A Kolkata Window

While flipping through various sites about Kolkata and her charm, I came across this fantastic quote from Chidananda Dasgupta – the soaring film maker and critic, “What can one say about a city that discusses Spinoza and Bertrand Russell during a power cut?”

A quick smile played across my face and thought, “Well, what you can say about the city which talks with pride about Tagore, Satyajit Ray, Mother Teresa and Amartya Sen? The city, which is the intellectual hub of every poet, artist or film maker. The city that talks about the irresponsible rickety govt however celebrates the spirit of bandh willfully. That city which is sometimes mocking called, ‘the city of joy’. That city where everyone knows about communism just as much, ilish maach and golda chingri. 

The city which is proud about those dilapidated trams as well as, the underground ‘Metro’ rail. Where, the Nahoums of New Market is as famous as The Flurys of Park Street.  The city whose head is full of revolution but the hearts beats of ‘adda’.

Photo Courtesy: Google 

The city which stands as a queen during the Durga Puja, acts like a Shehjzadi during Muharram and live likes an angel in the months of Christmas.

That is as serious about its literature as about her ‘very’ own, mishti and maacher jhol.

Like seriously, who can ever not be in love with the indomitable spirit of Kolkata?

Kolkata has always been an abode of beautiful contrasts. She has her very own colors – the colors which no one can fade.

Who knew when almost three centuries ago, an English trader Job Charnok came to this city to do business. Right at THAT instant everything about these three villages changed. Kolkata, Sutanuti and Gobindapur were about to be the proud intellectual hub in the history of the world. 

Calcutta was rapidly changing its colors; it became a city of contrasts to much of these days. There are dazzling shopping malls co-exist with shaggy, dirty Jagubabur Bajar. There are books in Oxford and Crossword; there are books even in the lanes and by-lanes of College Street. There is Coffee House and then, there are CCDs.

Photo Courtesy: Google 

When you will step in Kolkata, you will find the latest cars zip-zapping through the traffic as well as, hand-pulled rickshaws. There is opulence of wealth and there is extreme poverty. But still the city is not Mumbai, but Kolkata – rather my, Calcutta.

You can find any intellectual celeb in few old-fashioned pubs or bars or even cafes in Calcutta in a crazy rainy evening. You will find the same ones in one of the top posh ‘stars’ in the city with 20’s classic playing in the background served with the rarest French wine!

It is this quality that makes this city unique.

The spirit of ol’ ‘marketing’ (Sic.) in the New Market is as pleasurable as shopping from one of the Parisian Designer Brands in a shopping mall.

You get a grand feeling while coming from Howrah Bridge to Fort William. From Raj Bhavan to the world famous Eden Gardens. From Shyambazar’s paNch mathar more to the lavish city restaurants in Park Street. This, unique culture drives the juices for art, literature and music. This is THE ‘mojo’ of the city. 

Calcutta was the cradle of the Indian Renaissance and its legacy is still standing still in her broadways and lanes. It breathes ‘hope’ to those several of us who are living far away from the very heart of the city. It’s the love only a child can understand of its mother. It’s that intense desire to go back.

Photo Courtesy: Google 

The city breathes art. Whether you watch an artisan in Kumartuli drawing HER Holy Highness Goddess’s eyes with as precision as the para’r bhNepuwala plays its flute. Where to travel to the nearest metro station, your para’r kaku takes hand-pulled rickshaw every day.  You will understand that Calcutta’s fascination defies in every analysis. For many, therefore, and for us Bangalees, it is an addiction of prem of the mind and soul…

When my JOB ditched me

The day when my office colleagues were thanking God for making it a Friday, I wished THAT day should had never come.

As we were about to finish the day's work, the two top honchos came to my office and declared I am redundant for the company. It took me two more minutes to digest the whole idea and put a very, very fake smile to say, “That’s alright!"

I needed to pack up my belongings and leave the building in a month's time. In other words, I was fired. All these years of my career were over in a snap. I was devastated and I was bitter. I went to my empty, rented house… feeling every bit the victim.

This was the time I needed the money the most! I needed money to pay for my shelter in a strange city, I needed money to save, I needed money to eat food, I needed money to travel - like the rest of us, I needed money. I wanted to destroy something. I wanted to make them pay for the injustice. I wanted someone to suffer!!

I left my high-flying job and a family of ever-supportive parents back at home. I left the comfort zone, just for this position. I sacrificed the guy who held my hands for the last time in Kolkata and said," Don't go!"

And here I am, devastated, bitter and repentant. From the second minute, I was browsing through several job-boards and waiting desperately for an answer. "I just lost my job... now what? What should I do?"

The next day was a Saturday and I spent the entire day applying for jobs. All morning and afternoon. And when my friends asked me how it is going, they were shocked to see my expression...that I never wanted to show. It’s pure embarrassed frustration. I felt as if my pride has been thrown to the wolves. I have never been a very aggressive employee and thankfully my boss supported me to find an answer for my termination - a better employment. I was so shocked that I didn't even have the guts to cry my soul out.

