My shifting to Kolkata from the comparatively smaller and less developed yet cosmopolitan town of Dhanbad, in South-Central Jharkhand; in August 2003; was primarily in educational interests. After the end of my school life in March 2003, or more decisively so in May that year (when the ISCE results for that year were declared); and the failure to utilize the tasteful prospects offered by Dhanbad and other seemingly better alternatives from the other parts of the country; Kolkata was the easiest, cheapest, safest, the proverbial ‘the best’ and honestly speaking – the ONLY option that could be – rather had to be exploited.
August 11, 2003 – a Monday (if I remember correctly) – A 5 hour long train journey from Dhanbad, took me to Howrah Railway Station. Time: 10:15 am. Getting down from the train and walking through the platform towards the station exit, I was overwhelmed by the crowd and the sound.
Howrah Station presented a stark contrast to the Dhanbad Railway Station – peaceful for want of what could be called a crowd, hygienically clean and well maintained with a few wheeler book stalls and an occasional voice of tea vendors – “Chai garam……garam chai” – more singing than speaking.
Howrah Station, on the other hand, was (/is) a huge congregation of people – from all walks of life. There were the daily and weekly passengers, from semi and sub-urban outskirts of the city of Kolkata proper and the state of West Bengal in general, who cross the Hooghly, stay in the city for the period and return to their places; the newspaper vendors, screaming out the headlines; the tea and snacks vendors, speaking out in a loud monotone, in attempts to attract customers; the keepers of the numerous food and magazine stalls, who carefully maintain an air of superiority over the vendors in the same trade and call out to prospective customers only when the latter are at a distance of 2-3 yards; the porters in their red tunics and brass badges bearing some sort of a registration number (“Unifaram……rail mantrak……Bharat Sarkar……diyeche” - an uniform provided by the Ministry of Railways, Government of India – was how a porter described his dress – cursing the heat at the same time!); the TTEs – ticket collectors – they are called in the local parlance, looking out to the streaming thousands of the faces with experienced eyes and laying their hands on just the ‘right’ collars; the huge army of the Railway police, constantly monitoring the place……..and the list goes on!!! To make matters worse, an irritating and almost nauseating stench of sweat, burnt machine-lubricants and wastes; pervades the place. “How can one move through this huge a crowd……?” – I wondered, hardly noticing, leave alone realizing, that I was already flowing with the tide!!!
On stepping out of the station building, 5 parallel, virtually endless queues of yellow ambassador cars welcome one and all – taxis – they are called here, with their drivers, dressed in grey shirt and trousers, seated at the steering wheels, shouting out the names of the places they would be willing to drive to.
“Explore and experience the LIFE of the city” – my parents said; and off we went, meandering through the maze of taxis, to reach the main bus stand; where another round of bewilderment awaited me. I could see around 100 blue, another 100 scarlet, close to 30 green and some fifteen post-office red buses.
“The blue and the scarlet are private buses, run by some agency, independent of the government – the scarlet ones are mini-buses; the post-office reds are the government buses, run for the public and the green ones are long distance buses – these also are run by the government. Look at the top panel – that number written in bold indicates the route.” – That was my father’s voice. He had taken up the task of educating this novice, of the ways of the big city – without waiting – rather not caring to wait for an SOS from her. J
“But how do I know which number is for which route?” – I asked.
“Well, for novices like you, there’s a pamphlet issued by the transport department. For now, you’ll have to rely on what I and mom remember – true that it’s been 20 long years, but we do remember a good dealJ….Now, we’re going get into that post-office red bus – number 12D” – he answered.
It was only after we had got up and taken our seats that I realized; we had not taken the tickets. A mention of this, from me, made my parents usher into a petty, small round of laughter; exchanging knowing glances. I understood that I had once again demonstrated my ignorance of the ways of the big city. At Dhanbad, there were ticket counters for the public buses – passengers were allowed in only after they had taken the tickets. This is where I was tricked. Here, in this city, I saw that tickets are taken from the conductor, after boarding the bus. I still fail to appreciate the system, which I feel is ambiguous and leaves scope for mismanagement; when compared to the one in place at Dhanbad.
Soon, the heavy vehicle got crowded – in fact, overcrowded and started moving. As it picked up speed, I could see the majestic trass that holds the Howrah Bridge, with the Hooghly flowing silently under it. I was happily allowing my entire being, the time that it needed to get awed and then come out of it, when a cool, mild breeze greeted me. This was another dose – a cool breeze, at Kolkata, that too in August, was something that I did not really look forward to. Looking around, I found that we were on the bridge, just over the river – hence the breeze. The abrupt end of it indicated that the river had been crossed – we were in Kolkata now (on grammatically correct terms).
