Poorva Jambhulkar
Waiting In Line
Waiting In Line
Poorva Jambhulkar
Artwork by Poorva Jambhulkar
Artwork by Poorva Jambhulkar
Artwork by Poorva Jambhulkar
Poorva Jambhulkar was born and raised in Rohini, Delhi, to parents who migrated from Nagpur, Maharashtra. Her upbringing reflects the flavours of Vidarbha and Dilli . She loves to cook-up art and concepts with stationery thanks to her over-involvement with drawing and creativity since childhood. Currently she is a 3rd year student of Exhibition Design at NID Ahmedabad.
Poorva Jambhulkar was born and raised in Rohini, Delhi, to parents who migrated from Nagpur, Maharashtra. Her upbringing reflects the flavours of Vidarbha and Dilli . She loves to cook-up art and concepts with stationery thanks to her over-involvement with drawing and creativity since childhood. Currently she is a 3rd year student of Exhibition Design at NID Ahmedabad.
Poorva Jambhulkar was born and raised in Rohini, Delhi, to parents who migrated from Nagpur, Maharashtra. Her upbringing reflects the flavours of Vidarbha and Dilli . She loves to cook-up art and concepts with stationery thanks to her over-involvement with drawing and creativity since childhood. Currently she is a 3rd year student of Exhibition Design at NID Ahmedabad.
The journey of making my illustration Waiting in Line began back in June 2021. At 17, I was desperately preparing for the NID DAT-Mains exams—the exam that could secure me one of just 145 spots at India’s best design college. Locked down and isolated, I searched my experiences for something unique, something deep enough to stand out from every other applicant. I needed a moment, a memory that could capture my perspective.
That’s when it hit me: April 14th.
Since childhood, this day has been unusually significant for me. For more than eight years my parents took my brother and me to stand in the longest line ever outside the Parliament. We’d wait for hours, with garlands in hand, to honor Dr B.R. Ambedkar. Year after year, we’d toss those garlands up towards his towering 30-foot statue in the sweltering April sun. Back then, my brother and I were too young and too annoyed by the heat to fully understand why we did this. But even now, decades after his passing, Ambedkar’s influence remains woven into our lives, empowering our society in ways I continue to discover.
Over time, my relationship with Ambedkar has evolved and deepened, but for my project, I wanted to capture just that moment in line—simple, relatable, even a little humorous. My poster is a playful take on the experience of waiting, standing endlessly in line, going through security checks, and feeling impatient. It’s the perspective of a little girl who is annoyed (maybe still annoyed, haha).
That poster ended up being my golden ticket. Thanks to it, I’m now in my dream college in Ahmedabad, where I’ve been studying for three years. Ambedkar Jayanti doesn’t carry the same intensity here, but we did have a student-initiated reading session, Chai Pe Charcha, where we discussed Ambedkar’s Waiting for a Visa. Here was a man who, amid such uncertainty, wrote an entire book while waiting for a visa. And here I am, struggling just to finish an essay.
If anything, that experience shaped a theory for me: Waiting in Line. After all those hours spent queuing, watching, and reflecting, here’s my take:
There’s a parallel between waiting in line and the spiritual wait, like pratikshan often mentioned in Vipassana practice. There is even a song – “Ang mai jaagge pratikshan”(waiting instills in my body), where the wait itself holds meaning as you inch towards moksha. That long line outside Parliament was its own kind of pilgrimage, and finally reaching the statue and throwing a garland felt like gratitude personified. Once you’re there, the waiting doesn’t matter; it’s all about that moment.
The height of your garland seemed to represent the height of your gratitude, and there was a giddy satisfaction to reaching that statue at last. The small, playful moments—throwing the garland as high as possible, feeling that final release—made those hours worth it.
And we’re indeed all in line, in some way. In popular theories, we’re all souls looking for liberation. Each of us waits our turn, striving for something just beyond our reach.
My mother’s words would bring me back to reality: “He endured so much physical and emotional pain; standing here for four or five hours is nothing.” Her words didn’t resonate fully at the time, but now I understand more about Ambedkar’s legacy and the weight of his sacrifices. The physical and emotional hardship he went through to empower millions went far beyond what I could understand at the time. He became a beacon of equality, fighting to lift those oppressed by caste and challenging a deeply entrenched system.
Looking back, what I dreaded as a kid has become something I’d love to experience again. I find myself wanting to stand in that line if only to appreciate it now that I’m 21. The meaning, which was hidden behind the frustration of waiting, has only grown richer with time.
