The Ghosts Of IIT,Delhi:Was That A Hallucination?

-Joel Mangboi Haokip

I bet , and hardly anybody would be in confrontation with me. Supernatural, is the unprofitable but the most alluring theme.
I still curse the day of 13 April 2009 when I was supposed to meet Mr. Amitabh Tripathi from the Deptt. of Mathematics at IIT, Delhi. This was in connection with asking him few mathematical problems related to my Course and Mathematical Olympiad questions. My best pal, Gaurav insisted to come along but I requested him to stay back. It was around 6 pm and most of the students had left for their respective hostels as most of the classes got over by the time.
After letting my friends to wait for me in front of the Textile Deptt., I proceeded towards Maths Deptt. It is on the second floor of the main building which is known for its architectural marvel. Once you enter inside, you have a feeling your are at a strange place. It is so haunted and seems to be singing the serenade of solitude. When I started walking across the road, the cold waves seemed to be chilling down my spine. There was no one at the gate and I entered the building.
Once you move forward there is a staircase that guides you to the second floor. I climbed the steps and then I proceeded toward Deptt. of Mathematics. It was a lonely corridor in which I was listening to my tapings of shoes and heavy breathing. The atmosphere really made me nervous. But I kept myself hopeful to meet a living soul and then to become my normal self. But my misgivings yielded to be true. The door of Maths Deptt. was locked. A strange silence descended over the alley. The 40 Watt bulb was glowing dim.
I suddenly heard footsteps. I was relieved. At least I would meet someone. The person introduced himself as the peon. He was sturdy-built with shabby clothes. His eyes were bloodshot. He switched on his 6-Cell Eveready torch that was enough to make me blind for 3 days. When I asked him the reason why the Deptt. was shut, he said I would come to know very soon. With a mysterious smile he moved on. The confusion of the jiffies made me swooned and now I wanted to come out of the place somehow. But then again I decided to wait for some more time in order to get more information.
As I was sitting, I could see three figures emerging from the dark at a distance. They were crooning, and later it changed into echoes. They seemed to be singing a math rap. The song was something like this, “Get the dead ducks, just for ten bucks.”
Now it was totally unbearable for me to stay at that place any longer. I made a headstrong, and in hurry, I had to avoid a collision with an almirah. I could see a feeble light toward the main entrance and ran with full might. At the gate, I saw the peon. He was having a wicked smile. I was not in a position to say anything. I slowly realized that it was no mere illusion or say, hallucination.
Later, one of my friends told me that the ghosts of great mathematicians like Lucas, Nuton and Russell love to pay a visit to the Maths Deptt at IIT Delhi. I still patronize under the effect of the adage “If you believe in ghosts, you don’t need evidence.”

A Park To Remember

As I traverse back and forth from my workplace to my home, I routinely pass by a park by the roadside. It is not the best park for one. I have seen better parks in a number of places. Parks which are well maintained and nicely kept. Some admirable for their sheer size. Some with touches of history showcasing beautiful monuments. Some chiseled in the latest modern avataars. But there is something about this park which endear it to me. Not the beauty of the grass and perhaps not the few people who chatter within the confines. Such space do however offer priceless peace to the residents of a crowded city.

As I could not avoid a glance whenever I pass by, it somehow began to engage my mind. I started searching my heart as to what make it special to me. Actually, there is nothing significant about the park. It is not well tended and so bears a dilipidated look.The grasses have almost dried up for want of care. The benches in the park are dirty and mostly empty. Rust has also set in and thereby repel visitors. The ground is strewn with litter making it unhygienic. In case they cannot be termed as encroachments, there are unauthorized structures on the boundary fencing. But despite the lack of beauty, the sight generates an inexplicable feeling. This set me into the thinking mode.

The park has a rather odd shape. It is triangular. There are residential flats facing the park on the left side. Minicure trees stand randomly here and there. There are rows of eucalyptus trees on the far end and right.Vast swades of wilderness seem to extend beyond it. It does not matter from where I observe. I do it often from the auto that connects me to the metro station. At other times, the metro feeder bus gives me a better view. Still, on rare occasions, a walk down the road allows me with more time to dwell.It became a recurring phenomena for quite sometime.Gradually, I realize what captivated me to the park was nothing extraordinary.It was just that the sight of the tall eucalyptus trees and the view beyond bore uncanny resemblance to the countryside where I was born and bred. What beholded me infact was the thought of home. The sights and sounds of the lovely countryside.