What I could see now, was the skyline of the City of Joy. Full of hopes, expectations and aspirations brought in by the decisive end of the fourteen years of school life and the call of college, I smiled at the appropriateness of the title. The route taken by the bus helped me see quite a few of the landmarks – some of which I could recognize without any help, the others were mentioned and pointed out by the experts who accompanied me.
The Raj Bhavan – the Governor House, the Writers’ Building – the office of the State Government, the Calcutta High Court – possibly the only building that still uses the old name of the city for all official purposes, the State Secretariat, the Kanak building at Esplanade, the Great Eastern Hotel, the Shahid Minar at the Maidan (a huge span of unadulterated green – aptly called ‘The Lungs of the City’), the Victoria Memorial, St. Paul’s Cathedral, the flood lights at Eden Gardens, Fort William and the Patton – all were there – right before my eyes.
The last time I visited the city was in 1993, at 8 years of age – it had been 10 years since then. All these years, I had been forming mind images of this city – taking cues from the works of various national and international writers, journalists, artists and film-makers. Now, the city was standing before me – wide awake – in all its glory. I was stunned by the magnanimity of it all!!!
“Look there, that’s your college…” – my thought process was interrupted by my mother’s voice. I saw a modest looking pale yellow building with the name of the institution inscribed on it in large, bold and bright red letters.
“Oh…!” – That was all I could utter.
I had not seen the college earlier – the admission formalities were completed at the counseling center and the university office.
Experienced eyes read my disposition – “You expected it to be something like the Raj Bhavan or even grander……is it?” – I was asked, with mischief that was plainly visible. Not to mention the Governor House or the State Secretariat; I had certainly expected my college to be grander than what it appeared to be at first sight; and was somewhat disheartened by its modesty. Little did I know then, that the same ‘modest’ institution would play such a decisively positive role in shaping my life.
Nevertheless, I continued to devour the city with my eyes; though nothing seemed to be as gorgeous, any more!!
The passage through Taratala was a painful one – owing partly to the desperate discouragement that the first sight of my college building had brought in; but mainly due to the chaotic traffic, worsened by the construction of the flyover that was in process, at the site. For the first time in the two hours after stepping into the city, I took notice of the heat, humidity, automobile pollution and noise – everything had started taking its toll. The rest of the journey – via the Diamond Harbor Road, through the densely populated suburb of Behala and finally to Thakurpukur was irksome. By the time we reached home, I was absolutely drained out – not only of the initial enthusiasm but also of the energy to fresh up and take rest. “An experience indeed!!!” – I had said to myself.
I formally began my college life from the very next day.
The first step into the campus – and that was the end of the inhibitions that I had been nurturing since the previous day. I walked to the main college building through the pathway, flanked by shady trees and large, neatly mowed grounds on both sides – a rare luxury in a city like Kolkata – where there are instances of even schools lacking the facility of a playground. I learnt later – that the campus also houses two schools, and is one of the oldest educational institutions in India – ‘Estd: 1798’ – the board bearing the name of the school read.
A walk around the campus made me sink into the depths of serenity. There were the workshops and the electrical engineering laboratories, nestled among gulmohar and mango trees. A pathway lined with neatly trimmed hedges on both sides led to the sports field. Across the playground, there was the row of guava and mango trees (which was destined to become my favorite brooding placeJ). Two huge (name unknownJ) trees lent their shadows to keep the small canteen, opposite the badminton court, fairly cool. The get up was all-together simple, but it was neatly elegant.
Things were far much smoother than I had expected them to be. The ambience of the college, to begin with, was peaceful. This was not the picture of a Kolkata college that I had in mind. In a city, bearing notorious (dis)repute for its involvement in politics, this was quite a shock. College life in Kolkata is synonymous to student politics, class boycotts, slogans – in short – to every conceivable form of indiscipline and unruliness, to which, according to news reports made available, many a times, uninterested students are forced to subscribe – this plays a part in instilling an element of fright, among outsiders. I could not find anything of the sort, even after a conscious lookout. What I found was amazing enough – this college did not have a students’ union!!! This came as a great relief – for my knowledge of politics is less than minimal, my interest in the subject is next to nil and the only way I would be able to take to face the worst would be to pose an absolute illiteracy and a disgusting bluntness. That nothing of that sort would be necessary – was enough reason to make me happy.
Lectures, the lunch break, practical sessions, an optional tea break and a game of badminton or basketball, usually the former, made my days at college – making me quite at home, in the new city. I was decently contented. But happiness did not last long.
Soon I saw another special feature of the city.
