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Professor Arora of 28 Regarpura (and other graffiti on the walls of time)

19/8/2011

28 Comments

 
Picture
Something I found googling for Professor Arora's graffitti. Alas! he wasn't there
Once upon a time when there was no satellite television or glossy magazines with skimpily-clad size zero beauties causing the phenomenon of drooling in male buyers (only staid stuff like Saptahik Hindustan, Reader's Digest and Manohar Kahaniyan - OK this sometimes had skimpily clad beauties though more stout than size zero); there was Professor Arora. And there was wall graffitti. 

If I got into a time capsule and went back 25 plus years I would reach a time zone when my favourite memories are of looking out through the rusty iron barred windows of a train swiftly uncoiling across sugarcane fields and mango orchards like a massive red serpent leaping to swallow its prey. Right through my growing years, every single summer holiday (barring one when we flew to Leh to meet my dad, who was posted there, and got to see Pangong Tso lake and the inside of an aeroplane) we would make a train journey from Agra to Delhi (with a break for moong dal pakodas at Mathura station) and then to Kotdwar. From there, a bus took us to Lansdowne where Nanaji waited on his favourite chair with a mocking smile and a general knowledge quiz (the reason why Kaun Banega Crorepati and Mr Bachchan make me go misty-eyed). We would board the Mussorie Express from Old Delhi Railway Station in the night where - if we reached in time/the train was late - we would get to dump home cooked food for hot puries that were being fried by a vendor on the platform and spicy alu ki sabzi that was eaten out of a bowl made of dry leaves stitched together by dry twigs. And then, my brother and I would fight for turns at sitting near the window to feel the wind on our noses and watch time whiz past.

On our way back from Kotdwar (depressed and gloomy since we had to get back to school, had done very poorly in Nanaji's GK tests and had also not completed our holiday homework) we would know we were approaching Delhi (and hence doom) from the writing on the wall. Professor Arora of 28 Regarpura, Karolbagh, was right there innovatively advertising his matrimonial services (at a time when - as far as I know, though more learned readers would know better - there was no advertising either) on the dirty brick walls near the jhuggi clusters that had come up on the outskirts of the city. 

Between the silent camaraderie of entire rows of early morning trackside squatters (who my Japanese sister-in-law naively mistook for men doing yoga on her first India visit), fat black buffaloes wallowing in pools of stagnated water with birds taking free rides on their backs, and naked brown kids running around waving at train passengers; Professor Arora would be right there (in spirit) imploring parents of unmarried people to meet him just once. With his tempting offer of Rishtey hi Rishtey (roughly translated as matrimonial alliances and more matrimonial alliances) he would try and coax them with an endearing Bas ek baar mil to len (C'mon, let's meet at least once). His complete address and phone number would be scribbled right there in thick white paint but alas there was no portrait which always left me wondering what this marketing genius looked like. I always imagined him as a stately old man with back combed white hair and a French beard, dressed in an elegant brown bandgala suit with a red handkerchief peeping out of his pocket. But you never know. He may well have been a paan-chewing, zarda-spitting, pot-bellied dirty old man in an up-folded lungi and yellowing vest (depending upon just how well or badly business was doing). Whether he provided perfect marriage partners or not, I don’t know, but back then he certainly provided dignity to the fading red walls across the Yamuna with snatches of untidily slapped on cement binding bricks together and, much to the relief of my embarrassed mother, took the attention of her curious pre teen kids away from seedier advertisement screaming about strange weaknesses and secret diseases (kamzori and gupt rog) which were meant only to be discussed (if at all) in hushed whispers in civilized circles.

Much water (read polluted muck) has flown in the Yamuna since then and I have seen a bit of graffiti across a few other walls, notably London where I spent precious time ogling open mouthed at the unbelievable attractions and cell numbers of buxom blonde babes scribbed inside red phone booths and also Northern Ireland where angry walls bore the brunt of the Catholic Protestant divide and took nasty digs at George Bush. Some areas of South Delhi these days bear some beautiful graffiti left behind by anonymous artists who go around with their spray paint when the city sleeps. And off and on through these 40 plus years of existence I have been exposed to the most scientifically-labelled biology diagrams scratched cave man style (possibly with fingernails - you obviously can't stop an artist when the artistic urge urges) on dirty public toilet walls. But absolutely nothing compares to the mark Prof Arora has left on my mind in its impressionable days with his endless scrawls on approaching walls hitting me in exploding 4 D right inside my second class train compartment, with the stench of rotting carcasses and ..err other stuff floating in the air. Not even surrepticious invitations from vaidhs and hakims and Yunani dawakhanas offering treatment for phee-sirs (fissures), bawaseer (i confess i don't know what that is) and naamardgi (i can guess what that is but i bet so can you) by Ayurvedic means or medicines made from dubious animal parts (like sande ka tel - whatever that might be) come a patch on it. 