As I grew older, I recognized that what I once considered a privilege—never facing caste discrimination—was, in fact, a form of protection born from concealment. My parents had warned me never to reveal my caste—not to teachers, not to classmates,friends, neighbours. Their experiences in Nagpur had been starkly different from my upbringing in Delhi, where caste seemed absent from everyday conversations. No one in my periphery cared about it or knew what it meant; we boasted about grades instead. But was this absence of discrimination a privilege, or was it simply the advantage of anonymity in an urban, non-native setting—an ease of erasure that may not have been possible elsewhere?
Over time, I became more open about my identity. I remember a conversation this year with my college mates, where they shared the pressure they faced as daughters in traditional Rajput families, especially when it came to marriage right after college. It took courage for me to share that my family doesn’t have those expectations. I live in a sort of cultural in-between—Buddhist, not as Marathi—and luckily free from some of the restrictions that might otherwise shape my life.
Studying humanities and learning more about Ambedkar has given me a clearer view of how different people see him. For my BSP-member father, he’s primarily a revolutionary political figure. To my mother, he’s like a god—a symbol of devotion and gratitude. For me and my brother, the answer isn’t clear yet.
However, I must credit my education in humanities in 11th-12th to understand Ambedkar’s vision for the future. It should be highlighted more than even the groundbreaking actions of his past. His rational, liberal perspective still carries incredible weight in today’s society, where his ideology remains relevant and needed.
To me, the Constitution is more than just a guide to governance; it’s a powerful resource for teaching values like democracy, human rights, and social responsibility. I think integrating the study of the Constitution into university curricula is a tangible way to connect with Ambedkar’s vision. For young Indians today, studying the Constitution could be an essential way to engage with the inclusive, forward-thinking society Ambedkar dreamed of and fought for. And a good enough way to reason with their parents on inter-caste marriage and promoting love and unity.
Lastly, standing in line year after year has become more than just a memory. It’s part of how I understand him now—by realizing that honouring him was never just about throwing a garland, but about recognizing the power of his struggle. It was about understanding, even a little, his work for the long line of people he stood for, those he wanted to lift from oppression.
So, here we are, still standing in line in our ways, still casting garlands toward the ideals he set. The distance we stand from those ideals is the work that remains, the journey he began for all of us. And in that journey, there is the purpose, a power that grows each time we honour him and see the impact of his life reflected in our own.
The journey of making my illustration Waiting in Line began back in June 2021. At 17, I was desperately preparing for the NID DAT-Mains exams—the exam that could secure me one of just 145 spots at India’s best design college. Locked down and isolated, I searched my experiences for something unique, something deep enough to stand out from every other applicant. I needed a moment, a memory that could capture my perspective.
That’s when it hit me: April 14th.
Since childhood, this day has been unusually significant for me. For more than eight years my parents took my brother and me to stand in the longest line ever outside the Parliament. We’d wait for hours, with garlands in hand, to honor Dr B.R. Ambedkar. Year after year, we’d toss those garlands up towards his towering 30-foot statue in the sweltering April sun. Back then, my brother and I were too young and too annoyed by the heat to fully understand why we did this. But even now, decades after his passing, Ambedkar’s influence remains woven into our lives, empowering our society in ways I continue to discover.
Over time, my relationship with Ambedkar has evolved and deepened, but for my project, I wanted to capture just that moment in line—simple, relatable, even a little humorous. My poster is a playful take on the experience of waiting, standing endlessly in line, going through security checks, and feeling impatient. It’s the perspective of a little girl who is annoyed (maybe still annoyed, haha).
That poster ended up being my golden ticket. Thanks to it, I’m now in my dream college in Ahmedabad, where I’ve been studying for three years. Ambedkar Jayanti doesn’t carry the same intensity here, but we did have a student-initiated reading session, Chai Pe Charcha, where we discussed Ambedkar’s Waiting for a Visa. Here was a man who, amid such uncertainty, wrote an entire book while waiting for a visa. And here I am, struggling just to finish an essay.
If anything, that experience shaped a theory for me: Waiting in Line. After all those hours spent queuing, watching, and reflecting, here’s my take:
There’s a parallel between waiting in line and the spiritual wait, like pratikshan often mentioned in Vipassana practice. There is even a song – “Ang mai jaagge pratikshan”(waiting instills in my body), where the wait itself holds meaning as you inch towards moksha. That long line outside Parliament was its own kind of pilgrimage, and finally reaching the statue and throwing a garland felt like gratitude personified. Once you’re there, the waiting doesn’t matter; it’s all about that moment.