Meetings, processions and rallies are a part of life – an integral one at that, for each and every being that treads on Kolkata’s land. There’s no ghost of a chance of avoiding those and still living in the city (Well…that doesn’t qualify as NEWS anymore!!). I got a glimpse – rather an essence of what they were (/are).
It was a rally – that was all that one could make out – nothing more or less. One person shouted something unintelligible and the others lent their voices signifying agreement. An unorganized and mismanaged crowd of nearly 200 to 250 highly motivated (as seemed evident from their enthusiasm) individuals, parading through the street, braving the August sun and turning a blind eye to an anticipated heavy shower; held the traffic, at a busy 4 cross junction, for close to an hour.
I failed the test of patience and asked a fellow passenger (of the public bus in which I was ‘supposedly’ travelling) – “Dada……rally-ta ki anek lamba?” (“Sir…is the rally a very long one?”). The response I received was sarcastic laughs from all who had (over)heard my question and a comment – “Aapni nischoi Kolkata-y notun!!” (“You must be new to Kolkata!!”). Well….no prizes for guessing that. I was stunned by the lack of serious concern and the carelessness with which the statement was thrown in. The unsaid underlying message was – “You have no choice but to live with it.” I felt irritated, angry and sick, all at the same time. Call it the folly of immaturity, the fervent enthusiasm of teenage passion or whatever; I simply could not get reconciled to it, when I knew that I ‘could live without it’. It seemed to be a threat to individual freedom – as I had known to define the term, during the previous eighteen years – and I felt it my right and duty to oppose it (though I knew that I wouldn’t and I’m happy that I didn’t!!J ). It was not long before I learnt that the regularity of such disruptions had helped the indifference settle. Thus was the seed of detest, for the metro city, sown in me.
Hot and humid, as the city is, the southeast monsoons during the months of July to September bring some relief. The temperature is somewhat less than in the summer months of March to June. However, as I could see, the showers cause more problems than doing good – courtesy – an outdated and inefficient drainage system. Large parts of the city are flooded – disrupting the communication and consequently paralyzing a large part of the civic infrastructure. Streets are flooded, making the movement of vehicles too difficult if not impossible; drinking water supplied through the municipal pipelines is contaminated; the electric supply is disrupted – to name just a few. Treading through knee-deep or even waist-deep waters doesn’t raise eyebrows, anymore. I was not spared of this experience too. (It’s a pity that I haven’t learnt swimming, even after surviving four monsoons in the city!!). Dhanbad, being on a plateau, the rainwater could use the natural slope of the land to flow out. The vitality of the land and air would be replenished without the pangs of any kind of water logging. The sight that Kolkata presented during the monsoons was literally a utopia being turned to reality. The rains helped the ‘seed (of detest)’ to sprout and grow.
The drabness of life was finally punctuated by the onset of the autumn – perhaps the most beautiful season in the lower parts of the Gangetic plain and delta, with clear blue skies flecked with snow-white fleecy clouds, flowers in full bloom and shining waters. None of these could be seen at Kolkata, owing to the unchecked growth of the concrete jungle. Having been brought up at Dhanbad, I felt at home only when I could see vast stretches of green land, beautified by natural undulations reaching out to the horizon…and beyond!! The big city denied me this openness, except for the Maidan – even there the undulations were missing. Though the autumn light is golden at Kolkata too, yet, at this time of the year, I missed my old town of Dhanbad – perhaps for the first time after coming to the city.
This was when I realized that during the three previous months the fastness of city life had narrowed my vision. I had just been drifting with the stream, without noticing what was around. I longed for the landscape of Dhanbad, the unbroken blue of the sky, the liberally asymmetric green and brown of the land, the chaste sunrise, the lovely sunsets, the star studded night sky with its peaceful silence, the fiery summers, the waft of lazy winds, the rejuvenating rains, the icy winters – the recollection of it all, yielded a serene, poetic pleasure. Life there was artless, simple, open, bright and generous. At Kolkata, I could enjoy none. The space per individual was so very less when compared to Dhanbad that I felt being stifled. The big city seemed to be all so incongruous – polite conversations in carefully trained tongues – how hollow, counterfeit and profoundly false!! This artificial crowd made me restless – I felt as if I had been caged and chained.
Relief came in the form of festivities – it was time for the five day long extravaganza – the Durga Puja. The heavy, rhythmic music of the dhak, the culinary specialties, the gentle shove of new outfits, the resplendent lights adding to her bejeweled looks and spirits – it was the holiday season, but the city was far more active than at other times – though, the absence of the blooming shiuli, elegantly simple in appearance, filling the air with its mild fragrance was conspicuous throughout the festival. Amidst the prasad and bhog, aarati (one of the many rituals, performed during the worship), pandal hopping, dhunuchi naach (a dance performed on the last evening of the festival), adda (the Bengali term for a leisurely chat), bisarjan (the immersion of the idols in water) and exchange of bijaya greetings – marking the end of the festival, I could feel the unified spirit of the city. A gay mirth transcends all other feelings. Every one – from a beggar to the king – (to use the clichéd metaphor) – has a sense of belonging – to the city – to its people – as HER people. The importance of the festival, as felt by an onlooker, is more social than religious. The sudden tide of joy, brought about by the Durga Puja did a lot to replenish what the city had taken away, till then. I yearned to know Kolkata more closely.
