AIIMS canteen. It's a wonderful little place. You have this big hall filled with plastic tables and chairs, and at one tiny corner, a distressed man, selling coupons for respective food items. He is almost forever hassled by a mob wanting different kinds of food - from dosas to Fried Rice to even water bottles - this one man has the ticket to every patient's stomach.
It's not his fault that he is crowded by people perennially; the canteen's food itself is worth the long queue. A quick glance over the menu will tell you the variety of dishes this little canteen can offer - the starters range from samosas to idlis; the main course from curd-rice to butter chicken; and the desserts, well, let's not mention that just yet.
It's not his fault that he is crowded by people perennially; the canteen's food itself is worth the long queue. A quick glance over the menu will tell you the variety of dishes this little canteen can offer - the starters range from samosas to idlis; the main course from curd-rice to butter chicken; and the desserts, well, let's not mention that just yet.
The food here is delicious and exquisite in every sense, apart from one point that it hugely misses out on, the hygiene. Flies are everywhere, cooks and servers never adhere to the standard of wearing gloves, and if you're lucky, you might spot a pigeon or two on the rafters. Such is the condition of this place.
But I'm not here to review the grand palace that it already is. This time, I'm talking about an experience I had last evening, while going out for dinner.
The place was as usual bursting with Delhi's heat, with the customers not helping the condition. Vast majority of them were crowded around the corner, as was expected.
"Anna, Dosa kitne ka aur kitna time lagega, ji?"
"Arey bhai sahab, mere parathe aur kitna time lenge?"
It's a lot of fun to listen to such conversations, but I had an ulterior motive for coming here - to have some food.
The canteen was almost certainly divided into distinct areas. One for the Punjabis, the other for South Indians, a third for Biharis, and the one closest to the gate was owned by Gujaratis. That's one thing; the canteen is open to everyone and not just the patients, contrary to popular belief. In my opinion, this place was filled with travellers, and least of the sick ones.
I was confused as to where I should sit. I did not fall into any of the above-mentioned categories, and neither did I gel with most of them. Considering the fact that most of my school friends are Gujaratis, I decided to sit in their territory. Of course, due to the traffic, I had to share the table with a family of five.
And that's when someone shouted it, leading up to a massive vocal brawl.
"Itna saman kyu late ho, teen chair occupy kar rakhi hai!"
"Rehne de na yaar, Marwadi log hain, saman toh hoga hi!"
Some people passed these snide comments from the Punjabi area, so I felt it was understandable. Plus, Gujjus were not new to such remarks.
But may be this one was having a bad day.
“Tera kya jata hai? Hum toh apna samaan hi latey hai, par tum log toh jhund mein chalte ho, hathiyon ke jaise. Arey, hathi mein bhi thodi dusron ke liye izzat hoti hai! Har samay roads aur railways jam karke rakhte ho! Mujhe toh Delhi achi hi nahin lagti, tum jaise logon se bhari hai. Kyunki sab gadiyan yahan se jate hai, isiliye ana padta hai!”
I could literally see the youth’s eyes burning at the sound of "izzat". I could imagine the blood boiling under those muscular biceps. I knew Punjabis had short temper, and the force their punches could garner at was unimaginable. The tension in the air was palpable. That’s when I decided to intervene and reduce the testosterone in the air.
*to the youth*
“Arey sahib, kyu bekar mein baat ko badhate ho? Rehne do na. Comments marna apko shobha nahi deta. Rehna do!”
*to the man sitting across me*
“Aur aap, please bag niche hata dijeye. Madame ji ko baithne dein. Bas sab khush na?”
And then there was silence. The Punjabis continued with their butter chicken, the madam with her rice, and the Gujjus with their dhoklas. The tension had calmed down; everything went back to the way it was supposed to be. Peace prevailed. It’s a bit funny how a little common sense could diffuse such a situation.
I knew the little boy was coughing from the time he came. I thought it was due to a little cold he might have caught due to Delhi’s pathetic heat. Little did I know how wrong I was!
