City of Joy

Moving from one state to another is said to make every Indian feel like a foreigner in their own country – such is the diversity that the nation enjoys. The pomp and splendor of its multi-faceted cultures gives it its own USP. Yet even in this difference, if we were to look closely one would find vestiges of a fine cultural inter-linking. Everything comes from somewhere and goes somewhere. Calcutta is that somewhere.

The age-old capital of the most glorious times of British India, the city still enjoys an ethereal sense of regality; so much so that at times it is in stark contrast to stark reality.  Having gotten its name from a nearby shrine to the fearsome Goddess Kali- Kalikata- this melting pot of societies can indeed be one of the most feared tests of survival for mankind.

He walked out of the station to see a sea of everything one could possible imagine. People were selling anything that could be sold, displaying all that was to be displayed (a service that could be availed of through a minimal token fee), hawking, gawking and walking. Little children, forcefully deformed at birth to appeal to one’s inner sympathy, begged on its streets. Old men and women, emotionally marred by years of slow deterioration of self-respect in the name of survival, sat at the entrances and exits with their alms-cups out-stretched. Those who could traversed the great platforms of the station foraging, like hyenas, for even traces of anything that could transformed into something for their smaller children sitting at home to eat. The older ones, those who had crossed the age of five, would have to fend for themselves.

 Stepping out into the city you were greeted by a cacophony of vehicular frenzy. The trademark yellow cabs- either Ambassadors or Padminis- awaited your beck and call. Double-decker buses leaned like little Pisas en ruote. Those who could not afford to support the prices of fuel, had the option of human horses, or rickshaw pullers as they were popularly known. He stood and stared at men who were spitting out paan, or blood, as they pulled their carriages laden with over a hundred kilos of fellow man or his goods. Having come from a more gentler part of the south of India, this was not the greeting he had expected.

Job Charnock was the Britisher responsible for the city’s birth. His name is still remembered in the little ways such as the name of a House in one of the city’s more prestigious schools – La Martiniere. The city was built to be the ideal center of business and pleasure. Its many industries gave Her Majesty a splendid income while the Hooghly river, daughter of the Ganga, provided the ports and harbours to transport its wares. Over the years it had been host to amongst the most outrageous displays of the power and wealth of the British empire. People came from all over Asia and Europe to par-take in the parties of the city. The Viceroy, decked in the representation of royalty in the nation, played host to all cultural, political and parasitical business enterprises of the day and age. It was a good time- for those who were important enough to enjoy it.

The house that had been set out for him was in a place called Ballygunge. It was originally one of the lesser areas of the cities and once upon a time had been a cheap investment with regard to real estate. The house, or rather apartment, was also plump in the middle of something else that was entirely new to him- a slum. Slums are a matter of perspective. For those who have, they are the lowest to which human habitation could sink- the nest of an unhygienic, often putrid, existence. For those who weren’t as fortunate, the slum was home. It gave them a roof on top of most of their heads. It gave them a community and a social reason to face each coming day. He walked through its narrow lanes, followed by an escort that consisted entirely of hungry stray mongrels and giggling children, gaping at the dark man, who in turn was gaping at everything he could, with the many bags and sunglasses. In the slum the only people who wore those, he would learn later, were the blind. A frail man was his landlord, one of the old generation of true Bengali ‘babus’ of the city. His wife, a round old lady, and he made the man far-away from home as welcome as he could possibly feel. One of the most special things about the house was that it would never have power-cuts. A place without its daily power-cut was almost unheard of in the city. Here however, the Chief Minister of the state had his residence in the same sub-grid as the house.

As a tribute to the success of the British Empire in India, a huge construction was under-taken in the early 20^th century. Contributions to the construction were made by those who wanted favours from the Raj and the construction in itself consisted of white marble from the same quarries that had supplied it to Shah Jahan. It was called the Victoria Memorial and it still stands in the midst of its 64 acres of blooming gardens.Another notable bit of architecture, though this bit significantly more useful, was the bridge across the Hooghly. It was renamed after the great Bengali Nobel laureate Rabindranath Tagore, as ‘RabindraSetu, but is however still popularly known as the Howrah Bridge.