I sought to discover the city – her people, her culture, her strength, her weakness, her warmth and her ruthlessness – all in my own way. The cultural festivals provided the much needed material, background and the opportunity to explore. The city is well known for its artistic, literary and cultural heritage – unique, fascinating and magnificent in its own right. Despite the sordidness attributable to politics, Kolkata has successfully maintained the seat of the ‘Cultural and Aesthetic Capital of India’. The fabric of the city’s emotional and intellectual life is finely woven around literature, theatre, music, dance, art and cinema. Kolkatans – as the people or the citizens of the city call themselves – have adopted these liberal arts as the means of enjoying what they perceive – as the ‘hard realities’ of life. Their feelings, thoughts and hard earned experiences find effective expression through these. But, the most important feature of the culture of Kolkata is the ‘adda’ or the leisurely chat – which very often takes the form of freestyle intellectual conversation.
Apparently, becoming a true cosmopolitan is easy at Kolkata – for the city has a heterogeneous reservoir of people. Other than the Bengalis, there are the Punjabis, the Marwaris, the Parsees, the Anglo-Indians, the Caucasian Europeans, the Nepalese, the Assamese, the Mizos, the Tibetans, the Chinese, the Brazilians (mainly footballers playing for the numerous local clubs), the Afro-Asians and the Gujratis, not to mention the huge community of tourists from Europe and the Middle East. But, on a closer look, one can find that each community is concentrated at separate, distinguished pockets of the city, preserving their ethnicity. True that they come in touch with each other regularly, for practically they don’t have a choice – living, for a social animal like man, necessitates interactivity; but other than business – the interactions seem to be forceful. Perhaps that is the law of nature – “Birds of a feather, flock together”. Hence, the open-to-all-forums!!
Experts, intellectuals, thinkers and the simple commoner meet at these forums, specially organized for the purpose to discuss ideas and debate on opinions – on a chosen subject. On some occasions, these gatherings take a truly international character – not just by the presence of personalities of international acclaim; but also by the choice of topics being discussed and the involvement of the international commoner. Conferences, especially on literature and music are a typical cultural recreation of the Kolkatans. At one particular cultural exchange fest that I had been fortunate to attend, I met a Brazilian school-teacher, an Italian painter, a Chinese scholar, an Argentine social worker, a Kenyan writer, a South African farmer, a troupe of Irish musicians, a Japanese magician and an economist from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. During the conference that lasted for 10 days, I could learn quite a good deal from the variety of the perspectives, not to mention the wide range of individual experiences of the participants. Such exposures could open up yet unseen doors, to anybody who would care to be receptive.
The Kolkata Film Festival is another integral part of the city’s cultural landscape. The forum nurtures and fosters global ambitions and the intellection is of international standards, calling the active participation of luminaries like Gunter Grass and Steven Spielberg. But, with all its quality and charm, it failed to strike a chord in me. Cinema does not interest me much, and I still lack the faculty to dissect a movie from its technical angles – to be honest, I feel, it’s more a cosmetic luxury than a necessity. All I can appreciate in a film is the underlying story or theme and the ease with which I can understand and enjoy its message. Literature was (/is) more appealing to me.
Complementing these – is the annual Kolkata Book Fair – one of the largest ones of its kind. Each year, some country is chosen as the theme and is invited as the Guest Nation. The 10 day long event concentrates on exploring the life of that country – its history, geography, people and most importantly the growth and flourish of its literature. Through interactions with the delegation, there’s an attempt to know about and learn from each other.
The experience as a whole is intriguing. Each individual is unlike the others in social affiliation, upbringing, character, temperament, opinions and behavior; yet, when ideas originating from such disparate sources meet – the interference is visibly constructive. There’s a conscious attempt to integrate creativity and life. The subject for literature, drama, music or any other form of art is drawn from contemporary life – as lived – the life that is under continuous evolution. To witness this firsthand was a novel experience.
