Kalcutta

These are the days I covet when I am in Pune. Yes, these are the days...

Everyday I wake up to the smell of hot tea lovingly made by my mother. I leave the pillow moist from the sweat overnight. The familiar sounds of the steam from the cooker, the sizzle from the frying pan, the incessant clanging noise of the maid's dish washing; the shower from the bathroom. It's busy in the morning with dad getting ready. Been seeing this happen since my birth. Hence, I like it.

I still call my city Calcutta, and Calcutta my city. I was born in Calcutta, not Kolkata for Christ's sake. So what if this city is one of the most polluted cities in the world. So what if sixty percent of the people are below the poverty line. So what if the roads have potholes, and the Government a lousy cesspool of corruption and sloth. This city is called the City of Joy, City of Palaces. Must be a reason for it.

The reason for it wasn't clear to me until I went off to Pune. Calcutta gives more than it takes from the people She harbors. Calcutta has given me a place on Earth that I am familiar with. This is the place for my tribe. I relate to everybody here. We all talk the same language, we all eat the same food. We all have similar trends and tastes. Calcutta as the whole, the people, the buildings, the roads, all have one big common soul.

Every soul has a song written for it. The song makes the soul. This is not a song easy to hear. It can't be strummed on the guitar and sung. If the song ends the soul will die. We all hear that song, but we never pay attention to it. The song plays on, and nobody hears. That's what makes me sad. We are all so busy that we don't have time to listen to the song. For once make yourself free. Free your mind of work, appointments, schedule, worry or any ideas.

Good, now go to a random place in Calcutta. Stand there and look around you. Feel the harmony, the beat; and it will pulse through you and fill you. The car horns, the traffic, the roadside junk food stalls, the incessant cries of the bus conductors, the lights, the sounds, the bustling pedestrians. The crowd on the bus, the lichen growing on the surface of the old buildings. An occasional beggar and the hunger in his eyes. The market places with all the mediocre vegetables and fish and the fat ladies and gents screaming out their bargains through the puddles of mud. Look at the occassional particles of glass strewn on the roads from the shattered windscreens of cars. Feel the heat, the sweat, feel the need to get into a shade. Look at the Government Office Buildings. Red bricked, ages old. High ceilinged, age old fans, light blue limed walls, stacked with millions of yellow papers and files, the bustle, the tea in the glass cups, listen to the typewriters going on. Get to the ghat. The river, the grass, the city on the other side. The fish boats, the calm. Look at the elegant Victoria Memorial with the green grass and the lovers at peace and privacy. Then the rain splashes. The black umbrellas, the drizzle, the damp in the crowded bus and a muddy feet on your's, crushing it. The rain fills the city with puddles and a car speeds through it, splashes the water on you. It will pulse through you and fill you with happiness. I love that song.

I heard the song a long time ago. I need some time off to go listen to it. I am busy here with a project that hates to proceed. All these ado, not about nothing I guess. All these I have to do to join in into the rat race. I have to acquire a social standing in my life to have a fruitful life, and a family and a progeny. Everybody crave this stereotypical scenerio. If it requires of me to skip country, I will. I am working to that end. In the end, I know, I will be beckoned by the song. I will add some notes to it.