THE COOKIE JAR
EPC brings you the latest from Pilani’s very own. A section by you, for you. Not necessarily about you, however.
Having been regaled with countless accounts of the mela in the previous
semester, we were determined not to miss it this time around. Instinctively
curious about what is the unique je ne sais quoi about this congregation that
attracts hordes of BITSians and Pilani residents alike, we stepped into the
grounds, taking up the matter for ourselves.
As expected, the group made a beeline for the Columbus ride. As the ship
gradually climbed higher swinging back and forth, the realisation of it being
controlled manually alternately by an operator and his kid added a certainly
unforeseen thrill to one’s experience in the contraption. Looking out for the
clock tower from the highest point, not to mention laughing at the people
screaming while slyly holding on to your seat so hard that your fingers turned
white, it was no wonder it left people unwilling to get down once the ride was
over.
p e r fo r ma nc e ,
dancing to the
music as we
were narrated
about
the
miracle about to
unfold. Midway
through
her
dance,
she
turned into a
snake - which
might
have
borne a slight resemblance to an image projected onto a screen which acted as a
veil, but accounts vary as supporters continue to stand by the transformation.
The incessant talk of the mela however, was attributed to the 'Melting Woman Aurat Bani Naagin'. Having been referred to by many, and now slightly less The 'Breakdance' left many a neck sore and the young lad switching carts while
reliable, people as a show that you cannot afford to miss, we went in with high riding the rickety Ferris wheel turned quite a few heads. Having had our fill of
hopes. As the lady, who appeared to be more than a little tires, began her cotton candy and bhel, we walked our slightly dizzy selves back to the campus,
hoping to make the mela a tradition for every semester.
Few campuses in our country can boast of a 60 year old saga as ours. To pay tribute to the same,
we debut a new series of articles in this issue, chronicling periodic sketches of some wizened
residents of Pilani. In the process, we’ll debunk some myths and cement a few others. Enter the
VK Rediwale.
“Please call me Nagarji. Everyone calls me that. I have no surname.”
BITS, from Nagarji’s father, who worked in G.D Birla’s