Dhanbad failed to provide this vastness. The scene there was somewhat like this: We – the emigrant Bengalis – settled outside Bengal for a long time; the expatriate Bengalis – as we were (/are) called: the Bengali Diaspora – never forgot – rather made special, conscious efforts to remember that their Zion was Kolkata. Thus, in every locality, with even a few – say tens – of Bengalis, there was a cultural club to keep alive the tradition (more so – the feeling) of ‘the Kolkata life’; where, on occasions bearing psychological importance to Bengalis – like the Bengali new year or Tagore or Satyajit Ray’s birth or death anniversaries – usually, lions from Kolkata were called in. The interaction with such people, who came in on these occasions, was usually a monologue – rather a paper presentation minus the open house that ended with a formal applause – a clap and only rarely a ‘vote of thanks’. These talks, held once in a blue moon were too shallow, at times crude and limited in subject matter. Cultivation of literature or for that matter any idea was joyless for want of collision between minds. Imagination could not be nourished with the food that truth provides. The ones, at Kolkata brought in a gush of novelty – that was thoroughly enjoyable.
Such exposures broadened my outlook quite decisively. I learnt to look beyond known realms. Perhaps for the first time I became consciously aware of the fact that every form of art, spoken about as being an integral part of ‘the Bengali culture’, has been nurtured and enriched by other peoples and populaces spread across the earth, with knowledge, intellection, enterprise, enthusiasm and exercise of intuition that far surpasses that of ‘the Bengalis’ – both in quality and quantity. I understood that for close to eighteen years, I had subscribed to a system of thought which could be described as more or less ‘closed’.
Literature – one of the most successful cultural enterprise of the Bengalis – had two schools of thought. The first consisted of individuals who keep themselves aware of the latest trends and developments, the world over and consequently have a wide range to draw inspiration and material from. They showed the boldness and at times the aggression to cultivate on yet untouched fields. The followers of this school are usually an aware and as a rule an internet savvy lot. Their professions could be anything – law, medicine or sports – what characterized them was the conscious effort to keep pace with the rest of the world. Literature to them was usually a leisurely activity, but their contributions were classy.
The other school had as its followers, people whose individuality was essentially an extension of the old, established tradition. The problem with this pro-tradition group was that, its followers were so enmeshed in the existing genres, styles and subjects that they could resist any kind of change without feeling the necessity to comprehensively weigh the pros and cons of it. Their tastes were too plain, their sensibilities had lost sharpness and their ideas and perspectives were going stale – it seemed that the tradition they were upholding – the tradition that was a creation of extraordinary mental ferment and activity, that helped create a new life and launched out in new enterprises – literary, moral and political – had reached a state of stagnation for want of innovation.
My affiliation was with the former group. I had my own susceptibilities. After realizing the lack of depth of the literary life at Dhanbad, I developed an antipathy towards any system or person lacking openness.
But here again, the city presented a sharp and shocking contrast.
I was bewildered to meet individuals, with fanciful degrees to complement their names – who would be ‘very proud’ and ‘feel blessed’ to be born as one, from among whom, rose excellent writers like Rabindranath Tagore who could produce mesmerizing novels like ‘Pather Panchali’ (*1) or still more so when at the annual Kolkata Book Fair – one of the largest ones of its kind, I found people who loved – yes, LOVED – reading ‘Bhooter Golpo’ (Ghost Stories) by Sarat Chandra Chatterji (*2). In utter dismay, I found that among people who never fell short of words while speaking (read boasting) about their (- the Bengalis’) intellectual capacities and enterprise in literature and arts – as a class apart from anybody and everybody – there are individuals who have never heard of Michael Madhusudan Dutt – the creator of blank verse in Bengali poetry!!!
It’s true that there are people who genuinely engage in studies and try and explore newer areas of research – but, I dare say – based on the little that I have seen of the city and her people – that they constitute a very small percentage.
The Bengali middle class loves to survive and thrive on the belief that whatever happens to the society, the government and the country; they themselves would be regarded as indispensable – and that it does not require any effort on their part to maintain the dignity once earned by virtue of sincerity and caliber. I found them impervious to any idea that is not in agreement with the existing myths and fancies – at times fiercely intolerant to the extents of becoming megalomaniacs. What was more disgusting was the reluctance to admit any fact as a fact, if it contradicted their beliefs or more so their pleasant fantasies.
During the four years of my stay in the city, I hardly met a dozen individuals, who, I found, feel differently; but I still love to hope rather believe that there would be thousands who do. (To be honest, I was affected by an overpowering inclination to openly challenge these attitudes – that required quite a mighty conscious effort to be resisted.)
The majority of the Kolkata gentry would do nothing but talk, talk and talk more – till the saliva under their tongues would start frothing – their sole preoccupation – as I could see – being promotion of individual and class interests – but curiously enough, even this does not provide enough motivation for any positive, serious and active undertaking.