In course of time, the whole lot of thing brought something poignant to my mind. It reminded me of my humble roots. It brought back memories of childhood bliss. It tells me the present state of things were not dreamed of at one point of time. That I should not get carried away. That I should not lost my way in the woods. It is subtle to recall here the enlightening words of the Emperor of Japan in the concluding moments of Edward Zicke’s The Last Samurai “ And now we are awake. We have railroads and canon and western clothing. But we cannot forget who we are or where we come from”. And we can always find ‘A Park To Remember’ by the roadside to remind us.

P.S: This piece was written when I was working in Lok Sabha Secretariat, Parliament Of India, New Delhi.

Flying With The Times

The last time I paid a visit to the pristine Loktak Lake, dubbed the largest freshwater lake in the whole of North-East India, was a good ten years ago. The National Integration Camp had just concluded in Imphal. Taking forward the bonding we had developed during the past few days, those of us from Imphal, Ukhrul and Churachandpur districts decided to extend the rendezvous. That’s how we landed in the midst of the beautiful environs. The expansive watermass besides providing home to the endangered Sangai served many other purposes. Many fisher-folks sustain themselves by the daily catch. It also act as an absorber of pollutants that is ever on the increase. Most notably, as I continue to relish the ambience of the place, I was struck by a thought. Sendra, the small hillock that house the Tourist Lodge and which also enable an almost complete view of the lake, was a downright inspiring and rejuvenating place to write. May be reason why there is so much romance in Manipuri writings. No wonder the much-loved Khamba-Thoibi story belongs here.

Those were the days when I hardly stepped out of home. The occasional trip to Imphal for filling up requisite forms for entrance test to the Regional Institute Of Medical Sciences (RIMS) and visit to my Aunt’s place were some citable mobility. Life for the most part was confined to Churachandpur, my hometown. Nevertheless, life was not that insipid. I was rather preoccupied with youth activities of the Church, causes espoused by philantrophic organisations and piling works at home. Of course, I had many things to read as well. My elder brother had accumulated a lot of stuffs worth reading and I made full use of them which stood me in good stead even today. Novels, Magazines, Comic-Books, Fornightlies, etc. Evening times were even better with a run in the football field where age matter less and much satisfaction derived from a good day of play. And as darkness settle in, the breeze of the countryside made one feel there couldn’t be better place on earth to be at that moment of time. Those were the days when one had to still go to school in uniform.

Shillong was cool and taking Biotechnology as a graduation subject was no fun. Whereas most friends at St. Anthony’s finished their classes by lunch time, those of us in the Science stream had to log it out till late hours. Something to do with the practicals and projects. The only silver-lining is that hard work became an ethic that has been imbibed. One very enriching experience was my stay in Stephen Hall, the college boys’ hostel. Almost 52 different ethnic communities from the seven states of North-East and elsewhere stayed at that point of time under the same roof. When the NAAC members came to accredit the college with a ‘4 Star’ grade, they were more than enthused and pleasantly surprised. Another poignant change was the climate. Home being quite the warm type and Shillong bordering on the chill. One more offshoot of the change of place was the nostalgia of being away from home and slight transition in lifestyle.

The pursuit of career brought me to the arid town of Hisar. A fledgeling University became my home for two momentous years. I was put to some real tests. Acclimatising myself to the burning heat was one. Gelling to an entirely new culture was another. Soon, my Hindi too, made a steady progress from incorrect mono-syllables to acceptable odd sentences. Duststorms from the Thar was quite a frequent visitor and everyone used to have a tough time once in a while. Among other things, I find it hard to erase my association with a person here. That of one of my teachers. From my first day in the Department, she donned the role of an elderly friend, mentor and guide. It was like finding an oasis in the mid of a desert. She reminded me of how, though scant, kindness and noble virtues continue to exist in this world. The study visit to Shimla, Kullu, Manali, Rohtang Pass, Manikaran, etc during my stay there was something with no reason to regret but only sweet memories to carry forward.

