Edited by: Stuti Sharma
When I close my eyes I can vividly picture the innumerable number of mango trees in my little garden back in Calcutta. Last summer we had a bountiful yield of contrasting varieties. We distributed the yield in our neighborhood and in exchange for the mangoes we received the beaming smiles on the faces of our neighbors whom we had lived with since time immemorial. The aged widow next door even blessed me and my father as we handed her the gunny sack full of sumptuous delight. When I close my eyes, it is bouts of reminders that come to my mind and bring along a sense of peace and tranquility.
I was not always a part of Calcutta, having resided in Delhi for a span years of my childhood life, the transition of moving into a different city at 13 made me jittery, despondent and woeful. Bidding farewell to my kindergarten friends in Delhi and looking back at that moment in time, I often wonder- What kind of a person would I have been had we stayed in Delhi? Would I think about my ancestral home ever again? Don’t get me wrong, as a person who’s spent much of her life roaming the streets of Khan Market and buying silver jhumkas from Sarojini Nagar, I am extremely fond of the city. But today I am writing about Calcutta. It is my city and mine alone.
A memory is not very distinct from a token of remembrance. Growing up in Calcutta I was surrounded by such tokens galore. I miss home. The ancestral home was built by my grandparents after leaving Bangladesh with hopes of a newer life rich in love and other prospects. More than 70 years old, the house is sturdy, so much so every time I look at the blemishes on the wall and the cobwebs on one of black and white portraits of our family, I am constantly reminded of the hardships the house has endured and that its antiquity is a badge of pride and resilience. Striding away from the comfort of home lies the grandeur of old Calcutta. A symbol of the Bengal Renaissance, a period lost in time and the only evidence is now etched in films of Satyajit Ray and in the books on the shelves of The National Library in Alipore. Upon visiting, one is easily teleported back in time owing to the use of local trams and rickshaw pullers in the area. Vibrant yellow taxis and chatty sweetshop owners are the trademark of the city of joy.
Yes, life is slow in Calcutta. Life is not bound by corporate employees and busy metro lines but it is rather gentle and leisurely. The giant boats floating around in the Hooghly River are an ode to Calcutta, a city that has since time of its inception refused to give into the shackles of a fast-paced life. The open sweet-shops sell mouth-watering delicacies made out of cottage cheese, drenched in sugar syrup. One always has a good time chatting with the owners and workers at a sweet-shop, narrating hilarious stories. Whether it’s old college friends bonding over a bowl of warm rasgullas or housewives buying sandesh and putting them into their children’s tiffin boxes before their children run off to class. Cats circling the periphery of the fish markets in Howrah, waiters serving kulhad chai at the Old Coffee House on College Street and crows cawing on the banks of River Ganga. I remember all of it.
One of my fondest memories of Calcutta is the fun and frolic which used to start a month ago with the arrival of Durga Puja. Being one of the most widely celebrated festivals in the state, I recall staring outside the window and anticipating the moment when the idol of Goddess Durga would come home to her people. The goddess lives amongst the hearts of her devotees and brings along her blessings for everyone and then leaves after 10 days of pure delight. Like an ocean tide receding and ebbing away she goes back to her home leaving tears in the eyes of all who worshipped her throughout the entirety of the festival. The drowning of the idol is a symbol of letting go of those who are near and dear to your heart. It is instances like these that have shaped me into the person I am today. A wealth of cultural amelioration and all the bedtime stories passed down from one generation to the other. I miss my grandmother and her soothing touch and subtle humming which lulled me to sleep every night. She must be at home now, I’m sure that she’s crocheting some beautiful trinkets to pass the time and thinking of her childhood days back in Bangladesh.
It is impossible for me to pick and choose only a few souvenirs from the city I love so much. Calcutta is an amalgamation of all the memories that are dear to my heart. For me it is not just a city, it’s an emotion and a voice that collectively speaks to my lineage, heritage and culture. Just the way past memories form an integral part of an individual’s life and their personality, similarly I am emotionally tethered to all my memories from my hometown and penning down my thoughts makes me desirous of going back home. The sight of the blue bus, hanging out with friends near Victoria Memorial and the water-logged streets during monsoon, are all reminiscent of the things I have left behind. But I will return home soon because Calcutta is still my city. Mine alone.