Thoughts from a debate

Even the most mundane of our days can surprise us. A day stuck within the shackles of schedule and sameness with a moist depression in its air yet a day which threw a debate, churned questions from my mind and finally sent me to write while the voices inside me kept calling ‘the city of joy’.

On a seemingly different note, few days back seated on my balcony as I looked at my city a whole gamut of thoughts came running down the mind’s alley, each unique in its colour. The city and I are more like childhood sweethearts; growing with each other, growing in each other.  

My earliest memories with the city day back to the times when, as a little kid, I would see off my father prior to his impending voyage. At a tender age when my hands would reach only a few limited inches, the miles that rapidly grew between me and dad as I returned back from airport would sadden me. Thus I would climb up the backseat of the cab with my face nested on my hands and try to measure the growing meters. Then as the tiny tears would blur my vision sketching the last traces of my father’s smiling face, I would look at the city dressed in evening trying to realize a flurry of activities. The little lights shimmering in all the brightness which a handful of watts provided would reflect the image of a metropolis busy in itself; its people running errands, engaged in esoteric talks, coming and going with the many waves in the river.  As I would keep watching the city, my own salty water would sink down my throat with something heavy tied to it. Perhaps it was my first experience of missing a loved one around me, that of pain which comes from tired eyes that long to see someone you love unconditionally, someone you are born to love. But I was just a kid with my mind being a constant toy to me. Thus due to its own fickle behaviour the heavy thoughts would slide down after appointing the eyes to observe the surrounding events. The orange sky, the backward view growing till far away as the car would pace through the roads, dimming lights, noisy people together formed a vivacious background thereby introducing Calcutta to me, as it was known then.

Changes are inevitable; the truth itself being a cliché now, owing to its repetitive usage. As I grew through the ages to become who I am the city also changed. This was a city of bridges but flyovers were laid upon it. It had little houses with green windows of stained glass. Now there stand high-rises scraping the sky as their heads point to stars high above in a steady acclivity. The city used to be happy in little, contented in mediocrity even though excellence was not a scarce thing. Once a city to recline and suddenly with one rotation of the earth round the sun everything changed; the city began to run. Lives which once intersected to connect now tend to grow apart and live discrete. With families falling and the layers of moss over Sir Charnock’s mausoleum becoming thicker every monsoon, the city grew up one day altogether, unannounced. She became Kolkata.
But this was the city of lucid ponds with white swans floating in it beneath the pale moonlight. And though it is on a mission to deplete potholes from its roads; the broken banks of Ganges still now has plenty of old stories gathered by the dust and rain and Nor’westers after a sultry summer afternoon. As the wind brings in the fresh fragrance of seasons’ loom my mind would unfold its many layers, taking in every little bit of nature that the city sends at my doorsteps.
The city built its flyovers yet a man chose to climb up the Howrah Bridge one busy morning reminding it where the essence lies.

I grew up in the nineties and with mobile phones coming to an affordable reach since a time much less than a decade I can remember the days when people chose to visit relatives over socializing with myriad faces through Facebook. I cannot say why, but I always felt it was in the city air, something which brings together people and binds them in ties of mutual fondness, hospitability and heartfelt amity. Goodness is overrated, even fellow feelings send us warmth, make us feel wanted and loved by friends and family, thereby turning us to people likeable by all and sundry. Thus all those countless afternoons drenched in absolute serenity when I sat beside my sleeping mother to read poetry, the city would distract me by telling its birds to crow. And as the sound would break my mind’s sauna, it would fly away with her to far-off friends and long lost relatives. I believe there was something addictive in the heat outside, not letting me to catch a sleep. It dragged me aside and told me to walk and visit people who remain only in the submissive part of conscience. I remember I would search them in the sky, then white in the heat of a glowing sun and finally the intricate patterns of clouds would descend to my vision drawing faces I may or may not know. Those were my days of pastel colours and drawing books with poetries being murmured all the time. Santiago would sit beside the sea shores to narrate his tales of fishing while I would ponder in awe about Atticus Finch, to become a little more like him. The hours I travelled with the city, in spirit, from one lane to another, were the ones spent in serendipity. In those innumerable rendezvous the city moulded my being with tenderness never lose no matter what; for the breeze which soothes a scorching afternoon works the best and the longest.

Occasionally, during the monsoons my family would visit my uncle’s place in the suburbs. My friendship with the city roads started this way and they gained conclusion in my romance with the bridge. This journey I mentioned used to be an elongated exhaustive procedure and though I never mind hitting off the road, one thing which I despise about the city is its miserable traffic life. Motion gives me a sense of accomplishment; like I have covered few miles to reach a place better than where I was, both in body and soul. Thus it is always easier to flutter in imagination while inside a speeding car than being suspended timelessly in stagnant traffic jams. I hate waiting in time. It feels much like an abeyance with every moment giving the feel that something is about to happen, perhaps a hint of epiphany or the sweet kiss of lovely memory, but the waiting continues with every up and down breath. The concrete roads packed with beast like vehicles are never fascinating but when time stops you at Howrah Bridge be sure to enjoy the moment while it lasts. Most of the people around me had a purpose and destination with them as they mounted the bridge. May be they got too carried away in those more important issues of life to savour the moist smell of the river. Their eyes then blued by the tension faced all day fail to appreciate the display of colours up in the sky. But I sat in those claustrophobic buses at most once in many months as if to encourage some queer fantasy, and so it was. For above those ashes blowing out of the many gifts of industries there is a crimson hue inviting the silver crescent inclined at a constant angle looking at me. There is nothing new in the moon, it stares like it does every day, pointlessly, disappearing in the morning and then return to regression the next night. However seeing it slide between the flexible aluminium grills which hold the bridge was more like a funny play.  I cannot say for sure whether they were my own efforts to see the dark side of moon but as a matter of fact I did hear a lot of Floyds during those random journeys. The best thing about Floyd and poetry is that they accompany you in times when nothing else seems to be suitable enough to sit beside melancholy. They descend while you traverse through the bylanes of senility; encircle you with brittle moments acquiring a sense of fulfilment through pleasures and plights of yesterday. And in subtle sensations as Floyd would take me from one to road to another the moments in which I then sat useless appear to be precious. Finally as the bridge ends the music faints away and I look back at it for one last time. Suddenly there in the grilled vision of shining white rods, would appear the face of that unknown man hanging from this massive structure in cantilevers. I believe I feel something for him, the only person among the mass of many who was not disgusted by the many woes of urban transportation as he climbed up the bridge. To be frank he is the man I want, one who will choose a structure of nostalgia rather than catchy flyovers. And in a way he achieved what I could not. He conquered the place where the city leaves its soul, climbed up its height and felt that moment in which time was suspended below because of him, the only one man to see the city from a point where the city failed to mirror itself.