He started coughing more vigorously, and more, and then some more. He reached such a point that he even started vomiting, all over the table. My own dosa was spoilt. He had made a mess of it, and I was mighty angry with him. I had come down with 50 rupees, out of which 35 went for the dosa. That left me with the 15, out of which 10 would go for ice cream, and the 5-rupee tip. Everything was going to plan, until this boy opened his mouth and let all those contents out.
What I failed to see due to my vision being clouded by anger was that there was blood in the vomit. Plenty of it. Actually come to think of it, it was almost entirely a pool of blood. It was not until the boy dropped his face in the pool of blood than the father realized that his son was in serious trouble, and started shouting for help. I immediately lent my services, but he was a plump one. I couldn’t have done it alone, and then there was the blood to handle. That’s when this phenomenon occurred, which moved me enough to write down the incident.
The Punjabi boys rose from their chairs, leaving that succulent butter chicken halfway, and picked up the boy in one try. I was left amazed at their strength!
“Ankit, emergency ward kidhar hai?”
“Arey yaar abhi toh gaye the! Agey jaa ke left maar. Sir ji, aap bhi hamare piche aayiye. Aapka toh puttar hai!”
Following them to the emergency ward, he was transferred to a bed, and the doctor was called. Within 5 minutes, the boy was given an injection shot, and his body looked less perplexed by the minute, and in the following 10, he was composed, albeit not being able to talk. The doctor asked everyone but the family to leave the room. Most of the accumulated crowd left, but the three of us stayed put behind the doors.
What the doctor informed the father, I know not till this date. But what I do know is that he came out in tears and hugged both of them.
“Tumne mere bete ki jaan bacha li! Mein yeh karz kabhi nahi chuka paonga. Thank you, thank you!”
“Arey uncle ji, isme thank you ki kya baat. Yeh toh hamara farz tha. Beta theek toh hai na, bus. Ab hum chalte hain, late ho gaya hai. Maaf kar dijiyega pehle ke comments ke liye!”
Something that left me more flabbergasted was the complete reversal of situations here. One moment, the two of them were at odds with each other; swearing at each other’s backgrounds, and here they were apologizing and thanking each other.
Such is the condition in Indian suburban areas. People from every walk of life come together and work, live and exist with each other. They have no qualms whatsoever about such a life, and are more than ready to help each other out in any time of need. They don’t differentiate between Ram and Allah. At the end of the day, everyone is a human. Everyone lives in unity, everyone lives in peace.
-Shashwat Mohanty and Lakshmi Kher, Guest Writer
But I'm not here to review the grand palace that it already is. This time, I'm talking about an experience I had last evening, while going out for dinner.
The place was as usual bursting with Delhi's heat, with the customers not helping the condition. Vast majority of them were crowded around the corner, as was expected.
"Anna, Dosa kitne ka aur kitna time lagega, ji?"
"Arey bhai sahab, mere parathe aur kitna time lenge?"
It's a lot of fun to listen to such conversations, but I had an ulterior motive for coming here - to have some food.
The canteen was almost certainly divided into distinct areas. One for the Punjabis, the other for South Indians, a third for Biharis, and the one closest to the gate was owned by Gujaratis. That's one thing; the canteen is open to everyone and not just the patients, contrary to popular belief. In my opinion, this place was filled with travellers, and least of the sick ones.
I was confused as to where I should sit. I did not fall into any of the above-mentioned categories, and neither did I gel with most of them. Considering the fact that most of my school friends are Gujaratis, I decided to sit in their territory. Of course, due to the traffic, I had to share the table with a family of five.
And that's when someone shouted it, leading up to a massive vocal brawl.
"Itna saman kyu late ho, teen chair occupy kar rakhi hai!"
"Rehne de na yaar, Marwadi log hain, saman toh hoga hi!"
Some people passed these snide comments from the Punjabi area, so I felt it was understandable. Plus, Gujjus were not new to such remarks.
But may be this one was having a bad day.