A senior Civil Servant who retired as Secretary to the Government Of India once asked me why people from North-East come mostly to Delhi for their higher education or other pursuits while there are many other cities and towns in India where the same needs could be met in equal measure. I told him, “ Sir, it’s not that people do not go to other places but Delhi is the preferred destination because it is the Capital of India”. He nodded, ‘’ That is a very good answer ”. At some point in history, all road headed towards Rome. It may not be that true but on similar lines, Delhi fed and bred me for the next many years. With Hamdard giving comfort and shelter, a short stint at AIIMS, and JNU and DU campuses being favourite weekend stop-overs, Delhi brought vigor and exuberance. Even now, home being far away, a visit to Delhi is like home-coming.

When I had to come to Nagpur to join the Academy, the cross-over from a homely boy to a somewhat widely-travelled fellow had made its impact. At least one full circle has been covered. I was not too overly worried about how to reach Nagpur and henceforth the Academy. I did try to get in touch with the Course Team and sent a mail too. When I found no NADT placards at the train station, I waited for a few more minutes but soon did not hesitate to come on my own. The auto wore a somewhat dilapidated look and I felt a little shy but that was just a passing moment. The food in the Bangalore Rajdhani gave me such a bad stomach I was not able to admire the campus on arrival. The reception at Lumbini and the Telecom Centre were the first to bear my footprints. Those were the initial days when it was not so comfortable to go to the Officers’ Mess alone. It did not remain so for long. Right from day one, the way things has been done ushered in a sense of belongingness.....a feeling of being in an extended family. Again in campus parlance, Taxing also has lively bouts of Intax. The Academy in no time became a ‘ home away from home ’ and as before, I go on “ Flying With The Times ”.

( This article was published in 'Akademi Kriti', the Annual Magazine of National Academy Of Direct Taxes, Nagpur )

As You Like It

Dad possess a tendency to execute things funnily. Such conduct has become more pronounced in recent years. Signs of the gradual return to ‘Second Childhood’. I presume. And on numerous occasion, these incidents have been a pivotal source of flawless laughter and hilarity. It has made him much endeared, loved and adored. Narrating brings the warm far from his fold in “everyman’s land”.

This happened on my last visit home during the summer vacation. Folks were busy preparing, packing, patting for my departure. All the while, Dad never involved himself deeply, preferring to observe from the sidelines. The situation was welcome. Dad meddling in the affairs mean something going wrong. Suddenly, to everyone’s surprise, he grabbed the bottle containing dried-crushed meat and began his adventure. He took a spotless paper, sticked it to the bottle and wrote something. Glued to the chores at hand, he was not paid much attention. Then out of nowhere, Bem burst out into uncensored laughter…….’ the bottle on her delicate hands’. All began the ‘free for all’ mouth-widening teeth-showing exercise. I enquired what the matter was all about.

Atop the bottle was written, ‘CAW MEET’. Dad’s intention was to print ‘ COW MEAT’. All had a hearty laugh. A minor error. Yet, it regaled us for the day. ‘Life Is Beautiful’. My initial reaction was speculative. I opined there was a Citizen’s Welfare Association (CWA) meeting and Dad was engrossed with it. Lo!! Ironically, it was something related to ‘Mother Dairy’……the salted dried meat. The silver lining ?. I was stationed in Haryana at that time ( The Land of Orthodox Vegetarians ! ) and noticing a bottle inscribed ‘Cow Meat‘ would not have been the most palatable encounter for the denizens. Let’s assume, Dad being an ex-military patriarch knew the travails of being too honest with one’s culinary habits. Whatever the intention, it was a blessing in disguise. The ‘content’ was a great hit among my hostel inmates and friends. I had a nice time relishing the delicacy with them. And for a moment, I was home again.

