A page in history

My head pressed against the window sill of the train, my eyes catching a glimpse of the rolling landscape and squinting to ward off the playful advances of the sun, I looked like an excited child on it’s first ever train journey. Yellow fields, laden with marigold flowers, green banana trees stooping down with the weight of the ripeness of the banana bunch, fields stretching till the eye can see, sumptuous with rice grain covered with brown husk, an odd farmer running a sickle on the produce were the scenes that were common on the east coast. I really thanked my stars that my purse strings were slightly tight this month which had made me to settle for a train journey rather than a flight. I felt the sweltering second class boogie turn into paradise instantly.

The cries of “misti doi” forced me to peel my eyes off the lavishness that nature was displaying in my window pane. I hailed the hawker and soon was gulping down spoon after spoon of the sweetened treat served in a matka [earthen pot]. The vast expanse of the Chilka lake was the next show that nature had instore. I watched the birds swooping down deftly, to catch an unsuspecting prey. The wind blew across the waters and mind felt lazy, my eyes obeyed command and soon was counting the Zzzz’s.

When I got up, we were five minutes away from the main station. I collected my baggage and spotted my uncle in the crowd and waved over to him. The station was so crowded, that my hand seemed to be screaming for help, drowning in a sea of people. He came over to me and said “Just stick along with me”, I felt like 007’s assistant with a mission and purpose in my mind. I closely followed my uncle, as he veered through people –sitting, standing and sleeping, through baggage and vendors, with a kind of professionalism. We made it to the taxi stand and a stream of yellow ambassadors greeted us. The formalities being done, we got into a taxi, which drove us from the arched enclave into the openness, where the Howrah bridge stood tall and proud, greeting all who come to Kolkatta. Illuminated with neon and purple lights, the Howrah bridge stood like a monarch, invincible and bedecked with jewels. As we drove across the Victoria memorial, through the Dalhousie square to Kaligath and finally to Rashbehari avenue, my head was bobbing out of the window unwilling to miss anything the city has to offer me. My lodging was arranged in a place called “banana leaf”. South Indians are renowned at making their home anywhere dishing out steaming hot idlis and sambhar to the world. As the journey was 2 days long, fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

The next day, I set out to see most of the city, courtesy the Kolkatta tourism. We went around in a pink coloured bus, which reminded me of Honeymoon Travel Pvt Ltd. We had a tour guide speaking in English, Hindi and an occasional Bengali, which he immediately corrected. Belur math, Dakshineswar kali temple, Jain temple, Victoria memorial, Eden Gardens, Calcutta panorama [which is a museum] and SubashChandra Bose’s house were on the agenda. The erstwhile capital of India, during the British’s regime stands proud of it’s blend of heritage with modernism. Don’t be surprised at a dilapidated building, with slight touch up here and there, housing posh interiors of Lawernce and Mayo or Tissot within it. The common government offices – the GPO, the High Court, the Income tax office have got such an imperial look about them. The Governor’s House [Rajyapal Bhavan] stood in a regal stance, conscious of the admiring looks the tourists were throwing at it.
The Calcutta panorama, was a glimpse of the history of Calcutta, it’s rulers, it’s leaders, it’s people, it’s tradition, it’s art, it’s cinema on the whole, it’s essence. As we passed room after room in the museum, we were part of history, part of Rabindro sangeet, awed by Satyajit Ray and Utpal Dutt and the likes of Amartya Sen. There was a fairly new technological addition to the museum, where about 9 computer monitors were coordinated to produce a movie, on a huger screen. As we sifted pages in history, we traveled in a time machine to a different era, an era which gave birth to the current era. At the end of it all, I was touched, I was wounded, I was healed. I felt a surge of nationalist spirit gush into my blood. On my way back I saw everything outside me in a different light. It was as if the red brick constructions were a witness to the significant happenings in history. The walls I felt were screaming out their anguish in mute silence, trying to tell tales of injustice in the British rule, of the people who suffered, who fought bravely and of whom not only Calcutta but the nation is proud of. I spent a silent evening as if observing silence for all the martyrs.

The next day, my bubbly self resurfacing, I explored New Market, Garihat and other places shopping for trinkets, clothes, purses and others. Found a suitable gift for friends and family. Bought the traditional “shako” and “pollo”, the red and white bangles which are worn by the married Bengali women. Visited the Kaligath, Kali temple, who is believed to be a powerful Goddess and is continually being worshipped with deep red hibiscus flower garlands. The fish market is another place in Calcutta which is easily identified by the pungent smell that wafts from not only the fish but the cumulative affect of the sweat of the vendors.

“God dropped a piece of shit and it took the shape of Calcutta” – [dunno who].

Probably, the dunno who must have only visited north Calcutta, the fish market or the Sealda station to make such a bold comment. Well, it is not applicable to the present Calcutta in it’s entirety and it would definitely be unjust to compare Calcutta to shit, with it’s trams, metro underground trains, it’s heritage and it’s cuisine. At night, snuggled to bed after feasting on typical Bengali food, punctuated with lots of sweets - misti doi, sandes, kheer kodam, rasgulla.

The next day, bid adieu to this city, which amazed me, disgusted me, touched me, and left me with a desire to come back again.