The walk through the woods of Planet JNU invariably means that one inhales in whatever measure some amount of Bong Commie lethargy viruses. The infection completes as one walks into the Commie canteen behind the main Library. This is a shed (literally) embellished with posters decrying war in Iraq, reservation for Backward Classes, sex education in schools, farmers' suicides and triumph of totalitarians. My integrity remains almost untarnished when I say some posters actually read thus: we decry/condemn/lament next line bullet reservation bullet sex education in schools bullet war in Iraq.
One goes in and stands in the queue feeling awkward about one's alienness in the space which has obviously nourished (quite literally) a political rainbow. I ask what's available and quick. Coyly. While few others shout out their favourites from behind. I settle for another's favourite- fish curry rice. Eighteen bucks. I am told.
I shiver in glee for a bit, while the old man pulls out change and directs me to a large window where I am expected to pick up my order. The swift hands from inside the treasurehouse hand out the grub to me and point towards a self-service pickle container.
The spicy, slightly-tomato-sour gravy and copious amounts of rice trigger orgasmic jolts within my Bengali constitution. And the thought of all of it costing eighteen rupees. Two Bihari-accented men with whom I am sharing a table (for it is jampacked) discuss what strings to pull to secure some University job for one of their brethren. Hot, urbane women with armpit bags and anorexic cellphones giggle over pakoras and coffee. Lone small-town chubby PhD girl elbow-licks sambar and looks out wistfully. I burp volubly.
Cut to Delhi School of Economics, North Campus, similar winter afternoon, equivalent DU, Hindi-heartland lethargy virus.
This is an open-air canteen. Run by a Mallu, tucked in at the counter. Chicken rice for forty bucks- little cocky for a canteen, but nonetheless worth a try. This is the hip crowd's den and probably more cosmopolitan than the rest of DU. Lots of Bongs gloating over econometrics and furtively glancing at the unattainable sashays in the vicinity. Some public school bubblegum accents floating discussing imminent exams. A bad-tempered cook serves us hot chicken curry rice. Again the quantities defy market economics. My colleague and I are immediately manouevered into meat conversation. Bong and Manglorean home-food-nostalgia is exchanged over viscous, spicy gravy and chicken leg.
A sorry excuse for coffee follows. This is where the Mallu's Delhi acculturation speaks out loud.
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