Letters

Those yellow worn out papers, stacked in a neat pile, kept carefully in the drawer of my grandmother, had always been an object of curiosity to me. Those are letters written by my grandfather during their courtship period. I just wonder with thrill, how it felt! The would-be bride has seen the would-be groom just for once, in front of a big joint family crowd. But the anxious bride-to-be comes to know the groom-to-be through his letters. Amazing. In some winter morning for the first time a letter came by post that had the name of my grandmother scribbled on it. The letter was carefully delivered by my grandmother’s immediate elder brother. And ah! The shyness. The 16 year old girl quietly tucks it in her blouse…and climbs the staircase of the terrace- the only place that promised some privacy. A thumping heart, a quivering hand, opened the first ever letter that was addressed to her. And out came a script written in beautiful handwriting. It told her a story of a boy of 23, who has joined his medical internship. The trials and hardships, the tensions and excitement, for the first time a stranger spoke to her through words. She was at the top of the world. The ending line- “bhalo theko” suddenly seemed the most beautiful phrase on earth.

Not the face, she fell in love with the hand that wrote. Now it was her turn. Shaky hands, began replying. She did not know how to address. She thought hard, in deep trouble, she suddenly recalled her mother addresses her father “shunchho”. Immediately the sixteen year old lass, wrote a “shunchho” at the beginning of the letter. She wrote about herself, but in that "herself" she talked more about her family members than herself. And as she ended the letter with beating heart she added a “bhalo theko”. Feeling a little guilty, a little lost, she handed it over to her brother. Anxious about the handwriting, anxious about the spelling mistakes, anxious about the language. What if he is angry, what if he never writes again,- all the anxiety were quiet when the second letter followed. This was the beginning of a letter stream!

This was the romance of letters. The touch of the hand, the scribbled mistakes, the blob of ink smeared at some place…so personal…so proximal. Not like the emails we write, not like the sms-es we type. It was a romance of a different level. We cannot give up technology, we cannot do without the mega fast emails and instant messages- communication has evolved to its apex---but still somewhere a little desire breathes, that wants back those heart-beating days of letters, those impatient wait, those thirsting eyes that kept looking on for the postman…Alas! letters thou art passé!

Lunatic Love

A city full of nitrogen monoxide, political disruption, stagnant career, potholed roads, reckless traffic, corruption and an umpteen more of such evils, is my MUSE. Just read a blog post in a blog called Calcutta Chromosome and somehow could not resist the temptation to chronicle my love.
I have never left this city for more than a month. Whenever I had been out of Kolkata, to satisfy my wanderlust, my love has redoubled. It’s like those quarrels, those no-talking nights that make a couple more cozy! The moment I return after a long vacation the “welcome to Calcutta” shining above the Howrah Bridge makes me miss a beat. The smell of the dirt and dust reminds me of the squalor, but at the same time it gives me that familiar feeling you get when you wake up every morning beside a snoring husband and miss it when he doesn’t snore. Bad or good, my habits are related to the grass roots of my city. I have not been to Switzerland, but I have travelled extensively in the Himalayas. But trust me, though I am a wander-fogle, during Durgapuja my eyes were all teary when the Upsana express drove out of Howrah station headed towards Haridwar. I promised myself right then, this is the first and the last time that I am leaving Kolkata during the Pujas. And after exploring the gangotri glacier, after having one of the best treks at Gomukh, I still remained true to my promise. When I returned, Puja was over, the brand new hoarding hanging half-heartedly at the road side barricades. The pandals were all undone, bamboos were being packed, it pained, oh ached. I missed several beats and sighed. It felt like I have missed my own birthday party. Yes the disheveled look of the city sent tremors across my mind. I missed my first Durga Pujo. I missed the dhyam kur kur dhaak, I missed the emptiness of Dashami. Yes Kolkata, Kolkata it is that can do this to me.
I curse my city, I frowned at its fault, I take part in debates that vouch for the degeneration that has set into the capital of Bengal; but when I hear any outsider abusing Kolkata, the bong in me shouts back “*****”! Just like the mother who beats her son every day, but is extremely defensive when the world attacks his flaws. Illogical perhaps, but who says that you should be logical in love? From the Tram to Phuckas; from the Gonga to Nandan; From Bookfair to Saltlake Stadium; From Lake to Gorer math; Kolkata is forever the mystic’s choice. A city that is an enigma, a city that has trodden down memory lane, and manages to evoke awe even with its innumerable limitations.- That’s Kolkata for you. You may find an umpteen number of reason to hate it, to go out of it, but I have only one reason to snuggle in its not-so-prosperous lap, that is my Lunatic Love. Let the world jeer at it, mock at it, it remains my City of Joy! And somewhere down the corner the people of the other metropolis, very secretly envies Kolkata; envies its ability to be so vociferous inspite of the ruins, be so spirited inspite of decline. It might sound cliched when we say we are proud of Rabindranath- but that does not in the least take away from the happy crowd clad in red bordered sari and white kurta pyjama-storming in Jorasanko and Rabindra Sadan-the craze does not demean the love. There might be a thousand Kolkatans who don’t much care about Rabi Thakur, but even their heart subconsciously beat when they hear a chorus singing “anondo dhara…”. Tell a Bong you are incompetent, he will smirk; but just try telling him he is uncultered- you are in for trouble. We are all rosy-eyed about our cultural acumen. Even the matrimonial ads boast about the bride or groom being “sanskriti-monosko”. Maybe it’s nothing but a archetype that has continued for ages. But can’t help lovng the attitude, the “antlami” that posses all of us during our green days when we walked “Nandan Chotwor” and took great pride in watching a Badal Sircar production. Take away all, you can’t take away the pride. The Incorrigibility is signature Kolkata. And am in love with that. Let biasness take the front seat-Mon Amour,my Kolkata- I love thee.