Kolkata

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.