<p>When BG, my long-lost friend, dropped in on me out of the blue, I was super thrilled. We sat down to chat, with BG warming up to those good old days he had spent as a research student at the TIFR in Bombay. It was more than seventy years ago, actually in the late 1940s, but his memory was razor-sharp. He had been selected by Dr Kosambi, the reputed math professor, while Dr Bhabha, the founder and director, whom the students held in great awe, headed the institute.</p>.<p>However, the management went a bit awry when a Parsi lady was put in charge of the hostel. This resulted in a crisis as the respected lady had no idea of the food habits of the 25 residents, of whom 23 were South Indian vegetarians, brought up on idli, dosa, and dhal rice.</p>.<p>They found the bread and butter and the garlic-laden dishes unsavoury. They grumbled and went on a sort of hunger strike, but Madam was unfazed, and there was no change in the menu. Finally, BG, who had some leadership qualities, took it upon himself to represent the case.</p>.<p>The nonagenarian retired UN official now leaned back on my sofa and said, “Dr Bhaba was a great man, and no one had the courage to confront him. But I could no longer stand the overwhelming smell of garlic as soon as food was served. I decided to meet Bhabha, which I did. I told him, “When out of 25 residents, 23 are South Indians, sir, should they not be served simple rice and dhal instead of bread and butter and garlic?”</p>.<p>Dr Bhaba, pioneer of atomic energy in India, thundered, “I will throw you all out of the hostel. Just concentrate on your studies and don’t bring me any of your complaints.” </p>.<p>This anecdote reminded me of another ‘mess’ story.</p>.<p>When I was a resident at the postgraduate hostel of Delhi University, my roommate Syamali had the cheek to hang a garland of potatoes around the dining hall clock. Potatoes around the clock!</p>.<p>Anyone with a sense of humour would have laughed it off—even changed the menu—but the warden thought it fit to punish Syamali for her innocent prank. She was banned from entering the dining hall for a week, and a written apology was to be submitted to the warden. Anyone smuggling food to her would be punished in turn.</p>.<p>There was a sense of gloom around the hostel, with the matter being discussed <span class="italic">ad nauseum</span>. Syamali, who had gone to her aunt’s house to lick her wounds and relish some home-cooked fish, returned after a week and found refuge in her room. But the next morning, a surprise awaited us all.</p>.<p>There was a wall print of Van Gogh’s iconic painting, The Potato Eaters, by the side of the clock. Touché.</p>
<p>When BG, my long-lost friend, dropped in on me out of the blue, I was super thrilled. We sat down to chat, with BG warming up to those good old days he had spent as a research student at the TIFR in Bombay. It was more than seventy years ago, actually in the late 1940s, but his memory was razor-sharp. He had been selected by Dr Kosambi, the reputed math professor, while Dr Bhabha, the founder and director, whom the students held in great awe, headed the institute.</p>.<p>However, the management went a bit awry when a Parsi lady was put in charge of the hostel. This resulted in a crisis as the respected lady had no idea of the food habits of the 25 residents, of whom 23 were South Indian vegetarians, brought up on idli, dosa, and dhal rice.</p>.<p>They found the bread and butter and the garlic-laden dishes unsavoury. They grumbled and went on a sort of hunger strike, but Madam was unfazed, and there was no change in the menu. Finally, BG, who had some leadership qualities, took it upon himself to represent the case.</p>.<p>The nonagenarian retired UN official now leaned back on my sofa and said, “Dr Bhaba was a great man, and no one had the courage to confront him. But I could no longer stand the overwhelming smell of garlic as soon as food was served. I decided to meet Bhabha, which I did. I told him, “When out of 25 residents, 23 are South Indians, sir, should they not be served simple rice and dhal instead of bread and butter and garlic?”</p>.<p>Dr Bhaba, pioneer of atomic energy in India, thundered, “I will throw you all out of the hostel. Just concentrate on your studies and don’t bring me any of your complaints.” </p>.<p>This anecdote reminded me of another ‘mess’ story.</p>.<p>When I was a resident at the postgraduate hostel of Delhi University, my roommate Syamali had the cheek to hang a garland of potatoes around the dining hall clock. Potatoes around the clock!</p>.<p>Anyone with a sense of humour would have laughed it off—even changed the menu—but the warden thought it fit to punish Syamali for her innocent prank. She was banned from entering the dining hall for a week, and a written apology was to be submitted to the warden. Anyone smuggling food to her would be punished in turn.</p>.<p>There was a sense of gloom around the hostel, with the matter being discussed <span class="italic">ad nauseum</span>. Syamali, who had gone to her aunt’s house to lick her wounds and relish some home-cooked fish, returned after a week and found refuge in her room. But the next morning, a surprise awaited us all.</p>.<p>There was a wall print of Van Gogh’s iconic painting, The Potato Eaters, by the side of the clock. Touché.</p>