Edition 55

INDEX
6
14
24
32
38
Convocation’21
Reels of Yore
Interview: Vijay Shekhar Sharma
CAT Diaries
The Good Times
Editors’ Note
Adulthood sucks. That is the epiphany that all of you will
eventually stumble upon as you chart your course after
the sun sets on your teenage years. For all its promises of
unbridled freedom and a life sans the restraints of parental
supervision, adulthood is unarguably the most surreptitious
con ever going to be played on you. An elaborately designed,
labyrinthian subterfuge meant to engulf pestering children
and spur them into chasing their own tails with promises
of a rejuvenated existence. That is the bloated bubble of a
promise of adulthood.
When I was young, I couldn’t wait to grow up. I couldn’t wait
to go out with friends without having to grovel in front of my
parents, I couldn’t wait to buy my own coffee, and I couldn’t
wait to live alone. Contrary to my earlier beliefs, four years
of being a ‘legal’ adult have done it for me. I no longer
cherish social excursions or being able to afford my own
snacks. If anything, I try to find chunks in my adult life that
would make me feel like a kid again. Fingers covered with
crumbs of Cadbury Bytes, a plastic plate with potato chips
and a slice of pineapple cake, waking up early to watch
Mickey Mouse Clubhouse: odd incidents remind me of what
it was to be a kid in the 2000s.
For many of us, the transition to adulthood didn’t happen
with an epiphany on our 18th birthdays. It happened when
we left home to move into a small room in Bawana, learnt
to live with a bunch of people we didn’t necessarily like, and
dragged ourselves to class every day (mostly) at our own
will. With each independent choice we made, adulthood
took a fierce grip over us, and we realised how much of
childhood is security, protection, affection: all the things we
aspire to earn as adults. As a kid, you get everything you
want, without having to shell out a single penny for it.
DTU Times still happens to be a child in human years, but
in the 12 years of its existence, our 40-page newsletter has
blossomed into an independent pre-teen who offers unique
insights into our university and the communities that call it
home.
Times first started out as a one-page document that
highlighted the achievements of students and faculty. But
since then, we have put on some much-needed weight. Our
expansion has been accompanied by similar growth from
our readers; a page would no longer be sufficient when we
write about our prolific students and passionate professors.
With Edition 55, we offer you this morsel of hope: a chance
to revel in the long-gone yet dreamy days of your childhood.
And to sweeten the pot, we’ll only pitch flashbacks of
the purest, sweetest memories of the reel. Nostalgia isn’t
always kind and forgiving, but most of us can recall ‘happy
memories’ as a kid. When you look into the future, you
see it objectively. But when you look into the past, you put
on your darkest pair of rose-coloured glasses. This is your
chance to once again be both carefree and in control, to
once again paint the azure sky with vivid splashes of pastels
and paints, to join hands with both your friends and foes and
gleefully twirl around in a game of kikli, to frolic about the
park pretending to be a fearsome pirate, to share a world
with flying unicorns and welcoming bears. Come join us on
this trip down memory lane and click pictures on a roll of
Kodak film, join Swaminathan on his misguided adventures,
be reprimanded for not completing your homework and put
on your sincerest façade, playfully recite ‘tipi-tipi-tap’ without
being judged, indulge in a playful round on antaraakshi,
replete with the hoarsest voices you’ve ever been subject to.
The pages that lie in front of you seek to remind you of a time
you would want to relive and revisit. We urge you to read
how we went from using the Nokia 3310 to an iPhone 13,
solve a crossword about your favourite childhood games, or
stroll through the aisles of a Scholastic Book Fair. Here is
your chance to be a child again. Take it.
Angad Sethi
Anoushka Raj