The first week I spent in Kolkata reminded me of the period 8 years back, when I had stepped out of home for the very first time. Although, I have been to a lot of places in these 8 years, this place made me feel like a lost puppy more so in mental terms than in physical terms – it was a new unknown city where people spoke a language I hardly understood. I was miles out of my comfort zone and it was not some dream that would end as soon as I wake up, shivering, but with a feeling of comfort that it was all untrue and I was in my very own bed. This was reality and it would be the truth for a long long time ahead- till the time I had developed an opinion, of either love or hate; for I believe all cities leave an aftertaste, sweet, salty sour, bitter or tasteless depending on their own cultures and an individual’s previous experiences – there is nothing as “mild” city.
I come from Delhi- rather, that was my last destination. I had spent the past 5 years of my life there. To say that I was in love with this full blooded city would be like making a mole hill out of the mountain. The relationship cannot be encompassed in single worded emotions. I had felt everything- right from extreme love to extreme hate and everything in between. I had danced in overcrowded discs surrounded by friends and under the stars all alone. I had cried when the city had shed tears of blood and laughed when she had rejoiced. I had admired its history and hated the high handed ness of its system. I had soothed myself with those long walks from India Gate to Rashtrapati Bhavan and hated those lecherous crowds in the DTC buses. I had felt pride during the first rides on the new flyovers and had been ashamed of the callousness of the people. A relationship that had come to a full circle, in every sense.
I had cried and spent sleepless nights before leaving Delhi. No other place seemed more beautiful and inviting or more repelling. I wanted to be there and yet not be there. When the confusion used to become too intense, I tried to pacify my heart with the hope that I could always come back and stay here once my “awarapan and banjarapan” came to an end. But the heart had replied that even though a part of my soul would never leave this place it would never be the same again…no amount of money would return the pleasure of student days or that of spending money from your first salary in Lajpat Nagar and SN Market. No riches could bring back those hours spent in company or solitude in Dilli Haat, Tuglaqabad fort, Lodhi Gardens, Janpath, Shri Ram Centre, British Council, railway station, airport and ISCON temple. Not to forget my own room…those hours when my physical body had just laid on the marble floor staring at the ceiling while mentally I went to every conceivable corner of the universe…places I had dreamed of and places where I am going right now. It felt strange that the realisation of one long cherished dream meant breaking of so many other beautiful realities- of being close to home and being in a city that changed its mood every hour of the day, a city with thousand flavors – the city of dijins. And wasn’t it by my own choice that I was moving out? Ok, maybe a difficult choice – to be away from the past that tortured me day and night. Maybe it was the painful memories that were driving me out of Delhi. Maybe I was running away from reality - it felt simply horrid to be in the same city when the wounds of the heart were still open. Maybe I was just trying to give myself some healing time plus a big time career growth. I had promised myself a new beginning and with sheer determination wiped off all associations, links and memories of the so called temptation making sure not to include some hugely “nice” people in my “to remember” list. It was just picturesque places, unfinished chapters, Kodak moments and nature’s blossoms that I was leaving behind.
My first impression about Kolkata was that this is the land where worker is the king. The pre booked taxi from our regular “niche” (because it’s grossly overpriced) official vendor failed to arrive even one hour after my landing, for no apparent reason. But when it did, my plans to blast the guy were sent into cold storage. For this was no ordinary guy…here was a guy who could speak 4 languages (English, Hindi, Bengali and behold!! French) in a well polished manner, looked scholarly and if provoked could speak fairly well on a gamut of topics-politics, literature, Rabindra sangeet, places to visit. Mind you, this was not one of its kind experience…almost all cab drivers and other service providers (who were bred in Bengal or had been there for ages) followed this trend…they would follow the trend without exception…they arrived late, were humble & apologetic without giving any specific reasons for delay and then they would charm their way with their service and knowledge. To many readers this may sound strange, but then service partners in Delhi are best known for their shrewdness, roughness, staring at female passengers in the rear view mirror) and money minting abilities.
The first thing I did on arriving to the company Guest House was to order for a vegetarian lunch…I was enormously hungry and had heard loads of praises about the fare dished out by the cook in the guest house. What my brilliant mind had missed was the “association” between the people who had praised the food -all these praises had come from Bengali friends...half of whom were not hugely aware of what North Indian food is supposed to taste like and the other half were (by default) thinking of machi-bhaat while praising. I couldn’t eat beyond the 4th spoon…the food tasted and smelled different-that was when the fish and mustard smell entered my nose for the first time. But then when in the evening hunger took over the sense of taste and smell I mixed cold rice and curd and finished it off right to the last grain…Yo!! Kudos to the Survivor!!!
The next day being a Monday, I was at the office at sharp 8:56 AM (office begins at 9AM)…only to realize that the office was as deserted as the Sahara Desert at noon. Not a soul was in sight, not even the security guards were at their place. The unofficial work hours started around 11 AM – a lesson that I was quick to learn, for the very next day and every other day after that I reached office at 12:00 noon. Alas! One of the biggest fallacies of humans is that they grow accustomed to comfort within seconds. Anyways…no harm so long the work is being done.