All they did was pleading of helplessness; want of organization or the incapacity of the leaders – according to their affiliations and tastes. For their own lack of enterprise the excuse was the impossibility of risking personal safety and prosperity; when hard-pressed they would even admit their own worthlessness but never did I see anybody willing to shake off the luxury of self pity – this feeling has such an amazing stronghold on Kolkata’s psyche that it can effectively help the people forget all their differences and unite!!! All around, I could see talkative, husky and dry men with eyes of steel.
And on this ....once again……the city can successfully outwit the onlooker – rather ironically.
The gentry, which seemed to be totally lacking in public spirit and idealism when it came to questions on proper developmental concern as a people and enjoyed basking in the glory of names like Tagore, Ray and Sen; was enthusiastic enough to unite its sentiment and passion – to degrees which could be conveniently likened to insanity – albeit without any effective reason and channelization, for comparatively useless issues like the inclusion of Sourav Ganguly in the national side; even going to incredibly impractical extents of demanding it to be taken up by the national Parliament for (what they called) ‘discussion’.
Well…..there’s nothing more routine in the Kolkata context!!!
Though the venting out of the passion had been fervent enough to be comparable with the behavior of a pressure cooker with a failed safety valve and was unjustified beyond a doubt; yet, looking back, I feel that it was all very natural for Kolkata.
At the time when the decision had been taken and implemented by the concerned authority, the Bengalis in Kolkata and elsewhere – as a people or more correctly as a race – did not have anything or anybody as close and as conspicuous (at the same time) – to be sincerely proud of. The prowess of most of the epitomes of excellence in various fields, who had borne any association with the city, was not as easily understandable as that of someone hitting a ball with his bat and sending it out among cheering spectators (Blame the media publicity given to cricket in India!!). The aura of the most recent addition to the former group – Dr. Amartya Sen – was fast fading out. There was no one at the national or international scene who could play effectively and freely on the active functions of the Bengali mind – its capacity to succumb to a gush of adrenaline (caused by anything ranging from a harmless mischief to grave injustice)!
In Sourav Ganguly, Kolkata (and Bengal as a whole) found just the perfect man. The glow of unadulterated caliber was still bright – that the figures which sanctified the fact were genuinely and critically ‘hard-earned’ – added a pleasant warmth. This, combined with the next-door-guy image that he has earned, made him the hero that he was (and continues to be) – a HERO, Bengal cannot help worshipping!! With his “Love me or Hate me……you simply cannot ignore me” attitude Sourav was the man who had everything to match ‘the Bengali’ temperament. Few could help being susceptible to the feeling that he aroused. To Kolkatans, Sourav was a sort of compensation for the incapacities, which are fondly called ‘deprivations’, in almost all other fields. What rallied him above most of his fellowmen was not his cricketing merit – at all events it was the honor he brought to Bengal.
To Bengal, therefore, his being dropped from a national team was essentially a moral injury. With Sourav out of the official Indian cricket team, Bengal lost her sole representative on both the national and the international stages – the degree of justness of the decision – with respect to the technical intricacies of the selection process and that of the game of cricket – was hardly the concern of a mass – wounded by chagrin. The immediate result – as I could interpret it – was a deep seated inhibition to all news – facts or gossips, favorable to the ‘opposite camp’. Disappointed at the concerned authority’s not acting according to her wishes, expectations and fantasies, Kolkata turned her fury on the team that represented India at the following match at Eden Gardens and a full-fledged, heart-felt support was extended to the visitors. (I guess it was South-Africa).
This, I found, can be extended to all domains and areas – wherever competition is the way up. No story, however extravagant, appears incredible to the good bourgeoisie of Kolkata – as long as the image of the hero (i.e. the competitor representing them) in question is not affected negatively. It must be added that the presence of foul-play in the process or its practice by the ‘rival(s)’ arouses greater sympathy and further strengthens the might of the hero’s caliber in the eyes (or psyches??) of the worshippers. That, however, does not mean that a reversal of roles make the ‘opponent’ dearer – the city shows a curious faculty of turning a blind eye and a deaf ear to all follies and fallacies of ‘her Hero’ – however commonplace or humanely understandable they might be. The sheer absence of reason, in the exhibition of emotion does make such episodes disgusting; but trying to look at the brighter side – earning a demi-God status in Kolkata calls for pains, but once earned, the moral support that follows is sincere – in spite of being too frothily sentimental for any practical purpose. The crude show of narrow provincialism aroused a violent repulsion in my being.
Astounding!!!??? True.....but, that’s not the end of it.
