My Days in Kolkata, A Memoir

Arindam Moulick

Morning Raga

I woke up to the sound of pouring rain, and I thought: ah! Life is beautiful. Waking up early in the morning has always been a tad harder for me than dropping onto the bed the night before like a spent force. I had just finished sleeping and woke up from what is known as a good night’s sleep.

It was just another fantastically cloudy Sunday morning when I embarked upon writing this memoir. In fact, in the lazy rainy-cum-winter season of the year, since I had nothing specific to do except gaze at the sparkling raindrops dropping pitter-patter on the parapet of the house opposite ours, in the lush green suburban location of my Mashi’s old ‘70s house, so I kept writing. The blowing in of the north-easterly winds through the windows of my bedroom was though seasonable but they were normally expected to arrive only during December and not any time before. Mashi confirmed my thoughts and said: “kaal boisakhi brishtir jhor” (awesome monsoon thundershowers of the June/July months). The sweet rajonigondha blooms, red joba kusum, gondhoraj, nayontara flowers, and the trenches of boughs and hedges were all dripping wet in the early monsoon showers and began wafting faint smells of the place.

In order to ease off the glum morning sickness, I used to brush my deary pearls! Besides, the act of brushing seemed to be a ceaseless obligation to be adhered to, whether one likes it or not: a proposition I always undertook lazily. Thanks to my quick-witted Mashi: she had kept a broad stick permanently at hand to give me a thorough beating with it if I ever faltered on the basic regularities!

Finding myself balancing a pot of Darjeeling tea in one hand and the morning Telegraph in another like a trapeze artist, I usually reclined in the big diwan room: a ground floor room with three large windows with a direct view to an old hyacinth-laden pond. (I confess: the suburbs, some 20 kilometers outside of the city, have fascinated me more than the actual city life did, but that’s only a part of the reason why I am attracted to the suburban lifestyle; so the much-vaunted stories of the pond and the surrounding bamboo groves there, in effect, have slowly crept into my collective consciousness, permanently so.) Somehow, the tea prepared by my providential Mashi has always arrived hot and ten-upon-ten perfect and reading the newspaper in the bright simplicity of the Sunday mornings er… afternoons was heartwarmingly gratifying. The days spent well in express leisure. And, therefore, I love Sundays.

Unbreakable bonds

A long time ago, – and I still remember this - in one of the signature cover stories of the much-read newspaper supplement called Graphiti of the Sunday edition of a Kolkata-based newspaper The Telegraph, a writer had beautifully written this:

“Scratch my skin and you will find Calcutta. Give me a city anywhere else like Calcutta and I will sail my humble boat to the last sunset”.

I still thank my lucky stars that I was vacationing there during the Durga Pujas, probably in the autumn of 1990, and stumbled upon that piece of writing. For many years I had it stored in my private collection as a paper clipping and read and re-read the lyrical article I eventually fell in love with. Unfortunately, I don’t remember her name anymore, but the fact of the matter is that it opened up a whole new world of personal discoveries that had led me to privately conduct ever since my first reading of that wonderful essay. I want to thank her for having written that unforgettable piece, which lighted a candle of everlasting love in my heart.

Kolkata is my favourite city on the planet. (An afterthought: I never set foot in London but it is the second-best for me). I never grew up in Kolkata, but I belong to it in more ways than one: like how a child belongs to his/her parents or a bird flying back to its comfy nest. Kolkata grew on me like a subdued emotion; a sentimental passion that was never completely redeemed with the city’s sense of providential love or deep attachment. I mean I return to the place time and again, mainly on special occasions to see my relatives or attend some family function, but never could permanently stay back; yet, like an infant who never loses his innate sense of his mother’s love or care-giving succour, I kept coming back for more and more. I am so fascinated by the charm of Kolkata city that it makes even the regular Kolkatans wonder about it incredulously; they think that peculiar indeed are the ways of a probashi bangali (non-resident Kolkatan) like me. My twice-a-year sojourns there make my life extremely sweeter and fit to live life king size comparable to the chubbiest roshogollas or the chunkiest chum chums. Kolkata has most definitely worked its magic in me right from my babyhood days when I used to visit it during my annual summer holidays.

During my growing-up years, understanding life’s intricate layering or detailing was obviously adult business for me to be dealing with, but otherwise, an overt sense of attachment and at the same time devoutly yearning to lead a true-blue, earthy sort of vernacularly-sensitized way of life in Bengal was making great inroads into my subconscious mind. In addition to that, while trying to love and belong to the very assimilation of the cultural essence of Bengali sanskritik living, I have invariably intensified within me a firm conviction that I think will become the harbinger of change for my future prospects there; a perception that has seeped into my mind, body, and soul. Hence, the vividness of the great eastern metropolis, which is also the gateway to the East: with all its unique culinary splendour; its acute intellectual leanings; its sharp-witted political thinking; its keen cultural sense and sensibilities; its modern yet commercial deficiencies, runs pretty thick in my blood.

In the wintry blast of December month of the year 2005, I took a train to the City of Joy. I cannot claim to know everything in the city in close quarters, yet I somehow kept philosophizing that my life probably would never be the same again if I began my long-awaited discovery of Kolkata or the Shonar Bangla (Golden Bengal) just now. I wanted to grab that moment and never look back. In other words, I was clearly obsessed with the idea of starting to make that journey and bringing it to a specific conclusion for the emotional preparedness and fulfillment of my life’s own innermost passion. I cannot afford to feign ignorance because whether that journey (or waiting period) has been concluded just yet or not, but what I did come to know for a fact which was hard enough for me to realize at first is that it keeps continuing and never comes to a halt or concludes ever. Hopefully, one day that same old journey would lead me to the epicenter of my love: Kolkata; and irretrievably deliver me to the altar of Bengal’s fertile heartland. For now, I shall continue my journey until the last sun has set down on me…then I will not be there to live and tell the tale.

I think I knew that the inevitability of new changes, whether subtle or drastic, in a city where never could I spend time for than a month or so, will bring in a promise that I always dreamed and loved and oftentimes went out of my way into eagerly receiving it: but, as always, only to go away and never return. Is that the way it is? I found no answers yet.

I was not born in Bengal because my destiny had other ideas. Although I and my brother and my parents had lived entirely in the South, we, siblings, spent all our childhood years here, we always knew that we would return to our native place. Seems like my ‘past’, ‘present’, and perhaps even ‘future’ would eventually be found rooted here, but being traditionally ‘homesick’ that I am, I do indulge also in some levels of nostalgia regarding my other associative feeling of ‘past’ attached to that great state, which by all means has remained intact deep within me as a much-beloved gemstone; somehow coming away alive shining through the vagaries of time and tide. But still, I long for my lost homeland and hope to make it there someday. One case in point here is: The South is my karmabhoomi, and the East which is geographically one-thousand-five-hundred-plus kilometers away is my matribhoomi. The case is closed.

I can safely say that the bonds between me and Bengal (or the Kolkata city) remain strong and ever so deeply felt and that the mere distance between me living in the distant South has no effect on those same bonds. My love for the city has survived through the ravages of my share of slowly-shifting times and various emotional outbursts of the days of my childhood and youth. Yes, the fact that I tried never to belong in the South but preserved a deep feeling of belonging to Kolkata gives all. The mere fact that my upbringing in this part of the world - which I respectfully address as South - has given the necessary succour to the physical existence of my life is enough for me to devote and thankfully acknowledge a large part of my heart; and to the very niceties and privileges that I have been fortunate enough to have had enjoyed, I take a deep bow.

