Trip to Kolkata

Kolkata has been always kind to me. My first job, first love, first pot and first drunk walk through the tram lines. First time, I appreciated being alone and in crowd. First time, I kissed a girl and took her to my room only to shiver when she undressed herself. Kolkata beholds a special place. Good or bad.

Precisely, that’s the reason, it always claims most of my vacation period. That’s why I roam through busy corners, lazy bi-lanes, old buildings and oldest subway train. I watch fantastic movies and savor Bengalised snacks at cheapest price and stop by the tiny tea shops, where I find the both budding and ageing locals with unbelievable political insights dissecting Bengal, India and World while sipping tea from a small clay pot. But nothing compares to the orgasmic satisfaction of sniffing the dust of the old books in College Street, whose past owners live inside the pages. The humbleness of those books and arrogant sexy looks of new ones, the cool breeze on the banks of Lake in College Square and careful openings of those newly acquired old bindings on a bench, always please me more than anything. Then when I am bored and feel alone, I go upstairs of Indian Coffee House and sat there in a world of talking people and randomly meeting with strangers. With tons of smoked coffee and occasional cigarettes.

This time Kolkata has given me acidic bug bite. An unknown insect has ‘burnt’ a major portion of my neck, nose and eyelids. Condition on neck was serious enough to refer to a doctor in Apollo Hospital. The summer was never so intolerable here, so much so that everybody suggests to stay put at home with AC on. But I am insatiably desirous, as my days are counted. I ignored the excruciating temperature and infection on neck and walked kilometers with a heavy bag on back like everytime. I bought books from College Street and puzzles from Fariapukur, I roamed Chandni Chowk and Shaymbazar, and ate at street shops with menu like Phuchka, Aloo Chop, Rolls, Moghlai and Ghughni. My rash spreads. But so does my memory.

I met a mentally imbalanced man on the bridge on Bidhannagar Road, who was leaning on the iron railings and was singing songs under scorching sun. I stood there a while and asked him from where he had learnt songs. His vision was blank as if I wasn’t there and then he asked for food. I gave water and biscuits, and I heard his story. Once I was crossing a busy road, a bare footed half naked kid with a torn soft toy hold my hand without any words and then when we crossed the road, he smiled at me and went away. His smile was radiating, intriguing and mysterious. I met a street dog near my guest house, whose tail was cut short and had scars all over. I never saw it barking or seeking food. He just sat there, beside a party office, sometimes lied down. Once I offered him biscuits. He just looked up and swung his short tail a little. His eyes were different. Large but gloomy. He didn’t touch the biscuits, probably he needed his own human.

Kolkata has this charm of being lively. It has a poem of its own. And everytime I walk here, I recite that poem, or that poem rejigs me.