Delhi Institute of Technology and Management MBA Fee Structure Admission Process

Delhi Institute of Technology and Management (DITM)

About Institute:

Delhi Institute of Technology & Management has emerged as a premier institution in the National capital region for professional education in the fields of Technology& Management. It is located on NH-1, about 60km from Delhi at Gannaur (Dist. Sonepat), Haryana.

Delhi Institute of Technology & Management was founded in 2007 with a clear and well defined aim – to create a centre of excellence, committed to delivering education of nationally recognized standards in the fields of technology and management.

Delhi Institute of Technology & Management is ISO 9001:2008 Certified and is affiliated to Maharishi Dayanand University, Rohtak, Haryana.

Awards:

1. Rajiv Gandhi Samaj Ratna Award.

2. International Intellectual Development Award.

3. Indira Gandhi Priyadarshini Award

4. The Shiksha Bharti Puraskar Award

5. Indian Achievers Award 2011

6. The Indian Leadership Award for Education Excellence Awarded by IEDRA

7. Times Research’ Excellence in Education Award – 2010

About Campus:

DITM campus which is spread in fifteen acres of land, presents a spectacle of harmony in architecture and natural beauty. Exclusively designed and beautifully crafted buildings of different nature & stature are eco friendly, well ventilated and flooded with day light.

The academic block houses fully air conditioned laboratories and lecture theatres for different departments. A large Seminar hall with all modern amenities and equipment for sound and projection is located on the ground floor for common use. Workshop has been kept in a separate block at a reasonable distance from the main building so as to keep the noise away. Students’ residential area has hostels for boys & girls, a mess and a cafeteria. The campus also offers amenities like a dispensary, a gymnasium hall, some multipurpose rooms for reading and indoor games, a shopping mart, an ATM and playing fields.

Management Programs:

Program name	Seats	Duration
BBA – A degree course in Business Administration	60	3 years
MBA – A postgraduate degree in Business Administration	60	2years

Admission Process:

Admission to various academic programmes is done in consonance with the provisions and guidelines laid down by the competent authority of Govt. of Haryana.

Eligibility conditions:

A Bachelor’s degree in any discipline from a recognized University with a minimum of 50% marks in aggregate.

Or

A pass in the final examination conducted by The Institute of Chartered Accountants of India/ Institute of Cost and Works Accountants of India/Institute of Company Secretaries of India.

Contact Details:

College Campus :
Gnnaur-Sonipat Haryana,
National Highway, NH-1, NCR Delhi
Phone : 0130-3200053, 3200087
Fax. : 0130-2460399, 011-27243059
Mobile : 09215215184 / 85 / 86
E-mail : info@ditmcollege.com
visit us : www.ditmcollege.com

Delhi Admission Center :
3, Kapil Vihar, Pitampura,
Opp. Metro Piller No.-347,
Delhi-110088
Contact No. : 09717550577 / 88

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Tag: Delhi Institute of Technology and Management MBA Fee Structure Admission Process

Touchstones

Each day I do the "morning tango." First, I get my daughter on her bus, blow her a kiss, return to the front door, and then come back out again with my youngest. After he gets on his bus with a kiss and a smile, once again I go into the house only to come back out half an hour later to drive my oldest son to middle school.

Each time, I dash in and out of my door, I get to see a little piece of my childhood and one of my most treasured possessions... my quartz rock.

The rock sits among shrubs from our home's previous owners and some flowers and perennials I planted. At about a foot long, the rock blends in with its surroundings and also stands out as something special and unique. Just like it did when it was in my mother's garden. First in the house we lived in until I was 9 and then at the house my parents remain in today.

As a young girl, I loved sitting outside and daydreaming among the flowers my mother carefully tended. I would imagine the rock as a large diamond fit for a princess or a magical crystal that held the secrets of the world. It could be whatever I wanted it be.

Yet it was special and beautiful in its own right--catching sunlight and throwing off rainbows.

I was never clear how my mom got the unusual stone. As a child, I loved to think of all the mysterious places it could come from. Years later, I learned my mother's uncle found it on his travels and gave it to my grandmother, who then gave it to my mom.

I can still remember my mom weeding and planting her little rock garden in the front of our first house. Neighbors would stop by and chat with her, telling her the latest news or gossip. Many people commented on the unusual quartz.