The world that there was - and is - not closed to me or rammed shut by the years of my growing up on the land of my karmabhoomi. Years and years of keeping away from my motherland seemed hardly believable for me though. Yet, the only difference that I am always reminded of by my creators and other personal acquaintances is that being resourceful and living one’s life with a promise of a secure future is all that matters the most. Nothing else matters. If one is not reasonably secured and guaranteed of a proper respectful life, then everything – even one’s agreeable set of dreams and personal ruminations about returning to one’s Homeland - falls irretrievably flat and in most incidents grounded to no possible use. One is expected to rely on one’s share of destiny given by the Almighty. And I am told destiny never fails, come hell or high water. It works its way out to reveal your share of prospects that belong only to you. So, the destiny it is.

I no longer am able to say that I am a visitor to the South, but I have honestly discovered through writing this piece, that my unbroken relationship with Kolkata was always an emotionally charged one. And for that matter alone, I have also suffered, like countless others within the city and in Bengal at large, terrible personal trounces and defeats in the form of our many hopes being trashed beneath the crushing weight of the miserable Communist hecklers and their insufferable combatants of archaic politics-mongering thugs. Even as an outsider looking inside I am perpetually anguished for Kolkata’s creative juices that bravely face constant betrayals in the name of governmental miserliness and developmental fiascos, and that the promises made during the elections are never kept or redeemed. The Commies of Calcutta were always staccato!

Bengal’s Politics

The precarious and ever so belligerent political decisions - of the entire political spectrum in Bengal – which are conceived in the name of general social development are to be heard to be believed! They are at best hackneyed to the core. Poorly conceived on the paper; never put to implementation. Whatever little good could have been derived from those ‘plans’ and ‘blueprints’, don’t get to see the light of day as they are discarded and forgotten due to an utter lack of ambition and drive. They sit on them for eons and eons together and simply don’t shake up their collective will to do something. The last 33 long insufferable years in communist Bengal have been deeply harrowing and downright catastrophic for the once-great state! Communism was long dead and the world has gotten rid of it eons ago but, unfortunately, it raised its ugly head and survived in Bengal. The man who thrust Communism-Marxism parasite upon the erstwhile prosperous state is supposed to have unabashedly believed in the epithet: Marxism is ‘The Left’ political religion of Bengal – the last good faith for the all people of the world (no less!) – and should be practiced by all; and he was none other than the unsmiling, uninspiring, generally grave-looking and the most-humourless bangali bhadrolok Jyothi Basu. The so-called ‘‘The Left’ political religion of Bengal’ has survived, God knows how for over three long insufferable decades: pitch-black darkness that has crashed and burned countless dreams beyond any hope of salvation. Admittedly, the clear import of the meanings from the good sayings, such as: “What Bengal thinks today, India thinks tomorrow” and “if Bengal sneezes, India catches a cold”, don’t apply no more.

Lately, one saving grace in the CPM party, however, is in the form of the venerable Chief Minister of Bengal Mr. Buddhadev Bhattacharjee. His Singur, Nandigram, Jhargram, and Lalgarh crusades might come to haunt him off and on, but his sure-fire capability and positive attitude towards making an effort for all-round development and industrialization are without doubt people-centric and highly commendable in nature. It was really so foolish of the people (including, sadly, Mamata Banerjee) who opposed Ratan Tata’s Nano Car Project. People should have made up to the reality; that big commercial conglomerates are important and cannot afford to be done away with in blind exchange for old-fashioned political maneuverings and antiquated ideologies; they get no food to the hungry stomach. But it appears that Mr. Bhattacharjee’s enormous efforts were seemingly not well-thought-out processes to enable such instant social changes to take place in a short span of time; instead, they went on to create a cacophonous scare and clamour among the politically-instigated villagers. As a result of all these unwanted dissonances, he was made to stand aside. He agreeably fell away from some of his party colleagues and became a loner - a failed stalwart, if I dare say so - among his own iron-fisted Communist party comrades. After the demise of Bengal’s formidable Communist Patriarch Jyothi Basu - who never cared to do anything good for Bengal – his protégé Buddhadev babu could only be the last man standing who, no doubt, has held his head high watching out for developmental opportunities for Bengal. His mild-mannered, dhuti-clad bhadrolok persona is somehow equipped with an eye for industrialization at whatever cost it might be. I think he will not easily be forgotten because his open quest for faster business development has become quite a legendary story in its own right, and in the rational minds of the people of Bengal he has already come clean with his genuine stance on such issues. By all accounts, a right man in the wrong party, albeit his “paying back in their own coin” stratagem has misfired on some occasions.

Now, in the new millennium, the emergence of a new argumentative leader in the name of Mamata Banerjee and her Trinamul Congress’ (Grassroots Congress) ideologies seems reasonably better to show the way. By winning the 2010 Kolkata Municipal Corporation elections, she evidently has shown that she is no midget when it comes to trying and dealing with Bengal’s 33-year-old CPM-ruled red bastion. She handed out a crushing defeat to the behemoths of the present State Administration. By all accounts, she appears to be on the path of destroying the permanently-hued reddish cobwebs of the old and the obsolete, the archaic and the outdated; all that has come to roost in superseded Bengal. Come 2011 and if the snappish Ms. Banerjee wins the Assembly polls then she surely will have a humongous task on her hands to rebuild, rethink and re-strategize the entire laggard of the state machinery and to be able to steer the state of Bengal to heights of much-needed development at the same time. The question now is: can she do it? Even if she can: my only worry is that Trinamool Congress has only one dynamic, charismatic, trustworthy, and dedicated leader in the form of Mamata Banerjee. Her catchy slogan: Maa, Mati, Manush has found, perhaps, a permanent place of berth in the disillusioned hearts of the general masses. But after Mamata, who? If she is out of the picture, then the party is nothing at all without her. Yes, that’s a long way off indeed for one to get worried about, but for the immediate present, Ms. Banerjee’s chief ministerial aspirations should be met forthwith; after which she, of course, will, and is highly expected of her, to do the good work and possibly create wonders for the larger benefit for the beleaguered state of Bengal.

Though the political classes and masses are drumming up insinuating sounds of Johnny-come-lately (or more appropriately Jinny-come-lately) songs for the not-really-a-fledgling TMC party, things that matter seems to be calmly poised to get better; and if the promises made to the general public are heedfully kept up to their expectations then the new heat emanating from the grass-roots (Trinamool) Congress could form the inspirational key to unlocking Bengal’s untapped potential. So let there be light at the end of the 33-year rule CPI(M) tunnel. Ms. Banerjee has stooped to conquer the last red bastion: Writer’s Building. Today, it seems that Kolkata is beckoning a new era of change at the hands of the anti-incumbency factor, as the Communists have sternly quipped about it in the local press and in Delhi. Be that as it may! CPM is deeply rotten beyond recognition. Now is the chance for Trinamul Congress to show the way by scratching and shredding up the Communists’ behind with its new feline fangs of Mamata’s skillful political engagement in the whole of Bengal. Ahoy! Kolkata.

Singing paeans to Kolkata

The city of Calcutta was born in the year 1690 when an agent of the East India Company going by the name of Job Charnock came to the place near the Ganges. On the eastern side of the great deep-grey river Ganga (as we call it) which is called Howrah now, he built a factory - more of a fortified zone - to be able to actually depend on it and likewise defend it from the army of Mughals. It’s a different story altogether whether Charnock and his employer East India Company have successfully defended their territory or not. Which they certainly did. But we have to dig into history books for more such details.

The river on which the big cantilevered Howrah Bridge is built is mind-boggling indeed. The fantastic bridge connects the Howrah Railway Station to Kolkata city. Howrah Bridge is special. During the olden days, and even today, the bridge was a gateway to Calcutta (now Kolkata). The bridge was always over-used and overcrowded with trams, buses, cars, and even heavy-duty trucks carrying goods from one end to another. Every vacation to my hometown is incomplete without having a good look at the steel-gray Bridge and the Ganga sullenly flowing beneath it. The air seems balmy yet typically salty ... of the place. Upriver towards the Shibpur Botanical Gardens and beyond, Howrah’s many conventional industries are located; and on the western front of the river, the sun-kissed skyscrapers of the present-day Kolkata are all competing for the ever-so-little space. They have many stories to tell, I am sure. And the Ganga flows quietly to the Bay of Bengal.