Father was no exception. Scores enroll in the ambit of his genre. The fledge-ling tales are equally entertaining. An acquaintance once received a letter from his dad. He addressed ‘Patel Chest’ as ……Guess what? ‘Peter Chest’. Well, Dad. We do have a Christian background. Pun intended. Someone call it yet ‘Battle Chest’. Wow!! Still, another Oldie committed a hysterical blunder. Addressee belong to Hans Raj College. The college name has been subjected to sporadic distortion. Once addressed as ‘Hons Ray’ and on another occasion as ‘Hans Rak’, the addressee was left dumbfounded a couple of times. Eventually, all these incidents contribute to the merrier moments in an otherwise vapid life.

Laugh all the time you can, while you can, when you can. Face challenges in life with a smile. There is HOPE in the LORD. Laugh at the grand Oldies and ‘Oldas’ now. Some day, your very turn will ultimately arrive. Your progenies meting the same jocularity to you. When that reckoning hour come, take your chance and play the dice well. Make your mark and don’t hesitate to leave a lasting impression. Experience a fruitful endeavor. Uniquely. As You Like It.

Whispers In The Wind

On securing a seat for my post-graduate studies in a university in Hisar, a typical dusty north Indian town, my first priority was to complete the admission formalities. As expected, I also landed in one of the large hostels stationed on the campus. The next agenda interestingly was to locate a church if ever there was one I inquired about it from my new classmates. Ajay Moond, a local student assured me of one downtown. That was music to my ears.

Not long after, we took advantage of an ‘off day’ and began our frantic search The rickshaw was the best mode of transport in such circumstances and the bumpy ride something I won’t forget in a long long time. After an uncomfortable drive past crowded market lanes, scented with foul odours and a blend of deafening noises, we somehow reached our destination. It was an old church dating back to the heydays of the British Raj ; not large enough though for a big town whose inhabitants savour pride in calling it a ‘city’.The church surroundings doubled up as a cemetery. Tombstones and memorial stones dotted the landscape. One particular structure caught my attention. On close observation, the history of the place was laid bare. The site was the province’s burial ground for soldiers who died during the revolt of 1857. And to imagine such stories were meant only for textbooks! Well, the point is,I found a homely church which dons a saintly name. St. Thomas Church,Hisar. Even if I was the sole christophile in the whole university, I unearthed something for comfort.The humble church at the other end of the modest town.

I recall a funny incident which happen that day.As we were loitering around the church, an elderly man approached us. I briefly introduced myself and took pains to impress the man with my polished talk. Then came the turn of Ajay, my Haryanvi friend. ”What about you? What is your name?”, the old man prodded. The next few moments shocked me to hilarity. Instead of simply giving an honest answer, Ajay of all people fabricated his bio-data. ”Iam John. I come from Mizoram”, replied Ajay nonchalantly with a dignified poise. Ajay?…..John?.I was in dilemma what got into his head.There was hardly a need for a lie there. What amazed me more was the way in which Ajay put up the act. He was so accomplished.It was indeed pathetic to witness him fooling the old bloke. By all account, the oldie was not convinced. He had years of experiences behind his back. Moreover, Ajay’s accent and appearance absolutely betrayed him. Feeling embarrassed, I hurriedly dragged Ajay from the church and bundled him into a waiting rickshaw. We soberly made our way back. Traces of Supppandi.

Some months later, I was in my third semester.As was the wont, there was a departmental study tour. Only this time, the outing was centered on the pristine hill-state of Himachal Pradesh. Shimla, Kullu, Manali, Manikaran, Rohtang Pass, etc. were on our itinerary. On the way up, I caught a glimpse of Solan, of “Kya Kehna” fame vis-à-vis Preity Zinta. As we venture out to discover Shimla the next afternoon, what gradually unravelled was a lasting moment to cherish. In the heart of the capital, on one of the most frequented public squares, stood a grand church. The famous Christ Church,Shimla. I thanked God in my heart that a church had to stand there for all to see. When all I had observed so far spoke of other lesser things, the towering church once again reminded me of the ceaseless presence of the Lord. For a while, I forgot everything else. Immersed in the wamth of the place, I murmured a silent prayer. I am not sure of the exact words anymore. But one thing is beyond doubt, they came ……….” Straight from the Heart ”. Solemn. Like ‘Whispers in the Wind”.