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.