In Amitav Ghosh’s extraordinary book Sea of Poppies, a lot of stories are based on the western side of the river and on the Botanical Gardens situated on the eastern side. The book has been generously interspersed with a great many happenings, and they have been so beautifully written.

My days were often interspersed with frequent walks in the city. Visiting the Kalighat - according to me the greatest Kali temple in India - and equally historic of temple towns in the land of the great Maa Kali devotee Ramakrishna Paramahamsa, the patron saint of Dakhineshwar is the most altruistic of experiences of my life. I thought my modern and by all means, the god-fearing self has discovered perhaps a non-existent side of my spirituality if you like. Several of my visits to these old majestic temples have empowered me with a new awakening. It appears as if I am saying this as naively as I am talking about it casually, but I would like to believe that I have supposedly turned a new leaf from the book of my life and that it has become more purposeful in nature than it has ever been before.

The Kalighat is my abode of prayer. The big wide venerable eyes of the great Kali – wife of Lord Shiva – are enough to make one bow with gratitude and tell all. My first visit to the temple was made possible because I believe that the Goddess had summoned me to come and visit Her abode. I have admired the Kali of the Kalighat ever since. I pay my humble respects at Her feet. There is also the permanence of astounding beauty at the abode of the Dakhineshwar Kali, the Goddess’ other home, situated near the old Bali Bridge beside the river Ganga. The one visit to Dakhineshwar I’d especially treasure is the visit with my Mashi on a rainy day. We asked the temple priest to do a puja at the altar of Kali’s abode and afterward, we paid a tribute at a ghat by the river Ganga flowing nearby.

During months of Puja celebrations, the exquisite clay idols of the Gods and Goddesses made for the many colourful pujas to be performed in and around the city are to be seen to be believed. The city of Kolkata is dressed like a new bride. With the advent of the autumnal equinox, the religious blast of all-around festivities marks a new beginning in the life of the people of Kolkata. The immaculate conception of the Bengali Pujas: the jatra palas, the intricately designed pandels, drama nights, and girls showing off their cultural prowess by rendering gaan (songs) with the flawless music and poetry of Robindro Songeet, bring great joy and unforgettable moments to all hearts, whether young or old. There are so many different Pujas we Bengalis celebrate and take reverential bows to Pujas like Durga Pujo, Kali Pujo, Shoroshoti Pujo, Bishokarma Pujo, Lokkhi Pujo, Jogaddhatri Puja and so many others. The city comes to a grinding halt and takes to showcasing the Earthly splendours of the cultural and religious life of Bengal as a state; in a remarkable harmony of new colours, new lights, new sweets, new garments, new inspiration, the blowing of the Conch shells and the constant visits of the relatives. Just the kind of life I always crave for.

If the Pujas are one of the best ways to stay alive in Kolkata, then Bengali Sweets are my lifeblood. I cannot think straight or stay sane without them. I know my teeth will drop off one by one and my jaws will reel in drowsy numbness pain if I find sweet shops in Kolkata without sweets or have replaced them with some assembly-line, boring bakery stuff which I positively abhor! Luckily, I still have not come under the monster-headed ax of Diabetes. Mouchak, Tarakeshwar Mistano Bhandar, Ashesh Sweets, VIP Sweets – all in the city and Bhattacharjee Sweets in the suburbs are my favourite jaunts and their proprietors and shopkeepers have come to recognize me as a regular sweets-eater and sweets-buyer: hot off their sweets-laden pots and pans; just like it was in the olden times. How do I manage to visit so many of these aforementioned shops? Please leave that honour to me, if you will. That’s a well-guarded secret I will not let you partake of it. Likewise, a sweet-toothed Bengal Tiger like me can kill or maim or both for sweets!

Roshogollas would go nowhere else but to the deep environs of my happy-go-lucky stomach! Just a faint whiff of roly-poly Roshogollas from the shops is enough for me to make a run for it. Look at the variety of Bengali sweets here: and lo and behold!

Mihir Dana, 

Sita bhog,  

Raj Bhog, 

Misti Doi,  

Malpoa, 

the juicy Lyengchas and Lady Genis, 

Nolen Gurer Sondesh, 

Jora Sondesh, 

Chum Chum, 

Kheer Kadom, 

Joy Nagorer Muaa, 

Jilipi, 

Kacha Golla, 

Gujia,

and a great many others; almost all of them definitely land on my plate and are my favourites. Muah! Muah! Besides, Radha Bollobhi is not sweet meat but it goes well with a plate of Kosha Mangsho laced with oily vinegar: a lip-smacking, spicy Bengali delicacy. Being a passionate Fish eater: 

Malai Chingri, 

Bagda Chingri, 

Shorseh Ilish, 

Tangrar Jhaal, 

Parshe Mach, 

Koi Mach, 

Chara Pona, 

Poonti Mach and Rui Macher Kalia

are the luxuries I regularly dig in. I love Fish; my life is useless without them!

Meanwhile, a gourmet tit-bit: the Haldiram restaurant at the AJC Bose Road crossroads serves the tastiest Malai Kulfis in earthen pots. Muah! Muah! Masala Dosas too are a hot favourite on the menu. I had plenty of them there. Couldn’t count how many!

Of the several visits to Victoria Memorial, a couple of visits remain strongly etched in my mind. My first visit in the early 1980s with my parents has bequeathed in me a treasure trove of love and longing: firstly, a secret idea of belonging to the then undiscovered city via the grand Memorial lawns and the Alipore Chiriya Khana (Zoological Park); and secondly, a mysterious manifestation of providential love which was to stay with me for a long long time to come and which is still throbbing in my heart with its innate feeling of love and joy properly intact. But my second chance for a visit to the white Memorial came only after more than 10 years, and that’s another story to write about. The pristine gray lakes, the manicured green lawns, the perfectly oval pebbles strewn on the walkways, and the wrought iron park benches surrounding the entire park still emanate those wonderful memories of the days long gone. The place, according to me, is like a Gospel of love; an eternal book of love, in which are there unending stories about virgin love, also a sneak peek into one’s own opportune destiny, dazzling glimpses of one’s future and to be able to profess one’s undying love for each other by putting one’s hand firmly in hers – all of it is written in gold lettering from the crack of dawn till the evening twilight, every day, and day after day. Those were the best days of my life. A flowery pink dress fluttering there in the cool summer breeze reminds me of my days past. I remember Vanessa Williams’s beautiful song: “Sometimes the snow comes down in June / sometimes the sun goes around the moon / just when a chance had passed / you got to save the best for last”; I was set free there…

On a pleasantly cold winter day, I found myself sitting in Elliot Park. It is not very far from the dazzling streets of Park Street and its much-visited bookstores and restaurants. In fact, when I climbed up the stairs of the underground Maidan metro station, Elliot Park lay sprawled on the right and I instantly knew that the park sure is one of the best-maintained parks I have ever hoped to see in Kolkata. A brand new meeting point for most lovebirds of the city looking to snatch up some cocooned private moments on the velvety grass. What was I doing there? Well, to admire nature’s bounty; to spot a smile or two; to catch a few breaths really, and to be far away from the madding crowd. Across the park on the other side is the sprawling expanse of the historic Maidan grounds. Just yonder, the stately Eden Gardens Stadium towers over the eastern horizon, and further up can be seen the breathtaking second Hooghly Bridge called Vidyasagar Setu.

