What is this place all about? How does it stay alive even as the
stench of redundancy and neglect rise from its unfathomable depths?
It was wedding time in the family and Kolkata was the base camp.
The family tree spread wide and swayed on the music of celebration. Yet, as I
stepped out of the house to run a few errands around the City of Joy, the air
filled my lungs and a heady experience drenched me. It stuck to me like the
salt from a bath in the sea.
Wherever my eyes went, I saw scores of people, mostly moving,
pushing and shoving. The sooty fumes from taxis and rickety buses ashened the
nostrils, hair and face. As I tried to roll up the wind shields and asked the
driver to turn on the air-conditioning, he remarked "Yeh shahar doosron se
20 saal peechey hai", (This city is 20 years behind in the rat race of
development of the cities in India). Behind my dark glasses, a grey shade of
gloom descended. Does this bother the Kolkata-zens that much? Is this what
matters in the last balance sheet of quality of life?
My last decade was about Delhi. I have been too careless to even
dare to venture into comparing the two cities. Yet whenever I am in Kolkata, an
almost sickening urge to write an ode to the old, grandmotherly, choppy, sappy
city squabbles in the pit of my tummy. May be it is because I have read many
such pieces describing, criticising, deitifying the place. The heritage,
historical background, political turmoil and several such elements make this an
obvious choice to base one's literature, art or film. The obvious tendency is
to speak about the city. As I tried to fight this puppet-like reaction, I
stopped. It is a task almost impossible to de-Kolkata-fy the self if one has
stepped on that soil. Once there, it shall nest in the memory part of the brain
forever. I have grudgingly accepted this fact and let the venom flow through my
blood stream. I am more restless, yet at peace now.
What is Kolkata sans heritage, culture, politics, protests and
Hoogly? Why does it appear to be shrouded in nostalgia and lost glory while the
rest of the nation marches on? But if
not this, then how would one separate Kolkata from the rest? It is easy to get
drowned in this whirlpool of debatable oxymoron.
It is humid, it is crowded, it is dingy, and it is Gothic. People
love to debate and discuss. The tube train makes enormous amount of noise as it
traverses the length and width of the city. It is a gastronomy paradise. The
suburbs are succumbing to the realty expansion. The ponds are now high-rises,
over bridges are now painted blue and white. The taxi fares have rocketed. Has the
constant criticism of it lagging forced the city to ape the rest of urban
India? Has this child lost her panache in order to fit in with the mundane, the
ordinary? Has it paid the price already? I silently pray in negation.
As a child, Kolkata was unattractive. The colours, sounds, taste
failed to impress. It was a strange reaction I had for the place. I would avoid
making any stopovers in this seemingly rude sea of faces. Was I the
quintessential “shrew” who avoided any eye contact with her lover, because she
feared she would lose her being at his altar of love? Perhaps, or perhaps it
was just another juvenile tantrum.
Childhood is long gone; youth has been replaced by adulthood and
its tussles. The struggle got tougher each breathing moment. The escapism of
excuses, fear and death are like constant companions. As sleep evades my bed on
many nights, I remember Kolkata. I remember the biography of human life
Calcutta unfurls each day. It is a failure, its love story is debris now, more
like a long-forgotten nautch girl relegated. It is a song, seldom sung and
mostly hummed because the words cannot be recalled. It is a clumsy child, who
has smeared his face, hands and clothes with the ice-cream he thought he
relished. It is the street smart girl who shall crack your nuts if you dare
rest your eyes on her for a fraction more. It is the first pay check which one
cherishes too long. It is dope, it is sugar, it is a void, it is plague.
Kolkata is life and yet again it is a way of life and death.
People spend wisely almost miserly. Words are sugar-laced acid. It
is a mad rush. Expect nudges and pushes. Laziness dots the pavements and street
corners. Cigarette fumes shall burn into your soul. The narrow roads lead to mysterious
lanes of poverty. It has embraced the ugly.
For ever, I have been deaf to the pleadings of beggars in Delhi. I
seldom pay one. I am biased. I am cold. Then why did I share my gummy bear
candies with a street urchin in Calcutta? What was different about him? Or was
it the place, the devil force of the city? As I turned one last time to look at
him, the candies were fast disappearing in the crevice of his orange mouth.
“Kya hua Madam, kuch mazedar dekha kya? Aap muskura rahi hai”, the
driver quips in. The veil has lifted from my heart. Kolkata is a reason for
numerous clichés, it inspires copy-cat behavior. Perhaps, what I say here is
just another such obvious. May be this is how the city manages to keep all
prying eyes from unraveling its mysteries. The façade is impenetrable. The
faces are anonymous. The clichés abound in the head. The heart, however, knows.
It is awake, the awareness heightened by the array of emotions and experiences
offered. May be the reverence and fascination of so many is what defines
Kolkata; Clichés employed to understand this prodigal land. I cannot help but
use another such phrase, “Love to hate it and hate to love it.”
The driver may be right. But I know I am not wrong.