My mother was so young and beautiful. I loved to talk to her whenever she was gardening. My mom was always on the run with many obligations, PTA president, ambulance corps volunteer, church obligations, or helping a friend. I had a lot of competition for her time. I loved that for the time she was in her garden, she could be mine. I would sing to her or just chat about my day.

When we moved, the rock went with us. I would see it in the new garden and take comfort that at least something was the same. Once we moved, my mother started working in real estate and her time became even more precious, but she would still find time to putter in her garden and the rock, my sisters, and I would be there.

I wonder what my children will use as their touchstone to me as they grow older. Will the rock have some significance to them? Or will they remember me obsessively going over the rose bushes and getting mad at any aphids nervy enough to eat my beloved flowers?

Or the times they come with me to cut my flowers and then sit with me as I make a flower arrangement for one of their teachers, a friend, or just for them.

Will the sight of a book I read to them bring them back to a happy time in their life as they remember the silly voices I used to make the characters come alive? Or the songs I sang to them when I rocked them to sleep?

Will the sound of fingers on a keyboard remind them of me sitting in my room typing my blog? Will they remember sitting on my bed, watching TV, arguing with each other until I yell, "For the love of all that is holy, knock it off." 

What is the legacy I will leave my children? What memory will comfort them when I no longer can?

The years are rolling on, and my face is looking more like my mother's. As much as I am my own person, I notice some of my mom's mannerisms seeping into mine. Time is moving on, and we are getting older. I know one day I am going to look outside and the rock will be something that comforts me when my mom no longer can. 

One day I will not be able to call my mom up and ask her to watch the kids, reserve a machine at the gym, or go for a cup of coffee. At that point, our infamous arguments and fights will no longer matter. Who got what, or who said what to who, will cease to matter. All I will have left is a crystal rock and the memory of the beautiful mother who I adored yet could not always understand.

Thankfully, I still have today to make a call.

Motherhood Ate My Brain

I've had false alarms for years, but the other day it finally happened. I lost my last remaining pre-mommy brain cell. After 13 years, it's official: Motherhood ate my brain.

The lawsuit I'm planning to file against my three children names my mind as the victim, and the damages I hope to recover include... six American Girl dolls, 1.27 million Lego blocks, and my 12-year-old's collection of Beatles CDs?

I guess it's not worth it.

No, motherhood ate my brain and nothing I do will bring it back.

I could live with this side effect of motherhood were it not for the fact that while my brain dwindled my waistline expanded.

I never thought I would be one of "those" women who let herself go while caring for her children. I'm not sure how it happened. I worked very hard to develop a mommy style that could withstand chocolate pudding and sweet potato stains while retaining some of my pre-mom style. When I look at pictures of me with my first two babies, I can still recognize Kathy ca. 1997.

But, I think it was just one too many mommy crises that did me in.

Two rides in an ambulance with Tom because of allergic reactions to peanuts, five MRIs for Lizzy, plus one 48 hour brain scan, two surgeries for Peter, countless speech, occupational and physical therapists coming in and out of my house for each child, a calender full of meetings for three different schools, a husband who commutes and does not get home till late, a host of specialist and late night calls from doctors that scared the bejeezus out of me, and much, much more!

Being the obsessive and compulsive person I am, I could tell you the origin and situation of each pound gained, each pound lost, and each pound re-gained.

It wouldn't be so bad if I didn't react to every stressful situation by eating. Before I had my children, the stress of life may have caused me to gain a pound or two, but then my life would go back to "normal" and so would my weight. What am I supposed to do when crazy is the new normal?

This year, after countless weight loss programs, work-out DVDs and trips to the gym I made the resolution to not make any resolutions about my weight. Being a fan of the author Geneen Roth long before Oprah found her, I thought it would be easy to go back to the conscious way of eating she prescribes. It worked in my twenties and half of my thirties with great success.

I would eat when I was hungry and feel my feelings when I wasn't. I would slow down, enjoy my food in a relaxing and stress-free enviroment. How hard could it be to go back to my pre-mom ways of eating?

The other night is a perfect illustration of just how hard it is going to be.

The children and I were eating dinner together, which we do most weeknights because my husband gets home too late to join us. I was sitting there trying to enjoy my dinner and listen to my hunger.

I was dealing with a wonderful case of tween attitude from my 12-year-old son and trying my best to not engage in an argument over his bedtime. At the same time, my youngest decided that he would try to eat his dinner, which was pasta, without any hands. My daughter, who has special needs, was in her own world talking to herself one minute, laughing at her brother the next, and occasionally screaming out of frustration to add some variety.