I am sure Citizen’s Park with its musical fountain just down the road towards the Birla Planetarium and the Victoria also comes in the same bracket of well-earned reputation just like Elliot Park. I feasted my eyes on everything decorated there. From the steady march of people buying tickets to enter the park to the playful birds (including crows and sparrows) and insects (honeybees, beetles, and other revellers), the flamboyant trees, the lavish arrangement of ornate flowers, and even an occasional shift in the wind trudging in a discarded plastic bag or two whirling about on the elegant grassy pastures, all serve up to ones’ pleasant senses and general well-being.

Maidan is a famous hotspot for sports, especially football. Although one doesn’t see a Bhaichung Bhutia playing football on the spacious grounds of the Maidan every day, one finds scores of people kicking, jostling, and generally revelling in the beautiful game. Hundreds of footballs are passed around. The football clubs of Bengal like the East Bengal and Mohun Bagan have come to be revered by all. These Bengal clubs have many domestic achievements under their belt. Except for achieving success in one or two Olympic Games or in yesteryear’s FIFA World Cup, the clubs have yet to conquer the world on the lines of, say, Manchester United or Chelsea clubs. That’s a long shot even before football lovers can dream about it. Cricket has IPL, but what does Indian football have? If Brazil, Argentina, Germany, England, Paraguay, and others have an immense fan-following in Kolkata, then the fans’ love emanating from this part of the world sure is requited oftentimes by some internationally treasured footballers. Diego Maradona was here in Kolkata on a goodwill visit and so did Pele. They played soccer in Kolkata; inside packed stadiums. Yes, there is football in every Bengali’s blood and I am no different from my fellow brethren. Thanks to Sourav Ganguly, since the 1990s era, Cricket too managed to climb up the sport popularity charts.

I boarded an early morning underground train from Shyambazar to reach Park Street via Rabindra Sadon. Well, travelling in an underground metro is a noisy business, but no worries: The gleaming carriages snake in so smoothly into the station and glide out so effortlessly carrying the passengers. (Back in the late 1980s, riding in an underground Calcutta Metro train was very extraordinary an experience and it still is. The first time when I got to ride in it I was stunned and felt instantly inadequate as a Southerner. The experience of it all was fantastic). I love the sound of the automatic doors closing shut and opening, and the train starting to glide. They told me that taking the Metro is an intelligent way for faster commuting in Kolkata, and so I always did.

That day after reaching Park Street station, I was headed for my Meshomoshai’s (uncle’s) office at the Plaza. Of all things, as I had readily determined, my uncle - Mr. Bhattacharjee - is going to say or rumble about by means of free advice or two thrown in, I just knew that a couple of yum egg rolls, chow chow (probably, a moghlai dish or kati rolls were also in tow) and most certainly a couple of ice cream softies will be at his express disposal to be presented to a first-time guest like me; but that too the dishes were laid only after he made sure that he had emptied his oratory barrel, stuffed with resounding firings of his advice-quotas, on this poor uninitiated soul!

Nevertheless, I was stealthily prepared to take on the battle without getting visibly shifty in my seat and, therefore, weathered it all for the impending hope of a feast: soon to be spread out in his private dining space. Throughout his stylish advice-cum-suggestions admonitory express train, which had been already running late for over an hour inside my head, I would rather manage to shake my head up and down in mock devotion to all of that he had to say. Finally, afterward, egg rolls, ice creams, and other heavenly-looking coco-pastries and misti doi were brought in on a couple of silver platters. And here I was suddenly glad to be alive and kicking and have my gourmet prospects gratefully uplifted as I binged on to my heart’s content like a hungry soul.

I never miss Oxford Book Store on Park Street to buy books. When in Kolkata, I make it a point to go there and buy loads of books from them. Their Cha Bar bistro is pretty impressive. I am greatly nostalgic about the Park Street area. I spent a lot of time hanging around there; browsing through the music CDs at the Music World. I remember the front glass panes of the iconic Flury’s bistro. A little away from the 5-star hotel The Park, the Trinca’s, and the Moulin Rouge restaurants make good sense for restaurant hoppers to dine in. On my way to the huge New Market boulevard - a little far away from Park Street - where I once bought my office essentials, I once tried a very special eatery located just on the inside lane leading to the actual marketplace. It was a mobile restaurant serving out of an open white Trailer Van. I bought a special paneer tikka and red chilly chicken kebabs spread on a plate of hot noodles. That evening, I really freaked out eating...

One last snippet that I don’t wanna miss writing about is Salt Lake’s spanking City Centre Mall. This was one trendy address in this part of the town for everyone to be seen; even the technology professionals who worked in the nearby Sector V area visited it and in style. I had first come to see City Centre along with my cousin Joy. With him, I explored Kolkata’s never-to-be-missed places. I remember our first visit to Dalhousie, a business district in Central Kolkata. I was simply awestruck by what I saw there: grand old palaces with high arches and stately domes, the modern multi-storied buildings reaching up to the sky above with their majestic facades in front and the not-so-spacious footpaths below. The place humbled me into instant submission. I bought a long black and white portrait of the poet Rabindranath Tagore there from a shop’s front window. I remember the man: he was tall and sporting a long flowy beard like Tagore, selling his posters with welcoming smiles playing on his weather-beaten face. This part of the city is meant to be well-maintained, but it wasn’t. Several buildings were rather ill-maintained and others managed to be spanking new. It was amazing to see that the area was absolutely bursting with energy: with people, cars and trams all seemingly hobnobbing with each other and going wherever they wanted. I never knew this vibrant side of Kolkata before; I had regularly explored quite a bit elsewhere in the city, but these parts were a pleasant surprise that I reveled myself in. The reason why Kolkata is called the City of Palaces, as I can see here, is very well justified.

We went to the Inox multiplex theatre and watched 15, Park Avenue. We knew Aparna Sen would deliver a great package again after her last movie Mr. & Mrs. Iyer, but this time the movie disappointed us and tested our patience for a bit too long, and so we left it halfway and proceeded straight to dig some ice cream desserts. City Centre was special indeed. Fortunately, I remembered to buy a few souvenirs for myself. So apart from a pair of Denim and a stretchable-cotton polka-dotted white shirt, I bought a fashionable Submarine Jetter pen.

Back in the month of January, when a Hindi film called Rang De Basanti was released; some of our office folks - we still were very high on the new IT experience in Salt Lake’s Sector V – went to the iNox at the Mall to see the film. I couldn’t join them; a couple of others too could not go. In fact, since I had to get back travelling a great distance to reach my home and Kolkata was yet a new city for me, in terms of commuting by means of buses and trams, I had to sadly excuse myself. But I still weep a lot thinking about that missed opportunity; I knew I could have had some real fun going out with them, stretching my legs, and sipping on some nice Cola; and it would have turned out to be a memorable event to rejoice.

I finally went to see the film, after many months, with my cousin, not at the City Centre iNox but at the 89 Cinemas - a new multiplex nearby. I remember, we both wept like kids in the hall; in fact, it was a film we realized that we couldn’t really have afforded to miss by any chance. I’ll never forget the movie; for me, it signifies the memorable days I had spent in Wipro: a quiet affirmation of my memories and of my love and longing in Kolkata. Thank God we spent 150 bucks each to see it. Now, after so many years, when I nostalgically think about my precious Wipro experience, my heart reaches out to those days; to those fine people; to those special moments that have all deeply affected me and remained with me to this day. I wish I could travel back in time and relive that piece of my life again. Alas.