An interesting aspect of Kolkata is the lunch hour at MNC’s. Each of them has their cafeteria that serves what I would call a reasonably good lunch. Yet 90% of the employees queue on the road outside the office, to eat at the dhabas and at the food stalls of “dibba vallas”, sharing space with their project managers, the freshers in their teams, taxi drivers, laborers beggars, the x, y, z of the city and a wide assortment of animals including cows, dogs and pigs. No prizes for guessing the level of hygiene and the kind of raw material being used to cook. It isn’t a big deal to see the dog licking the plate from which u just ate. It would be “washed” by dipping it once with 25 other plates in already blackened waters and wiped with the “gamcha” around the vendor’s neck…the same gamcha with which he fights off Kolkata’s humidity, the dust of the stall and God knows what. Be it machi-bhaat, chai, fish pakoras, chicken biryani, jhaalmuri, coconut water, rotis, vegetables, juices, puchkas – u name it and its there. If u feel giddy reading the discussion…well come over and see…if you don’t eat there u feel like an idiot or an outcaste. Call it the eating ritual- I’m very much a part of it now.
Bengalis are a helpful lot. Absolute strangers will help you out…unlike Delhi where your very own neighbour may be plotting your murder. Crime rate is low (remember its all relative) and thefts few and far flung. But then they are loud and subtlety is unheard of. These people have developed their own telephone etiquette which can be summed as “The volume of the speaker will be inversely proportional to the distance of the listener.” This principle would be especially applicable to people sitting on the same floor. For someone who sits in the next cubicle people would use the speaker phone…so that everyone else can hear the speaker followed by his voice on the phone - due to the minute time lag in transmission. For someone who would sit say 50 meters away the proud Bengali would just stand up at his seat and yell in his “buland awaaz” (the phone would disappear at such moments) Irritating!! Worse still, sit with 2 Bengalis or 200 of them and u would soon be lost while they squabble away in Bangla. It’s the unsaid rule of the land-conference calls, group chats, meetings, informal talks, be it on tea table, rest rooms or lifts, in which more than one Bengali is there would be conducted as much as possible in Bangla, leaving others high and dry. Even the most senior of the managers follow this law. But then a law is a law, no exceptions. I’m learning- both the laws of the land and the language-where most of the words end with a “chi” or a “bo”.
The festive air that the city wore made me feel lonelier…people who might have otherwise talked to me were busy to finish off their work so that they could leave office early to be with their friends and family. Late evenings while returning home the city looked like the Goddess herself…all decked up with finery. I longed to be a part of the milling circle of friends and family members who did Pandal hopping all night long- while I sweated it out at office, doing additional work for my Bengali colleagues. By the 5th day of Durga Puja, 70% of the people were on vacation. I wondered and wondered if that was the scenario in a company where every third person is in a client facing role, providing what is supposedly 24*7 support what would be the scenario in schools and other organizations? I’m still wondering….
Enter Saturday. I managed to find a friend from Delhi who was home for Puja. He promised to take me around the blessed city. My plans of visiting the pandals, the Victoria memorial, Park Street and Planetarium were ruined thanks to the worker union’s bandh and protests happening all over the city due to the ousted Nano project. On Sunday as soon as I dressed to go out it started raining and rained cats and dogs, non stop for four and a half hours. Needless to say it was useless to step out- Kolkata is known for its water clogging and traffic jams. All that was left for me to do was to go round the nearby pandals later in the evening all alone.
It’s always fun to explore a new place, more so when the language is a barrier. One gets to learn new things- it almost turns the communicators into toddlers who cannot speak but are determined to convey their messages. My expeditions revealed the rich heritage mostly hidden in piles of dirt, rotting flesh on human body(Kolkata is one place where thousands stay in slums-dying a painful death right from the day they are born) and fish smell of the city accentured by innovative, educated people and a society that believes in team work. So what that they are lazy. So what if their pride often crosses into snobbishness. So what if they still load praises on Rabindra Nath Tagore and Satyajit Ray –as if what they did just a few months back. That goes to show that these people have a good memory. With time I have learnt the intricacies and hope to perfect them in future.
After a while, things started looking better as I made more friends and grew accustomed to the fish and mustard smell that followed me everywhere right from Guest house to my cubicle in office to the Puja Pandals. Like the boxer in the Vodafone ad. Or like the warm heartedness of the people. It’s after all just a perspective. A perspective that’s bound to change as I explore more, mix with the locals and yes learn to speak Bangla!! Maybe some day in near future as I set the harness for further shores I feel the same companionship for Kolkata as I had felt for all my previous stations. Happenings that would soon become cherished memories have started pouring in- it’s just a matter of time that they jostle around for space in my diary. Just a matter of time…