I wish I could say this was unusual, but it's not. What was unusual, was my complete lack of patience. I couldn't muster one ounce of compassion and sat there fuming. I was tired and cranky and had had enough. At that moment, I could throw each child out the door or do something equally drastic.

I started to give my usual spiel of: Tom don't argue with me... Peter, don't eat like a puppy, and... Come on Lizzy focus. But, this time using the years of vocal training my parents paid for, I sang it in my best opera voice.

All logic went out the window. My mom brain took completely over as I insisted that if my son was going to continue to argue with me he was going to have to sing it. There we were, four people having our own little production of "Mommy's finally flipped."

Suffice it to say, we all started laughing. And I got through another meal without selling one of my children.

Our little production made such an impression on Lizzy that the next day I learned from her teacher that when she couldn't move her chair to her satisfaction she started to complain by singing in an operatic voice.

"Isn't that funny Kathy, where could she have picked that up?"

Where indeed?

Oddly enough it was on this night that I knew all my pre-mom brain cells were gone. And I had a pretty good idea of how not only I reached my present size, but how hard it was going to be to find my way back. It's very hard to listen to your hunger when the noise of your children blocks it out.

Knowing my obsessive nature I trust I will find the balance between the stressed-out mom I am and the healthy, in-shape mom I have yet to become. I do enjoy the gym and have more physical stamina then I have had in years. I also make fairly good food choices, most days.

After all, it did take me almost 13 years to get here. I just hope it doesn't take me another 13 years to return.

Passing Along My Dream

When I was seven years old, I saw the Disney version of Cinderella and the inner princess in me was born. I loved the sewing and singing mice, and the fairy godmother who turns rags into a beautiful gown and a pumpkin into a coach pulled by six white horses. I couldn't resist Cinderella meeting her handsome prince and living happily ever after.

As I got older, I didn't buy the message that a man had to "save" Cinderella. After all, why didn't Cinderella just pack up the mice and high tail it out of her evil stepmother's house. She could have started a dress shop with the mice. The fairy godmother could have helped her secure a micro loan. Then she could have met her Prince Charming and after a lovely courtship gotten married in a dress she designed herself. She did have those great sewing mice to help her.

But, that's not the story I grew up with and the story that my inner princess loved.

So, how could I resist watching the royal wedding of Prince William and Princess Katherine a few weeks ago? Because my daughter Lizzy enjoys the whole princess package as much as I do, we had great fun enjoying it together. We even saw a little of it with my own mother when she came by early in the morning to see Lizzy dressed for school in her pink party dress and a little tiara in her hair.

There we were, three generations of women enjoying the pageantry of the royal wedding.

As much as my own mom had raised my sisters and I to be strong independent women, even she has always been a sucker when it comes to a wedding. I used to love her stories of how she planned her wedding, designed her bridal bouquet, and picked out her dress.

We couldn't resist watching a Cinderella story come to life.

When I got engaged and was planning my own wedding, I obsessively read bridal magazines and pored over pictures of gorgeous designer gowns and stunning flowers. 

I had come across a story about a new designer and the beautiful bridal boutique she had recently opened at the Carlyle Hotel in New York City. The store sold her designs as well as a lot of the designers I saw in magazines. I wanted to buy my dress at Vera Wang.

My budget doesn't always fit my desires, but I planned in my mind how I would be able to purchase the gown of my dreams on my down-to-earth budget. Since I love fairy tales, I decided that I was going to go to Vera Wang and find the perfect dress for me in my price range. Just for fun, I added to my daydream that I would get to meet the designer and they would like me so much that they would throw a few special things in for no charge.

I had a lot of free time at my job.

More for fun than anything else, my mother and I made an appointment to shop for my wedding dress at Vera Wang.

As we went through the store with the saleswoman, my eye went to the most beautiful dress I had ever seen. Not unlike Cinderella's weddding dress in the movie.

It was a simple, white silk gown with the most delicate pearl bead work on the off-the-shoulder neckline. The saleswoman saw my face and got the dress. I figured I was in trouble and tried to decide just how important eating really was to me.

She zipped up the dress, and I completely fell in love. She smiled at me and said that this gown was very reasonably priced. And, without knowing my daydream, said if I didn't mind coming back on the weekend, the designer was having a trunk sale at the shop. I could meet him and get an additional 10% taken off the dress. I was in shock. It was my fantasy come true.