An epistle to a lost friend

Never would I have made up my mind to take that other project offer even if I had stayed back there because that would only mean that I would have to forego the chance of working sitting alongside my friends who have come to know me and cherish our friendship as I have come to cherish theirs. (Stuff like one-upmanship, internal tugs-of-war, office politics, and such like experience in a profession never come to be of my liking.) Parallel to the Healthcare project, there was another project which was being set up for me by my manager when I was asked to relate more about my additional skills. When I was invited to have a tête-à-tête with one of the perfectly behaved senior managers, I went ahead and spoke with him in a nice interview. After we discussed my valid need for a separation, he respectfully agreed. Had I stayed back, I would have taken up that project, but since it clearly meant that I have to be away from my colleagues and a separate place of work was to be located for me, I had to quietly decline the persuasive offer.

I just would have gladly continued working with Andy and all other colleagues, but sadly that never was to happen even after I have worked on it back to back, for quite a while. I’d already made up my mind to go away. Wipro, Kolkata was truly a wonderful company to work in. I really adored their way of doing things. The managers there are very well-behaved and respectful to everyone and that is just only one of the strong points of their manpower pool. They never leave you. Their subtle acts of persuasion oblige you to reconsider your decision back from scratch. God! I miss those moments oh so much. Nonetheless, I had known from somewhere that…hope floats. Let’s see what ‘floats’ for me. It seemed as if I hungered for emotional security and kept going for more. And today as I write this to you, I can’t help but feel depressed that gone are those days, and gone are those moments of unending joys of working together with the ones I adored, cared and loved: remarkable people like you, Andy, and a lot of others. I lost the treasure of a lifetime that would have, as I had once hoped, to last forever. Kolkata beckoned me; I went that far to be able to drape around me its warm quilt of love; around the shattered ruins of my broken heart; but only if I could hold on to its warmth…just that once…just for that while…just for that very moment, then I would have gravitated towards the warm cockles of its heart for all time to come, and never let go.

Later I met Andy. I found myself saying to him: “I am sorry…am leaving Andy”. Perhaps, he knew that something like this would come someday, maybe even faster. He could say nothing to me at that moment and his eyes betrayed him to say anything at all. Finding a little space within him, he spoke: “O don’t be sorry Albert, if you have to leave then maybe you will one day and one has to take such hard decisions in life that are sad enough to deal with in the first place, but…” He couldn’t complete his sentence and my heart choked and I asked myself: what am I doing? His parting words were premonitory… (He gave me an alias name Albert at the workplace and calls me by that name ever since.)

It was always reassuring to see Andy every day while in the office; he was such a nice person and a true friend one can infinitely be proud of. We talked and talked so much, shared jokes, or simply hung around the lush Wipro campus. He liked smoking, so I once gifted him a pack of Gold Flake cigarettes during the Bengali New Year’s Day. I bought it from a local shop in the suburbs where I stayed at my Mashi’s. That was the first time in my life I bought a pack of cigarettes for a friend from a tiny paan shop! Never have I gifted anyone with a cigarette packet before on a new year’s day, but, you know, I let myself do it this time, for I knew Andy loved the joyous taste of smoking and I guessed he would really like a swig-pack from me. But of course, I thought of other gifts such as a book or a special Watermark pen or a Zippo lighter, but I chose a Cigarette packet instead, for that was meaningful enough a gift for a smoker who smoked like a gentleman hailing from the faraway hills, up in the beautiful north-east. I just presented him that and he looked at it; his face brimmed up with such delightful pleasure that even as he was so freaking out with joyous laughter his round face flushed in a pinkish-white complexion. And I thought that was an awesome heart-melting reaction I ever saw.

Never was I a party to encourage smoking in my friends’ circle, but all that changed for Andy. What I saw and felt in the corridors of my office was a sort of deepening understanding of the people who’d like to smoke and revel in it and never get to worry about its deadly effects. After what I saw not just Andy but some other well-learned friends smoke and feel good about themselves, I moderated my belief system about the ills of smoking and the actual idea behind smoking. I never smoked myself; and perhaps will never be able to do that, but I do claim to know that familiar sort of castle-in-the-air feeling because since I love my hot cups of tea or coffee and can’t do without it, so I happen to agree with them who like smoking for the same kind of subtle comfort and tasteful pleasure all the way. (Yes, I jolly well know that smoking is cancerous and much more, and is different from drinking Tea or Coffee which is at best therapeutic.) The case is closed.

An honest confession: at one sweet time when Andy and I were together chatting on the balcony, I almost considered letting myself off the hook and having a smoke with him that day, but somehow I could not do it for some reason I never could come to know of. I hovered around to have a closer look at all the people who enjoyed smoking; it seemed to me - perhaps a little foolishly as one might think - that the art of smoking is obviously about a personal expression that involves style, fashion, elegance, technique, panache, élan, flamboyance and more. So, a smoker smokes his/her cigarette not because he is addicted to it (maybe, a part of it) but because of his/her intense desire and to help themselves stay healthy in mind and confident by several degrees higher. Truly, I am fascinated by it but never gave in to it.

That day I came very close to having a swig. So many people gave in to it. Why didn’t I do it? I don’t know; I never held a cigarette stick in my hand before, so I didn’t want to hold it even then. Perhaps, I was inadvertently conscious of negative repercussions from such a thing; that came dangerously hither to roost in my own family backyard and things weren’t the same again for some of my own people.

It was a breather from training; Andy smoked on and I kept watching him do so by being on the ‘passive side’ of smoking. God forbid: it is so fashionable, luxurious, sophisticated, and superb! Many a time I have accompanied Andy to the smoke stalls outside the campus, and during those snatching moments, I have discovered fine things about friendship and passive smoking. No, the poor smoke stalls outside of our office don’t have any inkling as to what happens inside our educated heads concerning the dreaded ills of smoking. So please spare them. Why blame paanwallas for their spartan enterprises? If at all, then abolish smoking only when you can stop producing Tobacco in the first place! Can you (the government that is) do that? Why do you need to produce Tobacco at all if you think it is directly going to be used to make cigarettes and beedis and gutkhas? If not for smoking or chewing, then what else is it used for: drugs? Does it not fuel your ISRO rockets into space? It apparently does. After all, you guys don’t forget to exploit their taxes to fund your rocket science, do you? If Tobacco is an instant evil, which it surely is (who’s saying it isn’t?) then why produce it all? Stop its production and get the results!

I know smoking kills; it’s a one-way ticket to the stinking bowels of hell and all that jazz. It is far more injurious to one’s health than one can hope to imagine, yet the way of life for many includes ‘white smoking sticks with brown ends’ with the possible addition of some other homespun beedis on the side. Somehow, I found myself telling Andy to cut his passion for smoking by half or more; he really did agree with me. I realized friends and acquaintances can make a feasible difference; only just need to resort to a kind of emotional blackmail to awaken a smoker to quit smoking, and voila! He or she quits it; governments with their callow warnings don’t. Andy promised me that he would forego the pleasure of smoking just because I told him to do so!

I used to be with him like a passive smoker whenever we took a breather from our project training. And talking about training, I’ll never forget those moments, I swear. What a good time we all had there…a blast really…those Bangla jokes, those poky situational affronts that needn’t upset anyone were delivered over many of those endless coffee sessions we had at the balcony. Coffee, tea, cardamom tea, lemon tea, or whatever…gulped down during break time: I’ll never exchange them for anything else.

