Cryptic Calcutta

A small account of my trips across the city of Calcutta.

When I started out this summer, the only thing on my mind was the internship that I had been really looking forward to and spending some quality time with my buddies before being thrust into the disconcerting void that is the 7^th sem !!

After the ritualistic onslaught of force-feeding and pampering, the initial hullabaloo surrounding my return finally subsided, leaving me, nostalgically so, at the mercy of Ma’s turbulent temper, life was normal again. All my childhood buddies had ventured into the unknown to seek their destinies this summer, while I was left to scour the city on my own …….and those that were close, were but far away….the regressive metamorphosis of flimsy camaraderie.

Meanwhile, my internship that had revved up to an enviable start, soon faced the slump akin to a mangy mutt’s tail. It soon dawned upon me that I was way in over my head, and being obnoxious would just drive me deeper into s**t. Thus, I slowed down and set my sights elsewhere…….the sights that captivated, disturbed and warmed me on my travails across the Calcutta cityscape.

Thus began my Rojnamcha….the daily sights and sounds.

I have always found Calcuttans, not just Bengali’s, to be quarrelsome, with balls that essentially don’t match the brawn. My metro-rail commute confirmed that thesis. People are always itching to fly off their handles, to drown their day’s frustration in a flurry of incoherent and generously foul-mouthed sentences, no doubt a light source of entertainment for the surrounding melee. After the tussle ends, the spent adversaries are equally meek to kiss and make up…. the anomaly of the Calcuttan quarrels much like the Kalboisakhi (Nor’westers), disastrous in its wake yet congenial as it bows out.

My long drawn route also took me across the silt-laden, earthy brown Hooghly River, each day. The slight breeze that caressed my sweat-laden brow as the rickety bus sped along the Vidyasagar Setu, brought out the romantic in me. How this majestic river had shaped the land, not only geographically, but also beliefs, customs, as a muse for poets…. As my eyes wandered to the kids frolicking about on the clayey banks…..pangs of envy arose in me. We were both sons of this soil, still, they possessed an ancient familiarity to the river…a tender dependence that I could never claim to have… I tore my eyes away, to focus on the pretty, sari-clad girl in the front of the bus…she seemed despondent, yet so radiant….a Bangali trait … (sigh).

 I often listened to Rabindrasangeet on my trips. Tagore’s music pulls at the heartstrings of every Bangali. Our obsession with his work is not merely a desperate attempt to salvage past glory, but a continuous self discovery. His songs are so simple yet so doleful, deep. We, often overwhelmed by nature quote his poetry…for it gives language to our emotions. Envy irks me again.

Calcutta rains are funny. The intermittent showers in small pockets of the city tend to wreak havoc with umbrella-less pedestrians. But still, as I make my way carefully across the puddles of rainwater, a cool breeze sends a spray of cool droplets from the lush green mango leaves above…. A paper boat swirls in a pool, caught in an eddy, while a group of drenched kids watch on, their trust in their vessel’s sturdiness, unwavering. I buy a ‘bhaanr’ (earthen cup) of steaming tea and a Benson and Hedges while I wait for the rain to cease….Here, romanticism is right around the corner.

My last account, lest I be too loquacious, is of my visit to Kalyani, a 2 hour train ride from Calcutta. The lush fields on the way are a treat to the eyes, the water monitors darting about aren’t. The train ride is uneventful, I tend to nod off in gently rocking vehicles. In Kalyani, I visited an asylum for the aged and mentally challenged. I was in no way prepared for my experiences there.

First thing that hit me was the wafting smell of s**t and piss, also mould. The disconcerting feeling of loss that gripped me instantly was to linger till the end. I could feel glassy eyes riveted onto me as I walked up the steps…burning a hole in my back. The inmates lay about listless and quiet. I approached a young man in his late 20s, to ask if he had ever had a picture taken….he was sweet enough to pose for me as I took a snapshot of him. He told me where he was from, his name, and offered to even buy me a cigarette. He became despondent and withdrawn when I asked him about family visiting him here. He hadn’t seen them for over a year….the slow poison of neglect and loveless existence had taken its toll. As I made my way out, like birds in an aviary, I could still see their glassy eyes staring out at me from the grilled verandahs…their pleas, as silent as their pursed mouths. This land with all its romanticism, its literature on love…had fallen short of affection in this desolate corner of Kalyani.

Thus, my account ends….many more caricatures dart about my, now wine-infused, brain. But those are for another day. I think I am in love…..fresh and frivolous, and my mind grows restless. I shall stop now.

Author's Note

Posting the rough draft really, I intend to write more. Have fun seeing my city through my eyes.

Reviews

[Arun]

you have a really good choice of words Gautam, at times I had to refer dictionary
good work bro