I bought my dream dress. I met the designer. And, true to my fantasy, he added pearl buttons down the back of my dress and cut the dress to my exact measurements, all for no extra charge. I had my Cinderella moment complete with a perfect wedding to a man I truly adore.

Now, 18 years later, we have a daughter who for the last two weeks has been walking around with my shawl on her head and pretending to be Princess Kate.

Lizzy's special needs affect her life so completely, and I'm not really sure what her future will bring. Meeting someone and getting married seems unlikely.

When feeling a little too filled with self pity, I expressed that thought to my own mom, she said it didn't matter. Lizzy could wear a wonderful dress and have a great party anytime she wanted to.

A few days ago I decided to open the box that held my beautiful wedding dress so that my daughter could wear and enjoy playing in it now. She had the same look of joy that I had when I first laid my eyes on it. "Oh, mommy, it's sooo beautiful. I'm a princess."

Then she proceeded to add two hats, three crowns and six bracelets and made it her own. It was a magical moment for both of us.

A Great Gift

Last week I found myself in a bit of a twilight zone moment. My 12-year-old son, Tom, was not acting like himself. He was acting, dare I say... like me.

"Tom, can you please help your sister with her seat belt?"

We were running around as usual, and I have come to depend on the hand that Tom can give me with his younger brother and sister.

"Lizzy, do your seat belt, and, I don't want to hear the itty-bitty voice."

I was surprised by the "tough love" approach he was taking with his sister. Tom is always so sweet and protective of her. He has always been under Lizzy's spell. This was a new tone for him to take with her.

"Tom, what is the itty-bitty voice?" I asked, very amused.

"Mom, you know when Lizzy acts like she can't do something and she just starts saying nonsense words and acting like she is helpless. That is the itty-bitty voice. I know she can do her own seat belt."

"I know you can do it yourself," he called back to his sister.

"OK Tom... I did it," Lizzy said, very pleased with herself.

Then Tom turned to my 6 year old Peter.

"You can do your own seat belt, too. You don't need me or mommy to do it."

My, my, I was so impressed. He was right, too. I know Peter can do his own seat belt. And, I have no problem being tough with all my children and insisting that they do things that they think they can't.

But, sometimes it is just easier to do it for them. Especially with Lizzy. She can be so entrenched in her own world that the effort to penetrate it for something minor doesn't always seem worth it.

But Tom was handling them both beautifully. As only a big brother can, he let them know that they no longer needed that kind of help.

Living in a special needs household can really be a trip!

Since I am dyslexic and have never been able to tell my right from my left, I have never believed in hiding the fact that we all have something that makes the world a little challenging for us.

I have been on top of my children's issues from the beginning of time. Each child was only a baby when we were lucky enough to discover their differences. Speech, ooccupational, and physical therapists have been a normal part of our lives since Tom was 18 months old.

"We are who we are" is a frequent phrase in our house. Living with people who, like me, all have some challenge can be frustrating at times. It can also be really funny.

My husband and I still laugh about the time we were having lunch on Christmas Eve about four years ago. Anytime we all go out can be stressful. It's not unusual for me to use phrases such as, "use your words... Take a breath... Car 54 where are you?" 

This particular day, each child really pulled out the stops.

Christmas can be especially touchy for us because of the dreaded holiday music. Tom has overcome almost all of his sensory issues. All, except his fear of high pitched sounds. Particularly a note that Josh Groban hits in "O Holy Night." 

We are probably the only people on the planet who threaten a child with playing a Josh Groban song to deter misbehavior.  

Peter was only a toddler at the time and unbeknownst to us had an ear infection. And Lizzy, whose special needs are the most extensive of the three, was very far into her own world. She was sitting in her chair talking to herself in her own "Lizzy language."

We were just wrapping up the meal when wouldn't you know it Josh Groban comes on the radio. Tom, who thankfully no longer screamed when he heard the offending "noise" put his hands over his ears.

As I was calming Tom down, (Take a deep breath, it's okay, get over it.) Peter started to get fussy so I reached over to pick him up from the high chair. He then proceeded to throw up all over me.

At that moment, we were the ideal American family. One kid holding his hands over their ears saying, "Mommy make it stop"; a second child completely in her own world; and the third covered in vomit.