Andy was almost beyond words that day when he received that packet of cigarettes from me. He laughed his easy laughter. It was just a small gift, but his whole being seemed like he blushed with thousand thankyous for me and he again laughed heartily and smiled a mile wide with his brilliant white smile that he has across his axiomatic face. I felt so humbled at that moment and felt overjoyed musing over the fact that one possibly could never be able to weigh his friendship in any way for anything else in life. I know we are friends forever but alas! I lost a true friend of mine in Kolkata when I came away from there. Wish we all worked and stayed that way for all time to come. Yeah if only wishes were horses! I also miss the way of life in Kolkata. I miss Wipro too much as I miss you, Andy, and others. My life will never be the same again from heretofore, which I now have come to painfully understand. God bless him and everyone. And I so terribly miss you and Andy for all my words could speak…

I can’t possibly come anywhere near to explaining how much I miss Wipro and Kolkata. Now in the delicate bargain of my sad feelings, I keep missing you, Andy and other friends like Tom (He is Tomaghno, you remember? short guy with long hair from our batch. Later he cut them short…at the time when I resigned in the rainy month of June. His short crop made him look rather decent) and the amiable, eternally-decent Rajorshi (He was from your batch. We became good friends later; I could not contact him after I came away to the South). I will never forget Tomoghno, Rajorshi, Andy, Mandira, Ayantika, and a couple of other beautiful folks like Bhagwati, Susmita, Ruru, and others; their voices still ring in my ears. I really am not hoping to meet any of them except maybe - by a stroke of luck - I might run into Rajorshi (because I know his place) and Andy (because we kept in touch). There were other friends too but I am no longer able to recollect their names now. There's one name, however, that stuck with me the first time I saw her: Amrita. Tom with whom I always sat in the training knew about it. He used to roll his big eyes and stick his elbow into my ribs every time when she came into the training room for a special inputs session before I flushed a deep shade of pink in my face. Andy too would turn his neck towards me and pouting his lips envyingly; he'd once said: she's perfect for you Albert...seriously. Later, when I'd left my job on one summer night of May/June and came away to the glassy cafeteria to recoup from the pain of getting away, sitting alone, eyes liquid with hot tears, looking blankly at my plate of Paneer Sushlik in front of me, I did realize to a great degree of sadness and helplessness that the feeling was far deeper than I had previously thought it was. What could I possibly have done to turn a new leaf in my life? Poor me! I never knew that leaving Kolkata would have me leave her as well apart from all other things I have come to care for. Alas! We all did well in the project. We had passed out of the training session one by one and hoped well for each other to stay put. It was so much fun.

I particularly remember a short guy who had a slight paunch on him; my memory fails me to recollect his name. He lived in Nagerbazar; just a couple of blocks off the Nagerbazar-Dum Dum main road. Once when we were discussing our educational pursuits, he told me that he had a master’s degree in economics and wanted to run a business house. In January ’06, we went to Kolkata’s Boi Mela (Book Fair) at the Maidan and bought some books. In fact, I had long nurtured a dream to go to the book fair and when the opportunity struck, I never winked. I remember his amiable personality and his sincere smile, but sadly I am unable to remember his name, how much ever hard I try now.

Do you remember Mrinal? The guy with whom we sat together during the training, Andy was there too in the bay area as we sat among the empty cubicles. We laughed like hell that day at his brilliantly funny jokes and his way of cracking them up hilariously!!! The jokes gave us many tummy aches! Mrinal spoke immaculate Bengali. Must say I have picked up a little bit of pure Bengali from him; he was too fast for me though. Guess dabbling in Politics could have been his natural calling than the grime of I.T. occupation. He seemed to play with the language just like a well-learned professional speaker or a magnificent orator. I dare say his English comes a close second to his lovely Bengali.

I remember I once felt that he turned himself into a conspicuously sophisticated person. I thought, maybe, his earlier spiritedness has taken on a new colour of life which seemed to have changed quite a bit of his personality. His charming down-to-earth and easy-going temperament was gone. He had a sort of high air about himself, which seemed slightly misplaced. Nothing wrong with that but nice guy though; we hardly met each other after he graduated and went about handling Healthcare project work before we did. Afterwards, when our batch started work on the same project, I hardly could see him at all. I remember his electric way of cracking jokes and making it seem all so easy and enthusiastic. His general persona seemed really so full of spontaneity. A nerve of electric verve seemed to run through his mind and soul and every time anyone could get to feel it when talking with him. I mean, it’s very rare to have such individuals like him in our midst. The crackle of his spontaneous jokes will be sorely missed and they would be missed forever though. I never felt that good old familiar feeling ever after. They say all good things must come to an end, and this time, alas! It came to such an abrupt end. I’ll never forget Mrinal and his crackling way of speaking. It was simply too much for me to catch up with him while he spoke. I think he told me he lives in Nagerbazar, north of Dum Dum, or somewhere beyond ... near Chiria More.

Things change so blindingly these days that I hardly like it that way, and I have little choice if it is meant to be that way, lest love it! The saddest part of it all is: That’s life.

I gradually found myself lurching towards a bout of indecisiveness as if I were meant to continually hang on the balance sheet of my life’s profit and loss statement. Yet that sounded okay to me initially; for I knew I had believed in my killer instincts (no less! I think I am exaggerating a little) to see me through. No matter whatever I do, where ever I go, I thought I will pay back in the same coin to keep assuaging my earnestness for retribution if any. To take on a new, albeit familiar, challenge such as that one, I am now prepared to smudge the old realities and shoo away the constant ghosts of yesteryears which hitherto seemed to be unconquerable; I wish they all die an unwept death in the ugly bowels of hell.

Nevertheless, I left them all behind only for the sake of my givers’ wishes and the ensuing amount of care that I am expected or needed to put in for them. It made me sad to think that I have to leave permanently. And perhaps will hardly get a second chance to return even for the old times’ sake. My continued absence from home worried them inconsolably. Torn between Home and Away; just as the way Salman Rushdie beautifully described in his book: The Ground Beneath Her Feet. “The fantasy of Home and the fantasy of Away” dialogue, he says, harangues us even today as it can possibly be never answered to anyone’s satisfaction. So the question of Home and Away will perennially haunt us. All the world’s people are nomads. I read his book a long time ago, but the same words seemed to have echoed in my life too during my eastern sojourn.

I journeyed home by East Coast Express train from Howrah Station in early July ‘06. Okay, allow me to share with you the following: This time I decided to spend a few bucks more and bought an AC first-class ticket. I normally like travelling long distances in second-class because it is conveniently easier and cheaper as well. In fact, I had lots of luggage to go with me and since first-class offers somewhat better security when compared to second-class inconveniences, I thought I will at least have a tension-free journey. So far so good; I hadn’t encountered any untoward problems such as seating or berthing arrangements in the air-conditioned carriage. The compartment was mostly empty: I felt as if I’d been suddenly abandoned in there without being given a reason why, or maybe the train is simply going for repairs! Well, that was still okay with me as I later got accustomed to it. But the problem was the lack of quick food and reading material with me.

I usually travel with a book or two every time but this time I was so low in normal composure that I decided not to keep a book at hand to read. So I safely kept all the books I bought in Kolkata tightly packed in one of the duffel bags I was hauling. I knew I would not be able to read any book being in that frozen state of mind; after my quiet farewell to the last minutes in the city and sad glimpses of the new life I left behind, I was kind of stricken with a loss for words. While on the train I bought a Dosa for Rs. 10: exorbitantly priced for a small flat oily one that lay in my hand on a small Banana leaf: The Dosa appeared to be something like a tiny little ladies’ hanky! I threw it under my seat, eventually. In fact, I didn’t see at first that it was so horrifyingly meagre in size; I mentally cursed the pantry man for having handed out such a filthy piece of his audacity to me. It was too late by then to return it to him back because I had already handed him the money to get rid of his hawking and began eating it like I always do and push the possible moral realization, if any, for later!

And you know what? After I had swallowed one or two bits of it, to my horror, I found a big Black Beetle with a couple of long winding whiskers coming out of its head; it lay flat there, dead, entangled within the yellow mashed potatoes of my expensive Dosa!!!