“Tera kya jata hai? Hum toh apna samaan hi latey hai, par tum log toh jhund mein chalte ho, hathiyon ke jaise. Arey, hathi mein bhi thodi dusron ke liye izzat hoti hai! Har samay roads aur railways jam karke rakhte ho! Mujhe toh Delhi achi hi nahin lagti, tum jaise logon se bhari hai. Kyunki sab gadiyan yahan se jate hai, isiliye ana padta hai!”
I could literally see the youth’s eyes burning at the sound of "izzat". I could imagine the blood boiling under those muscular biceps. I knew Punjabis had short temper, and the force their punches could garner at was unimaginable. The tension in the air was palpable. That’s when I decided to intervene and reduce the testosterone in the air.
*to the youth*
“Arey sahib, kyu bekar mein baat ko badhate ho? Rehne do na. Comments marna apko shobha nahi deta. Rehna do!”
*to the man sitting across me*
“Aur aap, please bag niche hata dijeye. Madame ji ko baithne dein. Bas sab khush na?”
And then there was silence. The Punjabis continued with their butter chicken, the madam with her rice, and the Gujjus with their dhoklas. The tension had calmed down; everything went back to the way it was supposed to be. Peace prevailed. It’s a bit funny how a little common sense could diffuse such a situation.
I knew the little boy was coughing from the time he came. I thought it was due to a little cold he might have caught due to Delhi’s pathetic heat. Little did I know how wrong I was!
He started coughing more vigorously, and more, and then some more. He reached such a point that he even started vomiting, all over the table. My own dosa was spoilt. He had made a mess of it, and I was mighty angry with him. I had come down with 50 rupees, out of which 35 went for the dosa. That left me with the 15, out of which 10 would go for ice cream, and the 5-rupee tip. Everything was going to plan, until this boy opened his mouth and let all those contents out.
What I failed to see due to my vision being clouded by anger was that there was blood in the vomit. Plenty of it. Actually come to think of it, it was almost entirely a pool of blood. It was not until the boy dropped his face in the pool of blood than the father realized that his son was in serious trouble, and started shouting for help. I immediately lent my services, but he was a plump one. I couldn’t have done it alone, and then there was the blood to handle. That’s when this phenomenon occurred, which moved me enough to write down the incident.
The Punjabi boys rose from their chairs, leaving that succulent butter chicken halfway, and picked up the boy in one try. I was left amazed at their strength!
“Ankit, emergency ward kidhar hai?”
“Arey yaar abhi toh gaye the! Agey jaa ke left maar. Sir ji, aap bhi hamare piche aayiye. Aapka toh puttar hai!”
Following them to the emergency ward, he was transferred to a bed, and the doctor was called. Within 5 minutes, the boy was given an injection shot, and his body looked less perplexed by the minute, and in the following 10, he was composed, albeit not being able to talk. The doctor asked everyone but the family to leave the room. Most of the accumulated crowd left, but the three of us stayed put behind the doors.
What the doctor informed the father, I know not till this date. But what I do know is that he came out in tears and hugged both of them.
“Tumne mere bete ki jaan bacha li! Mein yeh karz kabhi nahi chuka paonga. Thank you, thank you!”
“Arey uncle ji, isme thank you ki kya baat. Yeh toh hamara farz tha. Beta theek toh hai na, bus. Ab hum chalte hain, late ho gaya hai. Maaf kar dijiyega pehle ke comments ke liye!”
Something that left me more flabbergasted was the complete reversal of situations here. One moment, the two of them were at odds with each other; swearing at each other’s backgrounds, and here they were apologizing and thanking each other.
Such is the condition in Indian suburban areas. People from every walk of life come together and work, live and exist with each other. They have no qualms whatsoever about such a life, and are more than ready to help each other out in any time of need. They don’t differentiate between Ram and Allah. At the end of the day, everyone is a human. Everyone lives in unity, everyone lives in peace.
-Shashwat Mohanty and Lakshmi Kher, Guest Writer