Kolkata had a lot more to offer to an enthusiast, who by normal worldly standards was as impossible as I showed myself to be. Enthused with the highest of spirits (From where I got so much of it – only God knows!!!!), I decided to know the city by exploring it – aloneJ; so much so, that my primary motive behind coming to Kolkata – my academics – took a backseat – in fact, it was the lowest on my preference list and remained so for the rest of the period of my stay in the city. Stern looks from teachers or comments like “My daughter finds liberal arts more interesting than computers” – uttered with a sigh and a smile, open for interpretation – I ignored them all. (Caught up with Kolkata fever…eh!!!)
I walked through the city – through its localities or ‘para’ (neighborhood) – for miles. I saw that each one is unique – each one has a character that is distinguished from that of the others. True…its traffic that first catches the eye; next – the pollution affects all senses other than the tongue. But curious eyes keep looking and soon the glitz and glamour of Park Street is recognizable from the mundane S.N. Banerjee Road and Chowringee Square; the Dharmatalla crossing scores over Moulali both in volume and orderliness (or is it some sort of streamlining???!!!); M.G. Road with its business buzz puts up a fair competition for the Dalhousie Square; Gariahat, Lindsay Street and New Market – the eternal shoppers’ paradise – closer to home & heart and places for amazing bargains, being outshone by the gorgeous, modern South City Mall – extolling the many virtues of ‘branded’, quality stuff; but the ‘para’ which I grew fond and fonder of was College Street and College Square – the epicenter of Kolkata’s cultural milieu – ‘boi-para’ (book-neighborhood) in the local parlance.
This area in North Kolkata is home to the historic University of Calcutta and many more institutions of importance – the Sanskrit College, the Scottish Church College, the Hindu school, the Hare school and the Presidency College – to name a few; centering which the second largest book market of the world has grown up. It’s essentially an open air library – spreading over the entire stretch of the street which runs from Bowbazar to M.G. Road.
One has to see it to believe it – this street with a tram line running straight through the middle of the road is lined on either side with a series of stall like shops – of every size and attitude! There are the humble ones holding second hand books and tattered chronicles, sometimes dating back to a century, putting up an elegant competition for their modern, smarter counterparts standing beside. These stalls collectively boast of a collection of almost any title ever sold in Kolkata. It had been really thrilling to lay a hand by chance on some of the rarest; sometimes ‘out-of-print’ titles – in their original, leather-bound classic styles, jostling for space; alongside the works of contemporary writers or a ‘CAT Made Easy’.
Amidst the huge variety and stock of the subjects and students of all ages, I found an ocean of resource to sustain a pleasantly enjoyable randomnessJ - an effective refuge from the ruthlessness of the big city; the space for it was provided by the leafy walk around the Vidyasagar Sarovar – a tank fed by the Hooghly, dominating the centre of the College Square; and the Coffee House – no less important in the fiercely energetic cultural life of Kolkata than Nandan (the state owned theatre complex) or Rabindra Sadan (a theatre house, close to Nandan) – in fact ‘The Indian Coffee House’ (rightfully) boasts about being the place where some of the greatest literary and political thoughts have been made – a chosen place for cerebral cultivation!! I read and read till I had my fill and continued reading. Innumerable serendipities took place over Japanese Paintings, Keats, the pyramids of Egypt, Tagore, cricket, soccer or Greek architecture – at the walkway around the tank or sitting at one of the old, stained wooden tables.
With its classic menu, antique décor, grill-less windows and waiters dressed in the ‘khansama’ style; Coffee House, among other things, is a place for stirring nostalgia. I tried to swim with the tide (Old wood does smell good!!!J), only to realize that artificial or borrowed nostalgia is not palatable – not to me at least; though beyond a doubt, the food isJ.
Another institution that particularly helped me sustain my spirits was the Ramakrishna Mission Institute of Culture (RMIC) at Golpark, South Kolkata. This school, run by the name organization, is a global forum – in the ideal sense. Apart from housing one of the largest and richest public libraries of the city, this institution regularly organizes classrooms, forums and workshops that bring together people from all over the world, creating an ambience of learning through interaction. Languages, Music, Literature, Philosophy, Art – just name it and RMIC can cater to the needs and expectations of any eager student.
There’s so much on the offering that at times, I was directionless. With the ravenous hunger that I had, I couldn’t afford to miss any – it seemed that 365 days of the year were not enough. I was busy enjoying every bit of it, getting dazed and reconciling; when the sublimity was sharply cut short, by the unfolding of two dark chapters – the first was the death of Rizwanur Rahman and the second was the unrest over displacement and the outbursts at Singur and Nandigram.
Rizwanur Rahman’s death in suspicious circumstances had set off a storm. Public opinion against the administrative machinery was overwhelming. That the death occurred in the backdrop of an interreligious marriage with the daughter of a business tycoon made matters worse by threatening to instigate (maliciously usable) communal feelings. The only consolation was that it did not happen. The fire that rose engulfed the whole of Kolkata.