As if it were a chosen embellishment for the train travelers' Dosa which is to be served well to sad-looking, unsuspecting passengers like me! (One thing to ponder upon: aren’t Dosas sold everywhere? On trains, on the platforms, in the pantry-cars of trains and, of course, they are always laden in the hawkers’ hands!). All that I could possibly do is: to gouge up a proper unheard-of expletive for that cunning hawker, even as I wantonly made up a mental picture: wherein I have given him a thorough dressing down and was about to give him (only if I could find him that is) my MBA-qualified moral-story-behind-the-avoidable-selling-tactics upside-down pyramid prototype, but came back to my helpless reality with a thud.

I am a non-vegetarian, but hello! How on earth could I be expected to be such a non-vegetarian who would gladly poke into a big black beetle’s belly for my lunch? With the pantry-man probably giggling in the safe environs of his pantry car and a first-class super-fast express train travelling at a speed of 200 kilometers per hour with me inside it. No thanks, Sir! I’ll rather go visit the Last Ice Age instead!

Dropping that abominable ‘handout’ under my seat, I started looking around for him to come back. What was I thinking? Of course, he never did come back in that compartment’s passageway! How I wanted to offer his own delicacy back to him! I tell you there is no such thing as 'first class' of the trains we travel in, believe me, it is only a wrongful opinion. I washed my mouth up thoroughly and couldn’t help but wonder about the poor beetle that had found its way into my Dosa and never escaped out; it was no fault of its own though. It might have lived its full life span had it not for these notorious food sellers who pack up filthy foodstuffs and are never found enterprising enough to keep up the standards of basic hygiene in moving trains. Proper hygiene standards are not in their scheme of things, undue profits are! May the Black Beetle rest in peace.

After I had returned home, I ran into a couple of my friends. One of them, Satish, came over last Sunday; and we had some nice hot tea on a rainy evening. The July weather was chilled out. I was happy to meet him after a long time. I heard from him that one of our close pals, Armstrong, went to New Delhi for a new job and I know for sure he is most unlikely to come back. In fact, he always had propagated an intense personal desire to go to the capital city and start afresh. He made that a reality. (His parents were already settled in the breezy homestead of Tirunelveli in Tamil Nadu; and the national highway there leads all the way to Kanya Kumari, one of India’s southernmost points abutting the Indian Ocean). Though his purposeful desire took him away from us we were deeply saddened by it. More so his Air Force officer brother and his family were also stationed there in an IAF bungalow, so it also gave him his familial attachment an essential connection: a better proposition for him, all together. Since Armstrong was happily married, then what better reason does it entail for him than to come back to Delhi home early from work every day, day after day! Just kidding!

Satish and I have been friends since our childhood days and the Delhiite Armstrong, with him our friendship grew during our college days. Over sips of warm tea, I poured out all about my Kolkata sojourn and how I miss those lovely days. I told him about your name matching up with my name - like a namesake - but only in reverse.

I called Satish up and told him that I have returned back after a long hiatus in Kolkata. But the fact that - considering his mind having only cared, all his life, for a practical outlook on everything - I could not easily relate to him my mind’s newfound contemplativeness resulted in personal romantic involvement with Kolkata, as though of the fine elements of my experiences that I have eventually come to cherish within me, means to him merely just as usual as daily omelettes served at his breakfast table. And the stories of Kolkata, especially of the Wipro campus; including the terrible feeling of loss, a sense of ruination creeping within me, and having become bereaved of my own self, didn’t strike him anything remotely as serious as it struck me. Sure I didn’t expect him to shed copious tears with me as cry-babies, but it seemed very strange to me when he just sympathized with me and went away. Yes, what else would one do when one is told of something of such a story? Nevertheless, I realized that people really might sympathize with you, but they won’t on every other occasion, cannot expect them to. You need to cope with yourself. These things meant nothing to him; but being just enough practical he would go only as far as to quip: take it lightly.

I don’t blame him though. One might say many things about life from the bottom of one’s aching heart, but there are some people who don’t come anyway near to understanding it the way you do, the way you look at it, the way you feel it, the way you have attached so much importance to it because they might not have any natural inclination to do so. Or maybe you cannot really explain to them the way it happened to you. For some people, nostalgia simply doesn’t count. They’d say that it is the weakness thing: a paroxysm, to be kept at a distance, and not to be indulged in, because it has the tendency to catch up with you by blasting its way from the past and then, subsequently, pins you down to the lived-out past. Emotional feelings too don’t ring any bells in their ears, for such people believe in just being plainly practical in life. In reality, that’s what they accept as a true principle to live by. They’d say that they are better off being practical to be able to ward off the anxiety of nostalgia, and they keep themselves beckoned ahead into the promise of the future. That act of theirs keeps them invariably busy to be able to feel the emotional pangs of nostalgic experiences, which almost always never get their due assessment in their hearts and minds. The world sure is a strange place to live in.

I called Andy and talked to him after a long break. He said he’d apply for leave and go to Shillong for a brief vacation to see his family and of course his ‘special’ friend. He invited me to his home there. But I’ll have to see whether I can really go there or not. The present scenario of things that are stacked up against me in the South here has gone out of proportion. Solving what I have on my hands now is like nailing the jelly in the tree. Presently, I’ll have to forego the pleasure of a long vacation, but I vow to go to Shillong someday along with my family.

Andy was saying that he became very lonely after I had resigned and come away. When I was there we used to move around together. For him, it would have become a strain to even go grab a cup of coffee from the pantry. Perhaps, there was no one he could go talk to on a personal level; earlier it was something else, now they all don’t find the time anymore now: except maybe during the breaks, and that too they have to keep rushing back and forth to be able to take a breather. The time allotted for breaks was never sufficient for anything: even to go to the loo for just one more time seemed a task better off to be postponed than be sorry for missing out on some tips from the salubrious trainer.

I remember and how can I forget: our joyful walks to the glassy cafeteria to snack on those wholesome Paneer Sushliks and mini lunches. How I miss those days. Paneer Sushliks were delightfully yummy and a great choice to have something wholesome; we seemed to have liked it instantly. Maybe the inimitable sound of the name had caught on amongst us connoisseurs of good food. I didn’t know that they steamed something like Paneer Sushliks in the cafeteria. It was a new epicurean discovery for me in Kolkata; a pleasant surprise really. I think I saw Andy first gorging on it and wolfing down spoonfuls of it; then I too went in bought a coupon and grabbed a plate. In fact, I too wolfed down so many of those gorgeous Sushliks afterwards that it was almost difficult for me to even look at other dishes in the cafeteria; I kept thinking about Sushliks and nothing else. Andy was a fast eater. He could finish his grub in a jiffy; he slurps up everything so cleanly off the plates as if no food was ever served on them before. He dives into them like a hailstorm flattening even the table beneath the plate before you even realize what’s happening and that you are being ineffectually dumb in the department of eating! (He knows that I am cooking this up: his eating manners. But the way he gives you company is pretty extraordinary: the exuberance of his friendship is sufficient to fritter away other people’s claims of the same.) After he finished, he would bring us cups of cardamom tea from the dispenser; his good manners kicking in. It was such a great joy being with him. Those wonderful moments have long disappeared.

On the last day at the office, after I had submitted my id card and the papers, I came out of the office and winked longingly at the cafeteria for a long time, and then went inside. I pulled up a chair and sat down with a heavy heart. Amongst the empty chairs and long dining tables and the many counters lining the edges of the great hall, I sat there for a long time quietly staring at the stark world around me and seeping within me those moments that I have been lucky enough to spend, share and rejoice a major part of my short Wipro life in. I don’t know if ever I will be able to come back and work again there. But if I have to, then perhaps I would most certainly do; yes, I haven’t yet thought of whether or not will I be able to work there, but what I do know is that I would have to deal with an ocean full of new things there, and it will not be the same again as it has been before, I am afraid. As I got up from the chair to go, I vowed to myself that if ever in the future I am given something of even a tiny second chance, then I would most definitely redeem my whole life with it and never let go.

