls here! However, I suggest you head straight for Phatak Hakim Mehmood Khan. Just opposite it is the paan stall of Yamin. His Rs 5 meetha paan finally made me forget the meethi memories of Lucknow’s Hazratganj ka paan. During Ramzan, his stall remains open till 2 am.

Once you have chewed the paan and swallowed the juice, walk straight and then turn left to Galli Saudagaran. It’s a lane that has shoe stores, and shoe stores alone. The shoes come from Karol Bagh, Anand Parbat, Seelampur as well as from the leather workshops of Agra. The ‘ladies’ sandals’ will make cute gifts for your girlfriend with their white lace, fake gems, purple colour and Mickey Mouse imprints.
Warning: Galli Saudagaran will remain open till morning only during the last week of Ramzan.

Jamia Nagar, Okhla

Those who live in South Delhi may not have to go all the way to purani Dilli. Just cross New Friends Colony and you’ll find yourself in Jamia Nagar. Fussy ladies will find much to content themselves with at the garment stores at Batla House: cotton salwar suits, chikan work from Lucknow and kurtas with intricate gota work. A store called Fashion Gallery at Jogabai sells ‘designer kurtas’ ranging from Rs 300 to Rs 1,000.

Once done with shopping, try the famous chawal ki kheer of Pehelwan Bhai, on the main road of Zakir Nagar, next to the local Jama Masjid. Don’t skip Unique Bakery, which has meethi double roti and bun specially made for the Ramzan season. If it’s almost sehri time (the last meal before daybreak, if you are keeping roza), take a detour to the nearby Friends restaurant to end the ‘day’ with their delectable nahiri.

Happy Ramzan.

Iftar time approaching



A tale of three samosas



Grab 'n' run



With extra onions, please



Is she tempted?



Fruity Iftari



Let's browse



Me too



Burra meat for me!



Can you say 'No'?



Are you diabetic?



Forget not the prayers



Also, forget not the sewai