Lots of questions were asked, views exchanged, candles lit, consciences introspected, the twenty-first century social dogmas shaken and civil liberties and rights of social justice discussed exhaustively. The dark alleys of bigotry and inequalities were lighted up by like minds – standing for rationality and justice. But with all the goodness and proper feelings flowing out of pained hearts – amidst contradictory statements, the case being taken over by the CBI, an articulate (though restrained) voice seeking objectivity –a graceful and glorious homage being offered to the human spirit – the case, till date remains a twisted tale, best told with caution.
At Singur and Nandigram, the bloodshed was gory; the sight of political animals looking out for preys was still more sickening. Now, that all has come to a stop, there’s absolutely no point in commenting on the (historical) course of events; but that the entire episode was disturbing to all and sundry, for various reasons – how-so-ever obvious, cannot be countered.
However, it did leave insightful observations. The debate over agricultural land, industrialization and ethical issues concerning displacement is an unending one in the Indian context; each situation demands a fresh perspective which might turn out to be different from all others that have been nurtured or practiced till date. The controversy over the proposed small car factory and the chemical hub that rocked West Bengal was one such. All concerned entered into a sustained and spirited session of talking and writing, which lasted for quite a long time. Opinions varied with each individual – sometimes reasonable, sometimes not. For every thought that sprang up, there was an orchestrated campaign. All sorts of fantastic ideas, pleasing to themselves, were held by the people – whatever their personal affiliations might have been. Artists used their mediums to portray the picture as it could be seen.
For many this was the final blow on their tolerance following which they felt that they must speak out. The intelligentsia responding actively to an issue of real concern, in such high numbers, had been unheard of, since quite some time.
Following this event, which called for many (undesired) disruptions, there was an effort to restore normal life. Voices of dissent, against such disruptions were heard from quite a number of quarters. A Welcome Change – how-so-ever short-lived it might turn out to be!!!
That’s the Kolkata I have known. I am afraid, I have been very frank and I cannot produce documentary evidence to prove what I have said. To make my case stand, I can only say that I have no good reason to defame Kolkata, as I have none to flatter her unnecessarily. Those who have moved among Kolkatans will know these statements to be true of a section of them. I admit that my experience has been confined to a particular section of the city’s people.
I had to leave Kolkata in October 2007; and this moving out might turn out to be a permanent one – like the one from Dhanbad in August 2003. The ramblings might have sounded like a madman’s tale; but now, out of the city, driven by the dire compulsion of subsistence, I long for her warmth. The city had every right to be ruthless to an outsider who had nurtured a full blooded denunciation of her ways, but she didn’t. Instead, she opened the doors to a whole new world. I was ineffectual in a collective group of typical Kolkatans, but it was Kolkata who gave me the room and resource to use this isolation positively. Indeed, Kolkata seems to have an inborn flair for adopting people and making them her own. Deep within, she can foster a boiling blood and still be the garland of fresh flowers in a newly wed bride’s hands. She might be one of Dali’s melting clocks or perhaps a huge lock – a mistaken key in a mistaken hole – a daily, noisy, vigorous shove; a stage where the actors not only know their job but also know how to make their jobs look like anything but professional hazard. That doesn’t stand in her way of being the nova.
It’s been long since I took a walk around College Street, and found some priceless title at a throwaway price; discussed Wordsworth and Shelly, sipping coffee from one of the cheap, once milk-white porcelain cups; went through the strewn knick-knacks of Gariahat, bargained and walked off with a self-satisfied smirk after a thing had been well-bought (or so I thought!!!); ran down a moving escalator to reach the metro-station when the next train was just two minutes away, got into it and made space for myself in the already overcrowded compartment; or hanged out around one of the numerous Nawab, Bedwin and Nizam outlets savoring the delectable rolls and kebabs. Disturbances and bad times are a part of life, so are happy days. At Kolkata, dependence on the supra-mundane and attachment to the mundane are delicately poised. Here, life moves on with confident steps creating for itself a kind of compelling circumstance when crises are a given, compromise a compulsion and surrender to fate the only means of survival – that’s what makes Kolkata the city it is – The City of Joy.
*1 – Pather Panchali [The Song of the Little Road] was a novel written by Bibhuti Bhushan Bandopadhyay. Satyajit Ray chose this novel as the subject for his first film – with the same name.
*2 – Sarat Chandra Chatterjee was a writer of renown who had the then Bengali society as his canvas. He is known to be a writer who dealt only with practical topics and consciously avoided fantasy. He DOES NOT have a single Ghost Story to his credit.