Yes, I had a plate of that unforgettable Paneer Sushlik in the empty cafeteria that day, alone; just for the old times’ sake; just for one last time. I’ll never forget that last dish of my life in the empty cafeteria.

I could not enjoy the Sushlik as I couldn’t help thinking that perhaps I, never will I be able to visit this wonderful workplace after this while. I would definitely be in Kolkata again, but the part of my erstwhile world, my workplace, will perhaps remain closed forever: out of bounds. If one’s centre of life has an imaginary periphery around it then the lost days of my world will perhaps inhabit the far corner of that imagined circle: safely tucked away from any bad omen or bad luck. I almost choked on my food. I held a spoon in my hand but had to put it down and look away. Being the philosophical fool that I am, I tensely quivered and let go of the tears I cried. Later, dedicating that last dinner of mine to all my friends for our friendship with each other, then appeasing my heart with that, I somehow got some spoonfuls down my choking throat and left the remaining on the plate and came away.

Then later, I again thought about you; I thought about Andy and I thought about everyone I knew. Those were the best of times. The era of happy days has come to an end. Best things, as they say, don’t last forever, but this time there was indeed very little for me to savour. How many times I have had my eyes rubbed against the cotton of my sleeve. How many times I have tried to hold on to those precious moments as if it were a situation of life and death. How many times I was torn thinking of the two parts of my life never coming together: ‘country of origin’ and ‘country of adoption’; only ‘country’ need be replaced with the word ‘state’.

As I walked along the lighted pathway from the glassy contour of the cafeteria to the iconic training building and then to the cab stand, a realization hit me that I had no moral strength left in me to pound my head with the one question about my leaving Kolkata. I moaned upon the sudden perplexities of my life night and day. Even raising a toast to the pitiable plight of my going away from the place has not met with an absolution yet. My eyes sought tears again in wanting to see those cool days of unbridled passion: those unmistakable feelings of love for one’s homeland, those long periods of gregariousness and silly flippancy in the company of friends, and those moments of playful laughter and the general lightness of being within oneself. So do I stand vindicated in any way at all? Not just as yet. Each and every detail of the canvas painting depicting my days in Kolkata came pouring out like unmanageable hard facts, never letting go of me. I am glad it never will.

One doesn’t find the same breadth of things here. Yet, being thousands of miles away from the beloved place shouldn’t make any difference to the charm of one’s set of loving memories which are of course safely tucked away from unintended publicity. I am of the opinion that mere physical distance, or being kept away from the place, don’t count up to anything much because in complex matters of one’s personal remembrances it is the heart that memorizes every little detail like a perennially wonderful Mona Lisa painting; never forgetting anything; ever so deeply embossed upon it for all time to come. Time ticks by, and so does everything else, little by little. But for the moment it’s only a small respite. However, I prayed a quiet goodbye to the place where unfortunately I couldn’t originally belong or stay for long…

You are lucky; you keep coming back to Kolkata and reliving those moments. Bless you. Really, God has His blessed hand upon you. I remember you once told me that you looked at our old campus when you visited a nearby building in Sector V on a professional commitment; I can imagine what you must have felt when you first looked down below from one of the top floors of that neighbouring building: eyes blur as tears prick them and a demolishing jibe drives through the chest even as the heartthrobs in a passionate ache that never subsides.

To be able to come back to the place you once loved and look for yourself is like being extremely fortunate, you know. I have no way of knowing what others think about it all; but they too must be looking forward to it, I am sure. They too miss us as we miss them. As for me, it is going to be an extended waiting period before I come back to my beloved place for a vacation; yet, I could get lucky soon enough and slink away to where I have always died several times over to belong. Here, in the South, the world seems a different place unlike the hustle-bustle of Kolkata I greatly admire. You know, I have often wondered: being sentimental and uncannily sensitive about the question of Home and Away. The fact of the matter is: that such a narcissistic question always has set in like a cold around my heart. The answer is elusive enough to actually come forward because the question remains what it has always been: a question. It didn’t budge from its laconic mark. I hope this pithy question doesn’t turn up as a reality someday because by then it might have already transformed itself into a quagmire of an answer which will hold me down in a likely holdfast of perilous things, and I might possibly have nothing left to do except to give in to the quagmire or scamper about hither and thither and pass away.

Oh! Good gracious!

Fortunately, the first time when I went back to Kolkata after having left in ‘06, I was visiting my uncle in Salt Lake City. Deciding to personally look into an errand, we took a long detour winding our way through towards Nicco Park and passing up the junction where, on the left, stood the sprawling Wipro building, we reached the arterial EM Bypass road and travelled all the way to Behala via Science City in south Kolkata. I was travelling in a car which was being driven by my cousin Joy; and when Wipro came into everybody’s sight my uncle suddenly turned from his front seat to look at me and said: "Eito Wipro. This is where you used to work, na re?" I looked up and saw my old haunt sprawled like a garden of golden-hued beauty. I nodded to my uncle and managed a smile on my face, and bringing a hand up to my mouth I stifled an intense sob even as it unsettled something inside me; wanting me to give up and cry it out... all those sweet memories came tumbling down on me. That evening, as I sat in my beloved uncle’s car, travelling to south Kolkata, I looked out of the side window and quietly blew a kiss towards the place where I had once spent the best of days training and the best of nights working; the days which were the finest of my life.

One should go on in one’s life. I knew this adage by heart, but honestly, I detested it; for never could I answer another question of my life: how does one go one despite everything stacked against you? Perhaps, one is meant to answer it in the best way one can gather and that is by living through the improbabilities and somehow managing to look further ahead in the future; maybe, by looking up other people’s old files of courage and other stories. Yes, this is it. I think it’s time I defied the odds and imbibed some of their bravadoes. Some people can do that with much gumption, but I think not without carrying the heavy psychological baggage along with it. But still, yes, I know…, I know bravado speaks for itself. 

I keep connecting to the past; how can I forget. My familial obligations are my basic responsibilities; so I might as well get to the deepest deeps of it and reach out for the healing nature of emotional sustenance that will most definitely take us all through. Yet, I want to believe that we should somehow lay claim to our own selves that will go a long way for the sake of our family’s good. See? I am learning already. If this is something one should seriously abide by then let it be the way it is meant to be. So, let us treat ourselves with our life's achievements and successes.

You might be wondering why I am writing this story at all. Because, conscientiously speaking, the heart and its outpourings should fetch a channel on its own: a way to let it all out, as this piece of writing is akin to my sincere attempt – it becomes a personal necessity as well - to be able to free all pent-up emotional undercurrents. Therefore, my embarking upon this job of writing is carried out in full faith: a modest approach at best, albeit a reassuring one, for my hunger for emotional sustenance.

Ultimately, nothing provides real succour; the healing power of Time does. To assert and to be able to think beyond the mere psychological aspect of life: maybe, by holding a ‘practical’ mirror to me should bring aboard my share of joy. Before long, I might as well do that. The “Johnson-and-Johnson” soft hands would have hardened a bit writing this longish story of mine, but of course, they are still as sincerely soft as they were for you during those days of yore. For those “soft hands,” you are the best inspiration.

Now in the evening twilight, it’s become a low drizzle.

By Arindam Moulick

- This short story has also been published on the ezinearticles.com website in three parts. Following are the web links:
http://ezinearticles.com/?My-Days-in-Kolkata,-A-Memoir,-Part-1&id=8735345
http://ezinearticles.com/?My-Days-in-Kolkata,-A-Memoir,-Part-2&id=8756807
http://ezinearticles.com/?My-Days-in-Kolkata,-A-Memoir,-Part-3&id=8756963