My husband and I did what we always do in a tough spot, we hysterically laughed. Then, leaving the waitress a very big tip, otherwise known as "combat pay," hightailed it out of there.

I don't think we could even pretend to look like a typical family. And, that is OK with me.

I am used to being tough on my kids when I need to be and understanding their challenges when that's called for. I have certainly made my share of mistakes and can keep myself up at nights counting them. But since this is my story, I'm not going into them here.

I will let my kids tell there own tales of horror and list all the things I have done to mess them up. I actually look forward to it.

I can just imagine Tom being interviewed about his own Mommy Dearest book. A best seller for sure. I will sit proudly watching him on the TV in the nursing home saying, see, they said he would never write and there he his with own book!

Listening to Tom talk to his brother and sister that day I heard how I sound to him. And I watched his brother and sister listen and do what he knew they could do. In that minute I knew I had done something right with my kids.

Best Mother's Day present I could ever get.

Just Like Everyone Else

As a girl, I loved the story of how my parents chose my name. My mother loved the name Christina and planned to use it if she ever had a girl. But, as she would say, she changed her mind the minute the doctors put her beautiful baby daughter in her arms. She took one look at me, fell in love and decided I was meant to be a Katherine.

In my early twenties, I learned from my dad that there was more to the story. Apparently after hearing of my intended name, my maternal grandmother was so upset that she dispatched my grandfather to the hospital. He let my mother know that if she did not name me after her mother, my grandmother would never speak to her again.

I'm not sure if my poor mom was just tired from a difficult, 24-hour labor or if she just wanted to please her mother. I do know my name is Katherine Lee and that I was named for my maternal grandmother and my paternal grandfather. My mom did rebel a bit though. My grandmother spelled her name with a C.

Perhaps you can tell that I come from a long line of strong women who like to get their way. Such a personality trait will always complicate mother-daughter relationships.

My mother and I are no exception. I spoke very early and had no problem speaking my mind. This complicated our relationship, and we have had our share of heated battles through the years.

Thankfully, with age, and the arrival of my own children our relationship has mellowed.

I'll be the first to admit that I wasn't easy to raise. My firstborn, although a boy, reminds me so much of myself that at times I want to scream. At other times, I want to call my mother and thank her for not strangling me. He embodies qualities I like about myself as well as many that may make me seem... well, challenging.

When he and I fight, my mother's words echo in my mind, "I wish upon you the same thing my mother wished upon me... a child as difficult as you are."

She got her wish, I have three.

My mom had three girls, and I thought I got away easy with two boys and only one girl. I remember the wars that would occur in a house of almost all women.

My poor dad.

I also, foolishly, had the idea that given my daughter's special needs, our relationship would be easier. After all, the world is so hard for Lizzy to navigate, especially when it comes to language. Surely that would help us avoid the mother-daughter battles that were an everyday occurrence in my childhood.

All I can say is, Lizzy is one strong little girl. It's a great trait for her given all the challenges she faces. It's not so great for me as her mother.

This was apparent a few weeks ago when Lizzy participated in her first Special Olympics.

"No mommy, no hair."

"Lizzy, stand still, I just want to fix your bow."

"Noooo, you're hurting me. Leave me alone," she said very loudly.

Just what a mother wants to hear with 50 other parents and volunteers watching us.

"Very good sentence, Lizzy. Now stand still," I said in a tone that would earn me canonization.

This was only slightly more embarrassing then last year during dinner at my in-laws. "Mommy. Get off my back," she said.

The difference between Lizzy's outbursts and those of a typical child is that when Lizzy does this, my family doesn't think less of us. They're too busy trying not to laugh.

"Kathy, she is doing really well," my sister-in- law whispered to me as my husband escorted Miss Lizzy away from the table.

Lizzy has also spread her wings in shcool. One day her teacher called me, laughing. Lizzy was getting very frustrated with the math that she was working on. All of a sudden, she headed for the door and said, "That's it, I'm out of here."

My daughter's show of independence has always stirred a host of different emotions for me. First, is just plain anger and a little shock. How can my sweet baby talk to me like that?

But that anger is tempered with gratitude. It's hard for me to be too mad when I waited so long to hear her speak. What she says is less an issue because I am just so thrilled to hear her say anything.

Inside my beautiful daughter's very complicated brain is a little girl who is a lot like me. She just wants her mom to leave her hair alone and let her be.  

My job is to learn the delicate balancing act of letting her go just enough, yet still keeping her safe.