105

Dear Readers, 

                    That night changed me and my thinking radically. Hearing the students speak their mind out on that occasion and on subsequent others, I realised what real education was. I shook off the elitism that was pain-stackingly imparted to us by St. Stephen's College and the society we lived in. Life was not all about speaking English in a particular accent, knowing about the best clubs in Colaba or wearing the latest denims from Levi's or becoming a part of the bureaucracy! Life was also about knowing what was happening around us and more importantly, why was it happening? 

                    JNU taught me to feel, to care, to ask questions about things which appeared wrong and unjustifiable. It taught me to take a stand. Most importantly, it taught me take my studies seriously. Attend my lectures and understand theories and concepts. At CHS, we had to slog all round the semester writing term papers. We spent hours and hours in the silence of the libraries. When we came out of the libraries, we discussed and debated at Ganga Dhaba. We rubbed elbows with Iranians, Armenians, Odiyas, Bengalis, Nagas, French, Isreali and made friends with batchmates from Andhra, Bastar, Coorg, Jalpaiguri, Assam and Germany. 

                         We came to know about other people of our motherland and the world. We learned about their festivals, their foods, the atrocities their people were facing, what were insurgencies? why were people forced to take up arms? we studied the nuances of public policy and parliamentary procedures. We studied the Constitution. We practiced dissent and debating. We disagreed with our Professors who encouraged this over innumerable cups of coffee. We could discuss anything with our Profs at any time. We were made to understand what was injustice, exploitation and oppression. 

                          This is my JNU and I stand with it. My mind would not have been the same, had I not been privileged to be a part of this rich legacy. I love my country and every little thing about it, from the tricolor to its flowers and insects to its varied geographies- specially my home, the desert. I love JNU too for what it taught me. I shall raise my voice against those who seek to destroy it and deprive a young lad in the future of feeling the monsoons nearly the way we did......

                            

                       . 

104

Dear Readers, 

                      In the year 2005, I was elated to hear the news that I have got selected for admission into a Masters Programme at the coveted CHS (Centre for Historical Studies) in Jawaharlal Nehru University or JNU, the premier institution for Higher Education in our nation. On a cool, breezy July evening soothed by a monsoon shower, I entered the lush green campus in South Delhi and the very first day, I  lost myself in the swarms of students and other people walking on the footpath along the broad roads of that campus bordered with dense thicket (JNU of 2005 was a lot more greener than what it is today with 40 percent less concrete). The air of JNU breathed freedom, I felt. 

                     A series of monsoonal showers drenched me and a classmate of mine as we walked aimlessly round and round the Ring road, sometimes all the way up to the East Gate and back to the PSR ( dear students, PSR of those days was like a huge rock standing tall in the middle of a thick jungle, something resembling a pride's dwelling in the Serengeti and it did not look like a devastated public park like it does now!). We were amused to find such a space in the middle of saadi Dilli which was so very different from Roop Nagar, K Nags or Defence Colony, the Delhi we knew so far. The walks and the showers continued untill serendipitously they extended into the wee hours of the morning. That saawan, I saw for the first time in my life, that when you look up while its pouring, you can see the looped trajectory of the falling rain drops. I discovered for the first time in my life, the exuberant aroma of tuberoses. (remember the florist around the corner). Dear friends, it has never poured like that again since the monsoons of 2005. 

                          One lazy night, when me and my friend (the same classmate with whom I walked like a kid in Disneyland) were coming back from the library, the voice of a few students shouting slogans reached us. My friend told me excitedly that it was a 'mashaal juloos' ( a protest march where students carry torches) and dragged me there against my wishes. There were better things to do on a wet, washed night of August than go and watch a student's 'protest march'. I had no idea what it meant and hated this impromtu decision for I had plans of going to PSR again and try to view the Nehru Stadium from there. Alack! My loss....what on Earth was this 'protest march', why would students protest at 12 in the night, what would they protest against? Alack, my loss!....

                                                                                                                      (to be continued).....

                       

                         

103

Dear Readers,

                     Its rather difficult to explain to students the most accurate and authentic definition and meaning of the concept called 'Culture' and most so, in terms of India. However, we have some writers and poets who make our task easy by their exemplary work. Nida Fazli, the most outstanding poet of modern Urdu as well as modern Hindi, is one such maestro. His words will always remain with us. 

                   One of the most apt homage offered to Nida Sahib echo in Munavvar Rana's remark that hails him as serving the purpose of a 'beautiful bridge' across the malicious divide between Hindi and Urdu. Nida Sahib's lines fill the young hearts of our subcontinent with love who are living under a spell of hatred and intolerance and malevolent tampering with history, tradition, modernity and culture...... 

                             Jhoothi saari sarhadein, dhokha har takseem,

                            Dilli se Lahore tak kadve saare neem.

                            ( All borders are false, every limitation but a farce,

                             Each neem tree is as bitter  from Delhi to Lahore)