And now that we have dug out this old skeleton for the sake of this blog I promise  you that on one of my visits to Delhi (if i get time off from the malls and my 100 plus relatives and friends), I shall go looking for 28 Regarpura, Karolbagh, to see if I can locate Professor Arora or his junior business partners who might still be working hard at keeping business kicking. Afterall people are still getting married. Ek baar mil hi len!

Puri: fried bread; Alu ki sabzi: potato curry; Rishtey hi rishtey: Matches and more matches; Bas ek baar mil toh len: Let’s meet at least once; vaidhs and hakims: doctors (connotation is that they are quacks) naamardgi: impotence

28 Comments
Ritha Hegde
19/8/2011 08:33:05 am

Wonder why he called himself Professor :)
May be to gain confidence from ppl of all status. Loved the writing of the pic you have put up :) When I started reading, was expecting you would put up some things you had written in places of that kind too;)

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Neelu Raut
19/8/2011 02:10:04 pm

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navin gulia link
19/8/2011 02:22:12 pm

ha ha ha ha ha
yoga by the railway tracks. you should have let her believe that
wonderfully written like always. The great thing about being older, their are so many wonderful memories we can live at anytime.

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Neelu
19/8/2011 02:28:45 pm

Actually I 'm developing a penchant for leaving you "speechless"comments ever so often...
about the writing on the wall.. I 've also read a few in the day where less was more..as if the reader knew the rest and the ad was being charged word wise...for the only phrase would be "gupt rogi"followed by Dr.So-and-so...where's that life where we had time "to stand and stare"??
hey what about the rubbish on the walls of the toilet of the same train rushing past the NCR .....many of them I was too young to decipher back then but there were some printable ones like this one (I love you seat #16--seat# 21..)from a confirmed lover absolutely besotted by seat number 16..
Even now I can tell we're approaching Delhi as Prof.Arora and assorted crew of motley health care professionals are there like you said "in spirit"..to welcome us aboard...

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neelu
19/8/2011 02:33:37 pm

also notice your honour..that there never ever was any telephone number..it was understood that it were redundant in light of the fact that you WERE going to meet him in Karol Bagh!!

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Mahendra
19/8/2011 10:45:52 pm

I too used Prof Arora's advertisments as a sign of "Delhi door nahin", but recently I have sadly noticed that he has lost out to the hakims (and by the way, bawaseer (piles) seems to be a much more pressing issue than gupt rog....).

It makes you think - How could this marketing genius ("keep your message short and to the point" - rishtey hi rishtey; "empathize with the end user and provide an actionable option" - Ek baar mil to lein) lose out to the quacks?

I think it is techology - Prof Arora finally succumbed to the likes of Shaadi.com, and even rishtehirishte.com, while inernet has failed to strike that rapport with the the virile Indian rural male who still is worried about bawasir and gupt rog, but prefers to have this conversation with the walls of Meerut and Ghaziabad, rather than a human being.

For those who felt that the morning squatters were not doing Yoga, I would like to point out that that particular aasan is probably the most fundamental one. The copious output left behind by this group would draw envious gasps from the perennially constipated residents of the developed world.

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Pushpa Bhandari Bisht
20/8/2011 03:11:01 am

Oh I remember the graffiti that hit the eyes, though train journeys came much later to this small towner . The diligence with which the marketing genius had the message calligraphed repeatedly is the reason why it is still there in our minds. Rishtey hi Rishtey whizzed past and came again and whizzed past...as did others.
Really enjoyed reading your brilliant writing Rachna. All the best for your meeting with Prof. Whatshisname. Hope his progeny have introduced him to the uses of the net and he successfully runs a rishtehirishte.com now.

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Prithvi
20/8/2011 08:58:09 am

Ha Ha ! nice one rachna ! You brought back some old memories ....

It is funny that in my last trip to India, I had in fact ventured to Chandni Chowk to locate the celebrated sablok clinic that used to fight tooth and nail for brick space with your favouite prof arora :) For exactly the same reason you have outlined in the blog.

And I did find it ! I will send you the pic and you can perhaps post it in your sequel after you unearth prof arora's whereabouts !

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richa
20/8/2011 01:49:50 pm

Your train journey was a flash back, loved it.

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renee grewal
20/8/2011 08:22:00 pm

loved reliving the memories ....tuk me bk in tym.....n yes u cld tk my particulars n go see the professor......lolsssss""

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deepak gera
21/8/2011 02:37:26 pm

..."Ek Baar Mil To le"....is line by genius copywriter may it be Prof arora....nice to remember such a person who has mark in everyone's memory ..but we never bothered to think of him...Richa ur subject selection is really appealing and gives nostalgic vibes...

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Y S Rawat
21/8/2011 04:26:59 pm

Your blog took me over five decades back. To day looking back, I admire engunity of Prof Arora to devise a crude but perhaps most effective (and hopefully successful too) advertising technique. I am sure at least nearly a lack people, any body who travelled to or fro Delhi from any part of India, saw and read his ads irrespective of the fact that most may not have been his prospective clients. I wonder if he paid to Railways or to the house owners whose wall he decorated with his bold and long ads. Incidently his ads can still be seen but now many others are also sharing the space.
‘Bawaseer’ is piles in Hindi.