The height of your garland seemed to represent the height of your gratitude, and there was a giddy satisfaction to reaching that statue at last. The small, playful moments—throwing the garland as high as possible, feeling that final release—made those hours worth it.
And we’re indeed all in line, in some way. In popular theories, we’re all souls looking for liberation. Each of us waits our turn, striving for something just beyond our reach.
My mother’s words would bring me back to reality: “He endured so much physical and emotional pain; standing here for four or five hours is nothing.” Her words didn’t resonate fully at the time, but now I understand more about Ambedkar’s legacy and the weight of his sacrifices. The physical and emotional hardship he went through to empower millions went far beyond what I could understand at the time. He became a beacon of equality, fighting to lift those oppressed by caste and challenging a deeply entrenched system.
Looking back, what I dreaded as a kid has become something I’d love to experience again. I find myself wanting to stand in that line if only to appreciate it now that I’m 21. The meaning, which was hidden behind the frustration of waiting, has only grown richer with time.
As I grew older, I recognized that what I once considered a privilege—never facing caste discrimination—was, in fact, a form of protection born from concealment. My parents had warned me never to reveal my caste—not to teachers, not to classmates,friends, neighbours. Their experiences in Nagpur had been starkly different from my upbringing in Delhi, where caste seemed absent from everyday conversations. No one in my periphery cared about it or knew what it meant; we boasted about grades instead. But was this absence of discrimination a privilege, or was it simply the advantage of anonymity in an urban, non-native setting—an ease of erasure that may not have been possible elsewhere?
Over time, I became more open about my identity. I remember a conversation this year with my college mates, where they shared the pressure they faced as daughters in traditional Rajput families, especially when it came to marriage right after college. It took courage for me to share that my family doesn’t have those expectations. I live in a sort of cultural in-between—Buddhist, not as Marathi—and luckily free from some of the restrictions that might otherwise shape my life.
Studying humanities and learning more about Ambedkar has given me a clearer view of how different people see him. For my BSP-member father, he’s primarily a revolutionary political figure. To my mother, he’s like a god—a symbol of devotion and gratitude. For me and my brother, the answer isn’t clear yet.
However, I must credit my education in humanities in 11th-12th to understand Ambedkar’s vision for the future. It should be highlighted more than even the groundbreaking actions of his past. His rational, liberal perspective still carries incredible weight in today’s society, where his ideology remains relevant and needed.
To me, the Constitution is more than just a guide to governance; it’s a powerful resource for teaching values like democracy, human rights, and social responsibility. I think integrating the study of the Constitution into university curricula is a tangible way to connect with Ambedkar’s vision. For young Indians today, studying the Constitution could be an essential way to engage with the inclusive, forward-thinking society Ambedkar dreamed of and fought for. And a good enough way to reason with their parents on inter-caste marriage and promoting love and unity.
Lastly, standing in line year after year has become more than just a memory. It’s part of how I understand him now—by realizing that honouring him was never just about throwing a garland, but about recognizing the power of his struggle. It was about understanding, even a little, his work for the long line of people he stood for, those he wanted to lift from oppression.
So, here we are, still standing in line in our ways, still casting garlands toward the ideals he set. The distance we stand from those ideals is the work that remains, the journey he began for all of us. And in that journey, there is the purpose, a power that grows each time we honour him and see the impact of his life reflected in our own.
The journey of making my illustration Waiting in Line began back in June 2021. At 17, I was desperately preparing for the NID DAT-Mains exams—the exam that could secure me one of just 145 spots at India’s best design college. Locked down and isolated, I searched my experiences for something unique, something deep enough to stand out from every other applicant. I needed a moment, a memory that could capture my perspective.
That’s when it hit me: April 14th.
Since childhood, this day has been unusually significant for me. For more than eight years my parents took my brother and me to stand in the longest line ever outside the Parliament. We’d wait for hours, with garlands in hand, to honor Dr B.R. Ambedkar. Year after year, we’d toss those garlands up towards his towering 30-foot statue in the sweltering April sun. Back then, my brother and I were too young and too annoyed by the heat to fully understand why we did this. But even now, decades after his passing, Ambedkar’s influence remains woven into our lives, empowering our society in ways I continue to discover.
Over time, my relationship with Ambedkar has evolved and deepened, but for my project, I wanted to capture just that moment in line—simple, relatable, even a little humorous. My poster is a playful take on the experience of waiting, standing endlessly in line, going through security checks, and feeling impatient. It’s the perspective of a little girl who is annoyed (maybe still annoyed, haha).