Autumns are always pleasant. Probably it is more like a general rule round the globe, the one which makes us love this season and stay happy while it lasts. Autumn is more like a charming song which relaxes the mind after its laborious days are gone. More so for the city as the festivals start in this time. The city induces the happiness in its breeze into us. Does it succeed?
Tolstoy believed ‘happiness is an allegory’ and the wise man he was, many would agree to his prized thoughts. Honestly, happiness to some extent is ornamental, exemplified. The rarity of it within the boundaries of our daily routine prompts us to make it all the more gorgeous than its original form. I mean we put in an effort, to show that we are in joy, trying to make it as vivid and conspicuous as possible. When I was young and often indulged in the frivolous measures to attain happiness, this thought did not cross my head. Like most other people I would wander about considering my new attires as an important mean to boast about the joyous moment then set in me. But one July morning, a lot of rain washed away every earthly remain of my brother from me and everything changed drastically. I grew up overnight, became a lot older, crossing the milestones of a couple of years together. Coming to think of it now it wonders me thinking how much of a simpleton I was before. Not knowing, not realising most of the truths of life. Little by little the house of cards which my childhood was fell apart. The lust for golden earrings or fancy toys shattered in one blow of destiny as Tolstoy’s famous saying became the poignant fact of my life,
“Happiness is an allegory, unhappiness a story.”
And the city, which used to be the playground of my games, became my companion in this story. Pain is precious, I have always felt since that day; the pain of loss which has triggered so much sensibility in me. It ended my brief sojourn beneath the blanket of imbecility and commenced the sacred journey which I am continuing now. The day I lost my brother became wet and blurred out in tears. But the next morning as the city welcome the new sunlight to dry the foggy windows of my heart, I felt thankful to the soul which I always though it possessed. Since that day it became easier to touch my inside. Little things would perhaps etch lines deeper than required on me. But this city always taught me to light my neighbour’s house along with my own. The pleasure of sharing, of giving and receiving was a great lesson which I learnt from her. The city has shared its grace since time immemorial, even given it to the promising New Delhi (the present capital of the country), thereby ensuring its own fall from it. The jolts of emotions which would easily stir the foundations of my inside corridors often made me weak, gave me sadness. But it is the story of growth, for one who has not been sad can never possibly imagine what happiness feels like.
I never started my essay with the tale of a July morning as my memories are not restricted to it only. The autumn months and the November wind invite the Goddess to descend to our hearts. The city glistens and glitters, as a loud merriment casts its spell over her. She opens up every gate as the celebrations pave their way through them. And amidst this loud sensation of mirth she secretly passes her annual gift to me. This feeling is exhilarating, it keeps me thrilled. As the deities would arrive at the human portals I start to feel they have brought news from my dead brother. The memories I was speaking about before, the tangerine pictures come alive one by one. My possible pasts were still alive somewhere deep down. This thought itself has such a utopic aftertaste that it makes me jubilant, finally taking me beyond the shallow ponds of material pleasures. From the hour of departure begins the hour of waiting for a new year, a new autumn and a fresh display of memories. Of course I do not fail to mention the Goddess to tell my brother that I love him, before she goes miles away. I am satisfied even within the existing traces of grief. Since the little I get from the festivities means a lot to me, I never leave the city for more scenic venues during the Pujas.

This city has given me much more than sorrows, joys or commonly describable experiences. Thus as the debate questioned her essence, I recalled all that I have written till now in a breath. If I attempt to fathom what the city has been to me, I will anyway fall short of words. I cannot measure what she did for me using units of industrial opportunities, medical facilities or other practical terms. Words are poor translators of the mind and they have summarised their inability by coining the term inscrutable. So is this city to me and the essence of her. Then again, as a mysterious guitarist strums a Led Zeppelin song in his guitar I feel heavy inside.

“I don’t know how I’m gonna tell you,
I can’t play with you no more”

My tryst with the city is coming to an end. The selfish friend I am, I have to desert her to grab more attractive opportunities. She who has flourished me with Tagore novels and rock music will stay behind as my golden aspirations would drag me to the banks of Thames. Do you remember your first friend from school? I guess most of us do, like there are few things we are meant to remember. The city was one of my first friends who in time became the guide and the philosopher as well. But like the first friend in school, I need not remember her, as she travels with me wherever I go. With the much knowledge it has given me the most prominent is the one which tells me to return to her after savouring the western delights. Once I myself wrote ‘everything lasts, but not much longer.’ Now I feel otherwise. Some things remain even without your feeling that they do. Some things just soar in your being like the air which fills you through every breath. I have lived, laughed cried and fallen in love here. Everything which means anything to me finds its roots by the bridge of cantilevers as the ships and steamers start singing the homecoming song from the minute they start going away from it.