I have dreamt of going to Kolkata and I already loved it in the dream. So when I actually went to Kolkata recently, I was elated. I was in my fantasies of the Namesake, Parineeta, Pather Panchali. In a place that inspired and made beautiful people. On the way to the hotel I passed boards that read ‘Kolkata is the city of Mother Teresa, keep it green’ Of Tagore, Nivedita, Ray and Bose.
Buses that said Baagbazar, College street on it.
The rustic old cabs that I loved even before I had seen them, said ‘no refusal’ at the side. Such a beautiful disclaimer to showcase. A big claim to make. So kind in its intentions. We should all roam around with no refusal written on our foreheads.
So when I feel low or lonely next time, I will walk up to people sitting at cafes sit down and share my hot chocolate with them. When I walk out of my therapist’s office, crying, I won’t try to hide it, I will walk up to someone and hug them, and demand being hugged back.
My hotel room in Kolkata was right out of an Amol Palekar movie. The top of our AC had blown away. The bed was a little creaky and taps were very leaky. But I did not care, I needed to be on the streets and dunk my face in mishti doi.
On the street, I was hit in the gut by crowd. I was so unprepared I denied it’s existence till it hit me even harder, knocked me to the side. There was no mishti doi to be found.
I blankly started walking towards Howrah bridge, as if to block people with my sheer concentration on the goal. I was pulled into a saree shop 15 steps in. I looked around, not really liking much. I was got into the shopkeeper side of the counter, dunked under it to look at more sarees.
To cut a long story short, I was later emotionally blackmailed into buying a saree. Still no mishti doi. I am not made to survive this world. I climbed on the next bus that passed. It took me to College street. I bought books till I was broke.
I went to the Indian Coffee House. Paintings hung on all walls, high ceiling fans drooped on people huddled at square tables so beautiful so old. I love being surrounded by Bengali sentences. And paintings. The smell of coffee. Alien irritated waiters.
In my enthusiasm and ill-wit, I sat trying to read Gitanjali, in Bengali. Not the translated part, but the part people paid to get translated. With the help of ‘Bank of india’ ‘Raymond’ and other shop names, that helped me understand Bengali alphabets enough to at least spell ‘aami’ ‘tumi‘. Those are all the words I know of Ravindranath’s poetry. Those words are enough.
The only thing worse than not going to a beautiful city is going to the city for a short while. And even worse is going with people who eat masala dosa for breakfast in Calcutta.
Worse because, you are not only going to a place for too short a while to know it, you have people hauling you down but you also get a pencil tick mark against the city in your travel list. I went to Shimla for a night, I don’t know Simla, but I have technically been there.
So I refused to get off the train. There is no way of dealing with FOMO so strong.
When I did get off the train, I drank coffee at Indian coffee house, bought books at college street, ate puchka (twice), meet Ansari, was emotionally blackmailed into buying sarees, went to museums and science city, rode in the bus, used the ticket as a bookmark in the new Camus I bought at college street.
I came to find a city of scholars, of good food and beautiful sunsets. I found instead a city of people, rubbing against each other, toiling, sleepy, angry going to science cities, good food and beautiful sunsets.
I did not though, see Howrah bridge, eat fish, or find misti doi. So I refuse to put a pencil tick in front of Kolkata.
So long pretty city.
Streets and People