At work, I was dying a slow death at my desk every day. Suddenly my days are numbered. It takes a lot of mindfulness to keep my mind from wandering, or gaze from flicking to my phone. I was desperate like a hungry lioness. I blamed the world, time and again. I felt helpless and guilty to leave home, my job as a page 3 reporter, some brilliant friends and a loving boyfriend behind to get into the career-bandwagon. And the cherry on the top, I have to let my creative juices flow. I need to create brilliant articles.

 

There has never been a second, where I haven’t thought about the devastating effect of the situation. I just lost the ability to pay my bills, provide medical coverage for my family and last but not the least, to SURVIVE.  Shock, panic, fear, anger, depression, and resentment cropped up in my head.

My boss gives a look at me and tells me, “Get to my office right now and let's get a game plan. We can work it out. It's not so difficult." - These words were like a balm to my bruised confidence. He helped immensely in whatever little way he can. My friends, acquaintances, colleagues – everyone is more than supportive. Suddenly fining a job was just not my own responsibility. It was for all of them. They all started getting recruitment news. They used their contacts, and those contacts used theirs. I felt grateful, thankful and a bit less strained. 

There are some time, when I know I don't know whether to scream, go blind or eat an apple. It is funny and very, very strange and hard. 

When I go to an interview, I know I need to act smart, intelligent, confident etc. etc. - but only a part within me knows how difficult it becomes to be someone with a broken identity and uncertainty lurking around the corner.

I am hopeful. I am certain. I know 'this too shall pass'. But...

And I want to THANK YOU!

Dear S,

 

Sending you this letter is taking an incredible risk, as what I say here may jade you further against me. However, I have not been forthcoming about where I have been over the years, and honesty is the only way this is going to work. I do intend to write this seriously but the truth is sometimes best when, as Al Franken once noted, "it is tinged with jokes".

Given a forward mindset, a good sense of humour, and a solid sense of self, we can both become incredible people. I believe you can become the fantastic, assertive, self-defined man you seek to be. In retrospect, I see that you have always fought to define yourself separate of others. In short, doubt not that my trust or belief in you has changed. You are ultimately someone I will always consider a friend.

 I have been given a chance to stop, consider myself as to who I am becoming, and have subsequently chosen a much different path than I would have if we had continued. I am intent upon becoming my best self, someone whose actions are speaking louder than her words, and whom outwardly displays the inward quietness she desires. I’ve lacked focus the past years I’ve been and you dealt marvellously with that. Trust that I am still weird, just more thoughtful about it, “consciously weird” if you will.

We threw ourselves together without quite looking where we were stepping at first. That was a mistake on both our parts, I think. The excitement of finding someone you are both truly attracted to and deeply care for is a powerful force, and I realise now the responsibility it requires in its handling and display. 

I had no say in the how and when you ended the relationship, but I had total say in what I chose to do with the rather painful experience. And now, so many years later, I fully appreciate your coming into my life and exiting it right on schedule. I believe it all unfolded divinely – even thought it sure didn’t feel like it at the time. At the time, I felt like my life was over, but really only that chapter was, and it was up to me to carve out a new life – which I believe I’ve done.

If anyone had asked me years ago whether I would have ever forgiven you for walking out on me, I most-certainly would have said “no way”, but time, as it’s been said, is a great healer.

So I want to say thank you for loving me and for leaving me. I needed it, as much as a child needs a slap on the face. You made me to realise to 'hold' on to a relationship, to nurture talents individually and to let go of the inhibitions. You made me to go out 'there' and pursue a career which I was most uncertain about. 

I could never have made it this far without you dumping me. I can honestly say that in many ways, I feel that “being dumped was one of the best things that have ever happened to me”. You might even say I’ve made a career out of it…

With that, forwards to happiness. I don’t know what turns our respective paths will take, but I do believe that they will both be incredible and fantastic beyond our wildest dreams.

Thank you for being my lover, my best friend and confidante for the years we were together.

Thanks for those little evenings outs and roll over few pegs.

Thank you for the hilarious comments – which may be what I miss most about you… 

Thank you for all those times you chatted to my friends when you might not be even in a mood to talk and thanks for being the type of guy that mixed so well and happily with my friends.

Thank you for all those times you made me feel special, treasured and beautiful especially on days when I just couldn’t see it.

Finally thank you for being supportive and also supporting me.

P.S. It may appear I am not “over you” – but never from the moment you ended it, did I ever, ever, ever want you back. This was meant to be uplifting - to show I had learned and grown from the experience and was even grateful for it – and not that I am pathetic for writing this out years on. It’s all good, I’m still breathing…

A Wedding Affair

Weddings!!! The happiest and the toughest and the craziest time in any family would be when a wedding is being planned. Its mayhem at its best!! Insanity is one thing that could possibly keep one alive through the entire process.