In the evening he stepped out for some tea. A small clay pot filled with sweet milk, laced with traces of imports from Assam or Darjeeling (depending on the vendor’s imagination), was served to him along with a piping hot version of a samosa, called singharas. Food had always enticed him and he resolved to try out the best on offer. Sweets, he learnt, were an essential part of the Bengali life-style. The fragile sandesh that melted in your mouth to the succulent white orbs that were the globally famed rasagollas- all depravity and strife would be forgotten, if only for those few moments. Rice and the hilsa fish or freshly baked rotis and the ‘alu-dum’, a regional potato curry dish, constituted the staple diet of the city. On the way into the city he had tried from the Kharagpur (the home of the state’s IIT) platform, luchis and curry. Kathi rolls were kabas rolled in dough that apparently deserved special mention. Mistidoi, which is sweetened curd, and the Patuligur confectionery were additions to the palette. Each district of the state was renowned for its own particular fare, he was told. If he had the taste, he should visit Flury’s on Park Street or Nohoum’s in New Market. Kathleen and Monginis were also popular attractions. He returned home for his first night in the city, with a stomach, and by extension a mind, that was truly satisfied.

The great famines, the Partition, the wars with Pakistan and China all in turn had a direct impact on the great city. It brought in people by the millions – refugees from their own lands looking for ways and means to earn. Mosques, temples and churches adorned the city-scape. In the puja season the whole city would transform into a whirl of celebration. The beautiful women of the city would dress in the traditional white and red saree and the promenade carrying the effigies of Durga Ma and the elephant headed Ganesha would travel through the city to the mother-river. Mobs would throng the streets and the aura of a holy emancipation would be there for all who wanted it. Yet even the Gods make mistakes- they did after all create the Asuras. Yet they are there to save those should be saved- just like the city – they gave everybody a chance.

He knew there were many famous people from the city. He visited the Missionaries of Charity. People like Mother Teresa had always appealed to him. She represented what he saw to be beauty of the soul. Ronald Ross had found the cure for malaria in this very city. Social reform had come - be it Roy or Vivekananda. The spirit to remove oppression, however fanatically, was shown in the iconography of Netaji Bose. J. Bose and AmartyaSen brought academic and pratical glory to the city. Even in sports, the Dada of Indian cricket, SauravGanguly and even LeanderPaes had their homes here. Satyajit Ray had brought India her first ever Oscar. He then travelled to Shantiniketan.

The Banyan in the Botanical Gardens stretched its arms out so magnificently that atleast a thousand people could sit in its shade at any given time. Even the city’s nature was welcoming. Lotus leaves large enough to carry an entire person, floated in the lake. Squirrels adorned in the three-striped mark of the God Rama had made their homes all over the city. Chowringhee, it was said, even had its own very curious visitors that found affection for concrete jungles intermittently. The Royal Bengal Tiger was not just a symbol of a city but that of a nation. Alipore played host to the city-zoo. Always teeming with people, it is said to be most beautiful to visit in the gap between the monsoon rains. Then the resident peacock sheds all inhibition and dances for all asunder. The audience comes under one umbrella regardless of where they come from or where they shall go.

He was beginning to fall in love. True, the initial glimpses of its squalor might throw people off but the reality is Calcutta deserved to be respected- it offers a potential for redemption to mankind. In this city you could be whoever you wanted to be. Nobody would question you as long you lived and let live. Walking down its streets, he saw couples, hand in hand, smiles on their faces and eyes only for each other. After all, this was the ‘Paris of the East’. It brought back memories. It had been a long time since he had spoken to her. The city does that to you. It can make you feel lonely in a quaint personal way. It makes you long for those people that should be there with you. This was often a good thing. It made you do what was right. As he strolled back home, he realized that he was also happy. Tomorrow, he would go to work. He would be a part of a city that had its very own spot in the very history of greatness.

It is in Rabindra Sangeet that the city finds its soul. In this garden of song, the city’s many faces are revealed. It is a cycle that often overlaps- one of bichitra, puja, prakriti and prem. Diversity, worship, nature and love.It is akin to looking down on earth at the end of an 8^th day of creation. In its people you will find warmth even in the face of strife, life even in at the jaws of death and a joy that is unlike any other.

Once you have lived in its heart,

You would not look with wrath

At life in any which way

For it a city of learning

Of living, loving, forgiving and being

O Calcutta, you are my city of joy.