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amita
21/8/2011 10:19:50 pm

Yes Rachu,you took back to our similar summer holidays......and the the dal vadas of Mathura station you cannot find them anywhere.....!!

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Liz Wotherspoon
22/8/2011 08:52:16 am

A nice memory from childhood. Hope you manage to find it again

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ather
23/8/2011 02:12:32 am

Got me thinking of my childhood memories in kenya- of the six-legged Agip dog that greeted us as we wound our way into Nakuru from Nairobi; of the delicious ice-cream with hundreds and thousands from Dairy Den as we left Nairobi, of the proverbial aam ki peti which was actually filled with mangoes and the long journeys looking out for elephants, giraffes and deer. Those memories get all the more cherished as you get older which is why it is so important to hold on to them.

btw- your story about Prof Arora reminds me there is a Prof Mirza (no relation) - the Indian psychic, palmist, clairvoyant, tarot reader' at Brighton beach! You can see pix of his shop is your Google Prof Mirza Brighton.


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Santosh Rawat
23/8/2011 11:12:10 am

truely nostalgic .. Professor Arora's advertisement would start appearing on walls much before Ghaziabad in fact from around Meerut and I used to be amazed by the sheer scale of the effort .. imagining someone with just a small bucket with 'ghol' of safed choona (white lime) and big brush looking like a broom, actually managing to do that. And WAIT for me Rachna ... I am coming back... will go together ..After all they all say to me that all is not lost as yet :)wonder how Professor is doing in this age of shadi.com ....

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BIG B
23/8/2011 04:26:25 pm

ha ha...very well written....indeed I got nostalgic after reading such a beautiful description of such graffiti....see the irony of India..public has been openly asked to fool themselves but people are doing nothing and sometimes these graffiti can be dangerous too...yes...as kid..very difficult to know the meaning and for parents very difficult to answers the all kinds of questions....beautifully written.....

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tanushree
24/8/2011 02:03:28 pm

Loved the blog....anyone who's travelled to and from Delhi couldn't have missed Prof. Arora's appeal of Ek bar mil to len....

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Anisha
25/8/2011 09:38:03 am

Really enjoyed reading it.
Vivid details brought back some memories that were fuzzy.. Wonder why most of the public Grafitti was always about the secret stuff ;-)
And remember as kids the train of thought these invoked sitting in the train looking out

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noopur
26/8/2011 03:41:17 pm

Professor Arora has been such an integral part of my summer vacations too. We always saw the familiar grafitti and knew we were fast approaching Delhi....its nostalgia big time :) beautifully written :)

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Anju
3/9/2011 12:33:33 pm

What a hilarious article.

How efforlessly you depict the humour in those taboo words which are unmentionable even now .
I am in splits ...Rishte hee Rishte , Ek baar mil hi lein / Phee -sirs .

And how can West patent Yoga when we have been practicing it from time immemorial ..from the time we have known ourselves :)

Professor Arora of 28 Regarpur area.I am sure he has been intrumental in tying knots b'n so many youg couples God Bless him ;)

Truly a wonderful piece .Hats off to U

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Anima
4/9/2011 09:03:35 am

Took me back on that mussorie express from Delhi to D.doon and then back to delhi I used to take on weekends, in that life time when we shared room at AIWC...

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J
4/11/2011 09:55:08 am

Very nice.

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anjanajoshi
25/2/2012 07:31:31 pm

Hi Rachna,
I got nostalgic reading about the professor saheb suddenly Ihave an urge to go back to my school days esp go to Delhi.The cityI haven't visited since ages.Feeling ancient right now.I want to move out of MH and go back 2 U.P. Some body observant and witty could only write such a piece.I hope i get to read many more anecdotes , ditties and stories like this.
anjana.

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Rakesh
16/2/2013 09:50:31 pm

Rachna,

You bought back memories that were lost. Memories of teenage aches, experiences and life without iPads. I wish I could write like you; I would save as many as possible. For now I need to calm my 11 year old daughter that 1 week without WIFI in Baba's house in India is not a punishment.

Thank you !!

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Uttam
20/4/2017 04:13:21 am

Very nice..... ,. 28 Regarpura...!!! Ha Ha... Remember it well

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Ranesh Keswani link
31/10/2017 05:57:46 pm

I stumbled on to your post while writing a piece that would use Professor Arora's immortal line as an opener. Your writing is lovely beyond words. Please keep writing.

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Alok Mohan
22/11/2020 07:26:41 am

A friend informs me that Rishte Hi Rishte was the Capital's first marriage bureau, started in the early 1970s by Dharam Chand Arora, a teacher.
It still survives at the same address, albeit with new name: Connex'on H. Poonam Sachdev, 45, Arora's niece, now runs her late uncle's business.

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    Rachna Bisht Rawat is a full time mom and part time writer. She is married to an Army officer whose work takes the family to some of the most interesting corners of India.

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