Anybody would understand what an Indian wedding is like if they were to see “Hum Aapke Hain Kaun” or “Monsoon Wedding” (the latter being the better choice if you want to see the chaos involved!!) All the discussions…about the colour…the texture and the material of the clothes to be worn on the important rituals...the mandap...decoration...stay...transportation...guest list...food...menu...the sun...the moon...the stars...the lights...what not?!

As the winter sets in the Gujjuland my friends’ wedding cards start knocking at my new found home. There has been plenty of time I have been to my ‘girl-friend-turned-soul-sistahs’ wedding and always returned  with a tired but big satisfying smile on my face. Not anymore. Am sad and outside the circle, may be a bit for too long. 

Anybody’s life can get changed by just a minute…imagine only one minute before you were just “Miss something” and the moment you completed the last phera you are “Mrs. something different”.

If Punjabis can dance then Bengalis can organise impromptu cafe ambience anywhere anytime. And as it was a wedding shower it meant loads of adda with loads of dressing up. And I missed that last minute catch-up this year.  This season I am all connected with their social delight through myriad photos with mehendi, aaltaa, scrumptious delicacies, smiling faces of their families and extended families followed by few calls from the excited friends’ bridesmaids. And with a grumpy face I look at them and my stupid mind flutters in their biye-bari. There’s this invisible second me that whispers “Even I want to be the bridesmaid!”

If you have ever been to a Bengali Wedding you must have noticed, faces as vibrant as glittering sarees, shimmering with layers of make-up, made the bright lights needless. Men in their expensive sherwanis or dhuti-punjabi moving about everywhere.  The women with their fine trousseau thanking God ten times for innumerable reasons it’s not so cold to wrap their heavily embellished selves in expensive – mind EXPENSIVE shawls.

The blowing of the conch shell and ululation by the women gathered at the biyer-mondop and tune of Shanai fills my ear as I write. The smell, oh the smell of fish-butter fry and rojonigondha mixed with the scent of every perfect attire fills give you a different high.

 A scene pops up in my head, a couple of yards away there’s this trying-to-be-cool dude having a rather candid chat with girls probably half of his age. Another group of middle-aged women involved in something what sounded like a boisterous chatter with very fashion obsessed and high on make-up. The obvious topic of discussion among them would be Bengali T.V serials, geomancy, hair and skin care.

I smiled. I am so very much Bangalee by heart. And I never realised that. 

Flicking though the Facebook in my mobile, I leisurely look at my friend’s wedding attire. She looks stunning, more like a Goddess straight from the heaven.  

I miss running all round like a Mad Hatter. I miss accompanying her to the high-profile salon where they charge a bomb for this transformation.  I miss acting like her first-hand whilst she is busy welcoming the guests.  I miss tucking her saree, looking for a pin, holding her veil, wiping her kajal, wiping her sweat (in December!!!), picking up flowers that fell from her pretty bun, snatching gifts from her hands as soon as they were given to her, shooing off unnecessary relatives and friends, checking for safety pins poking in unusual places (hers not mine), wiping her sweat (did I tell you she had a winter wedding!!), frowning furiously at the Pandit who kept on pouring ghee in a roaring fire, making her wear a saree, folding her clothes, counting and tucking away her jewellery, packing the gifts, getting her water, feeding her, taking her phone calls, doing the screaming for her, sneaking her a drink when she needed it and occasionally reminding myself to breathe.

Her smile, her shy glances at her brand new husband, the chaotic giggles, make up removed, earrings dropped, young eyes meeting, exchanging numbers, the hullor , konya pokkho and patro pokkhyo.


I wanted to see and take part in EVERYTHING that makes a Bengali Wedding a BIG, FAT and CRAZY affair.

It must be hard yet pleased to watch her getting married, you know. It was like a part of me had to let go of her. In what way and why I cannot explain. I don’t know why I would have died every time I saw her crying her eyes out over those four days. I don’t know why I would have looked scared to see her in laws, whom she had already known for so long years, as complete strangers. I wanted to protect her, cry with her, sit beside her, hug her and smile with her all at once if given a chance just before she transformed into a beautiful pretty bride. 

In retrospect, I don’t want to remember much about my chipped nail paint, my mismatched make up, my clumsily draped saree and my spectacular absence in photo ops. But. I wanted to cherish the fact of me being there when she needed to be held, watching her smile, I want to guess what she would have hurriedly whispered into my ear right before she was getting married, I want remember how she looked sitting in the make up studio restlessly twitching her fingers.

With moist eyes, as I write this, I remember our sudden outings at CCD and Oly Pub. Her nervous voice just few minutes back when I called. I wanted to experience all of us, the Jing-Bang together at my deserted home, drunken and musically enriched – just before I left HOME.