That poster ended up being my golden ticket. Thanks to it, I’m now in my dream college in Ahmedabad, where I’ve been studying for three years. Ambedkar Jayanti doesn’t carry the same intensity here, but we did have a student-initiated reading session, Chai Pe Charcha, where we discussed Ambedkar’s Waiting for a Visa. Here was a man who, amid such uncertainty, wrote an entire book while waiting for a visa. And here I am, struggling just to finish an essay.
If anything, that experience shaped a theory for me: Waiting in Line. After all those hours spent queuing, watching, and reflecting, here’s my take:
There’s a parallel between waiting in line and the spiritual wait, like pratikshan often mentioned in Vipassana practice. There is even a song – “Ang mai jaagge pratikshan”(waiting instills in my body), where the wait itself holds meaning as you inch towards moksha. That long line outside Parliament was its own kind of pilgrimage, and finally reaching the statue and throwing a garland felt like gratitude personified. Once you’re there, the waiting doesn’t matter; it’s all about that moment.
The height of your garland seemed to represent the height of your gratitude, and there was a giddy satisfaction to reaching that statue at last. The small, playful moments—throwing the garland as high as possible, feeling that final release—made those hours worth it.
And we’re indeed all in line, in some way. In popular theories, we’re all souls looking for liberation. Each of us waits our turn, striving for something just beyond our reach.
My mother’s words would bring me back to reality: “He endured so much physical and emotional pain; standing here for four or five hours is nothing.” Her words didn’t resonate fully at the time, but now I understand more about Ambedkar’s legacy and the weight of his sacrifices. The physical and emotional hardship he went through to empower millions went far beyond what I could understand at the time. He became a beacon of equality, fighting to lift those oppressed by caste and challenging a deeply entrenched system.
Looking back, what I dreaded as a kid has become something I’d love to experience again. I find myself wanting to stand in that line if only to appreciate it now that I’m 21. The meaning, which was hidden behind the frustration of waiting, has only grown richer with time.
As I grew older, I recognized that what I once considered a privilege—never facing caste discrimination—was, in fact, a form of protection born from concealment. My parents had warned me never to reveal my caste—not to teachers, not to classmates,friends, neighbours. Their experiences in Nagpur had been starkly different from my upbringing in Delhi, where caste seemed absent from everyday conversations. No one in my periphery cared about it or knew what it meant; we boasted about grades instead. But was this absence of discrimination a privilege, or was it simply the advantage of anonymity in an urban, non-native setting—an ease of erasure that may not have been possible elsewhere?
Over time, I became more open about my identity. I remember a conversation this year with my college mates, where they shared the pressure they faced as daughters in traditional Rajput families, especially when it came to marriage right after college. It took courage for me to share that my family doesn’t have those expectations. I live in a sort of cultural in-between—Buddhist, not as Marathi—and luckily free from some of the restrictions that might otherwise shape my life.
Studying humanities and learning more about Ambedkar has given me a clearer view of how different people see him. For my BSP-member father, he’s primarily a revolutionary political figure. To my mother, he’s like a god—a symbol of devotion and gratitude. For me and my brother, the answer isn’t clear yet.
However, I must credit my education in humanities in 11th-12th to understand Ambedkar’s vision for the future. It should be highlighted more than even the groundbreaking actions of his past. His rational, liberal perspective still carries incredible weight in today’s society, where his ideology remains relevant and needed.
To me, the Constitution is more than just a guide to governance; it’s a powerful resource for teaching values like democracy, human rights, and social responsibility. I think integrating the study of the Constitution into university curricula is a tangible way to connect with Ambedkar’s vision. For young Indians today, studying the Constitution could be an essential way to engage with the inclusive, forward-thinking society Ambedkar dreamed of and fought for. And a good enough way to reason with their parents on inter-caste marriage and promoting love and unity.
Lastly, standing in line year after year has become more than just a memory. It’s part of how I understand him now—by realizing that honouring him was never just about throwing a garland, but about recognizing the power of his struggle. It was about understanding, even a little, his work for the long line of people he stood for, those he wanted to lift from oppression.
So, here we are, still standing in line in our ways, still casting garlands toward the ideals he set. The distance we stand from those ideals is the work that remains, the journey he began for all of us. And in that journey, there is the purpose, a power that grows each time we honour him and see the impact of his life reflected in our own.
