The Economics of Food in Hindu Hostel

There are two states in which one can expect to meet a Hindu Hostelite: hungry and not-so-hungry. If Hindu Hostel were an economy, food would be its dominant industry. Of course, Hindu Hostel, like every other place, does not have one economics, but a large variety and dimensions of economics; and a lot of minor stories contribute towards building the larger picture. This piece is an attempt to capture the essence of the stories that determine the economics of food here.

In Hindu Hostel, food ceases being just food, and defines the political economy of the place. Where one generally eats – the mess, the different canteens or restaurants outside – defines the class structure of the hostel more than any other single parameter, brand of cigarettes coming a close second. It is easy to understand why. Hostelites live within a fixed budget and much of that is devoted to the pursuit of non-hunger. After the initial days as a fresher of going to eat together in the mess as a group, the dynamics of class dominate our eating preferences. In my time as a hostelite, I have lived with friends who frequented Food Station, others who ate lunch and dinner at the mess with snacks at the canteens, and yet others who ate only two meals, both at the mess. This choice is determined more by the ‘budget constraint’ than the ‘tastes and preferences’ that your friend from Economics talks about.

However, if we enter the hostel as homo economicus, eating only at the mess or only at Shankarda’s canteen or only at Podu’s, one imbibes a camaraderie in the Hostel that is inherently egalitarian. So no matter which budget you follow, there is not a soul in the hostel who is not excited by the prospect of the monthly Grand Feast. And cha at CMC in the dead of night is staple, even if fancier options are available to one. These acts may defy economic logic; after all, why will someone with the money to go to CCD, choose not to? But Hindu Hostel is that kind of a place. The sense of tradition and camaraderie eventually overpowers the class distinctions, helped along by the fact that they create the long-lasting memories that dry economics cannot.

On A Mundane Fresher Year Circa 2009

More than four years ago, I had arrived in Calcutta, a city that was very different from my cosmopolitan and easy-going hometown. Bosco educated, more confident with English than Bangla, carrying more or less a good boy image, there was obviously only one destination I wanted to be at: St. Xavier’s. I didn’t make it in. And was quite surprised to be accepted at Presidency, whose first and only impression had left me with a rare inferiority complex.

My first class made me realise that I was the only student who hailed from outside a 20 mile radius around 86/1, College Street. My little confidence with shudhho Bangla disappeared; people assumed me to be a Hindi speaker. That phase lasted a year and more; APG still makes fun of that.

Hostel admissions, I thought, were a matter of formalities, unaware that red and blue were more than colours here. Once I had overcome the awe at the faded Rajendra Prasad pIaque, I was met by two groups of people desperate to induct me into ‘their’ ward, with claims about the opposition so wide apart that I knew one, at least one of them had to be lying big time. Unfortunately for me, I had nothing to judge by. It was a stroke of luck that made me a paanch er chhele.

Political decisions were simple. I was asked if I wanted to be a stooge of the State and I said no. No senior spent hours at the quadri explaining ideological intricacies to me, nor were there different shades of independence available back then. Did I want to be an activist out to change the world? No. I had had enough of popularity back in school and had already realised it to be the two-faced bastard that it was. More importantly, I didn’t know anything about anything. My naivety and ignorance was exemplified in a question I once asked S____, “What is all the fuss about the rockstar with the stylised face on everyone’s Tshirts?” “Che Guevara!”, he replied, with a straight face.

Calcutta- A Culinary Experience

Even today, before I leave home to return to Calcutta, my mother will ask me what food I will carry with me to eat on the train. I wouldn’t dare compare her culinary skills with that of those who serve plastic-ky somethings on India’s trains. But then every time this exchange takes place between mother and son, I am reminded of the relatively regal days at home that are to last no more. Alas! No more ready-made breakfast, no more nagging to eat lunch, and no unlimited snacks in the evening to go with a mug of coffee. Leaving home is depressing indeed!

I want to warn those who might be reading this that being a personal note and me not being much of a socialite, my experiences are mostly limited to the areas around where I’ve stayed and as a hosteler, highly constrained by finances.

I remember the desperation and purposelessness of the early days at Hindu Hostel, when every morning and every day would bring with it the renewed realisation of my distance from those I know and love. Despite the high of staying alone, I was the outsider among familiars, and the outsider among outsiders. I have vague remembrances of those days, and nothing exceptional. Every two weeks, my pockets would have enough for a meal at The Royal Indian Hotel on Rabindra Sarani. The menu card informed me the first time I went there regarding the history of the biryani.

The Darkest Hour

The fortress is finally asleep. Four hours past midnight, all lies calm and serene, the corridors in a lazy slumber of patterned darkness, a pitch black night beating the floodlights to cast mysterious shadows on the math; the dogs eerily silent and the overhead lamps creating a ghostly halo over the Vagabond. Every step is greeted by groans from the wooden staircase, lit dark by the night filtering in through the overlooking window. Six score years have taken their toll and at this unearthly hour, even the wooden planks cry out begging quiescence. Every corner, every corridor, every court threatens to reek of history, of telling an unnerving tale of individuals past, told out at every turn like so many invisible tale-grannies. And unearthly hours are indeed when such tales come to life, when the thin line between reality and the past dissolves in the myriad shadows that engulf the complex. Then, a trembling climb down unlighted 19th century staircases, a burning matchstick all that adds to the truant play of light and shadow, brings on the inevitable feelings of being watched, of having trespassed into that which belongs to you not, of walking not just down a staircase but down to the stony cold dungeons of the past. And till you creak open the gate and rush out to the morning mist, the walls watch you like so many eyes on an inquest.