Dream of a City

 

Today I dreamt of Kolkata.

The morning began early when I heard the tune of Messenger. My window was faintly lit with the first light and wet from the night-long drizzle. I knew who was calling, and I was both eager and reluctant to touch the green button. I longed to see the face of my little girl and also dreaded her massive energy and questions and irrefutable demands to play.

I opted green and I greeted her. Immediately, she began filters, games, backgrounds and incessant orders. I switched on the light, wobbly walked to the washroom and then held wooden railings, while slowly managing the stairs down to the kitchen for a cup of tea and then slumped on the sofa.

We watched a few cartoons together (a cool feature in Messenger - we both love it) and then she got bored, and told me bye.

Morning in London at this time is chilling. I stood up and switched on the heater. I returned to the lounge room and had a good look at my sofa - crowded with yesterday’s clothes, office bag, few underwear, a pair of socks, my laptop, mobile chargers, three books and a blanket. I took a deep breath and pushed everything at one side. It’s an art - nothing fell on the floor, but there was now a mound on my sofa. Cool.

I sipped from the cup and wrapped myself up with the blanket. I lazily glanced at the big glass window overlooking the misty suburb of London and the busy road connecting Elephant & Castle to down Croydon. A215 is only 10 miles long, but is one of the most crash-prone in Britain. A red double-decker was creeping like a snail on drenched grass and its view was blurred with the whiteness and slouching drops of rain. 

Then I saw. A double-decker at the cross of Lenin Sarani and Chowringee Road in Esplanade. A double-decker in Kolkata? That must be history! A pair of iron tracks ran parallel with a promise to be always together, and never to touch. Overhead wire followed them as a loyal witness of that vow. And everywhere were people, and shops, and buses, and cars amongst countless tall buildings, time-looped in an eternal adda.  

I knew it was just a dream - for I could still feel the warmness of blue ceramic against my palms and softness of fabric against my skin. The radiators in the lounge began precipitating heat and though my eyes were shut, I could hear the clanks of copper pipes which ran deep inside the old walls like veins. But the dream was too real.

Kolkata has always been kind to me. It has been a witness to most of my firsts. First job, first weed, first love and first drunk-walking over tram lines. First time, I learned to enjoy my freedom and also the first time I realised to draw a line, and never to cross it. First time, I was kissed by a girl and the first time my heart pounded, when I took her to my room and saw her undressed. Kolkata beholds a special place. Good or bad.

That may be the reason why I sometimes dream about it and roam through its busy corners, lazy bi-lanes, bygone buildings and decrepit subway. And then I watch brilliant indie movies in dark cinema halls and stop by the tiny tea stalls, where I find impeccable insights and analysis dissecting Kolkata, West Bengal, India and World, with a fuck-the-world attitude. But nothing, I mean nothing compares to the orgasm of sniffing the dust out of the forgotten books lying on the footpath or scattered over a piece of wood in College Street, and then the seduction of new glossy covered books, which are tirelessly inviting like those worn out faces under street lamps and stucco doors in dark lanes, and when you are tired of all these games, have a cup of coffee, may be a smoke, at Coffee House and listen to the world of words and randomness. 

I don’t know why I saw Esplanade in this dream. It was never close to me like College Street, or Shyambazar, or even Dumdum. Maybe I spent too many hours here with Taniya, or maybe it was a frame, frozen in time, from my Bank days, when I religiously visited Metro Cinema and its bar upstairs. Metro Cinema is no more. The bar is gone too. Or maybe the red double-decker flash-opened a past, when Kolkata too had its own double-deckers. 

The worst part of any dream is the finishing by the silliest possible means. A random phone call, or stupid alarm, or angry mum, or worse - wife, who is mad at you. But mine was not that cruel, rather poetic. I spilled my tea over me and then I looked at the clock and jumped.

The last express for my office was only thirty minutes away, and there were loads of shits to prepare. Before drawing the curtains in, for the last time of the day, I looked at the window. Much clearer now. Rain too stopped. Kolkata has this charm of being jolly and lively. It has a sort of voice of its own. 

And everytime I dream of it, it whispers to me, or I guess I keep hearing it, until the whisper turns into a poem or a song, or a monologue.

(pic: https://blog.trainman.in/blog/double-decker-bus-in-kolkata/)