It was a little after 5:30 in the evening in Calcutta. My mom was out
shopping for overpriced silver at New Market. Grandma's trying to put my
niece Meera to sleep. Little Meera's trying to do everything possible
to fight it.
And I'm thinking.
I'm thinking of the years I grew up here.
In this house.
In this para.
In this city.
I remember for instance going to salt lake and back, all in 22 bucks. Add another ten bucks for the cheap Charms I used to smoke. And another 15 bucks for the bloody [red] noodles I used to eat at gariahat.
Those days all the attractions that came with it were fully paid for under a hundred bucks a day.
At the most.
Love, for me was a matter of habit back in those days. I dated indiscriminately, and I fell in and out of it shamelessly. Pleasures were simple. A movie at Maidan maybe. Perhaps lunch somewhere economical and lonesome afterwards. And if my parents weren't home, maybe even a little hookie.
Good times.
I remember with a smile, the boat rides by the Ganga, and shooting balloons with an air rifle. I always managed to hit the coin. Haven't done either for ages now.
A couple of months back, I was on my roof with a mug of beer in my hand, enjoying the lovely winter sun. Occasionally, I smoke when I drink. And that day was one such occasion.
I was drinking and smoking and looking at my house.
Well, okay Grandpa built it in 1955. But if all legal deeds and taxes are to be worked out, it's safe to say that a small portion of this house is mine.
It felt nice to be on the roof of a house I own.
Never felt it before, surprisingly when I was living in it.
And perhaps, if I didn't have to fork out an amusing sum of money as rent every month for a house I didn't own, I wouldn't feel it even now.
For a minute there amidst all this over emotional thinking, I wanted to come back.
Bag, baggage, job.
But then that moment passed, and the probing mole inside me took over. And it asked me, in a tobacco drenched throaty grunt of a voice,
"If you loved this goddamn city so bloody much, why the fuck did you leave?"
And then, it all came back.
Like an avalanche of vomit, the reasons hit me one by one.
I left because of the lazy people here.
I left because of the quicksand of politics here. A quicksand of people trying to pull you down.
I left because people here are actually happy with an increment of 500 bucks a year.
I left because I don't like mediocrity. And mediocrity is unfortunately, all I see around me here. Till now.
I left because I wanted more.
More than this city could ever hope to give me.
I live in Pune now.
People say I've become a Pune-Boy. I hate it when they call me that.
But sometimes I can't help but wonder if perhaps they're right.
I'm far more confident now.
Sometimes a little too much.
I have a okay job.
I earn okay, I guess.
I get taken to expensive clubs and restaurants by my cousin and friends.
Slowly, I've joined this club thousands have been and will always be a part of.
A club that is torn between two cities.
A city that gave them seven buck egg rolls, cricket matches at the Maidan, peanuts by the lake and culture by the road.
And a city that gave them the cars, the houses, the bank accounts, the job satisfaction and the cosmopolitan life all of aspire to have.
All of us in the club frequently tell ourselves we'll come back.
Next year when we get married.
Calcutta is good for married life.
It doesn't happen.
So year after next.
When we have a kid.
Calcutta has the best schools.
Doesn't happen.
And so it goes, the promises to return and the excuses not to.
So here we are, coming for a Durga Pujo, coming for Christmas, coming for bhai phonta.
Coming to relive those old streets where we grew up.
Coming to have ten phuchkas for twelve bucks.
Coming to spend some time with family, relatives and family.
Coming to have a beer and a smoke on the roof our house.
Soon, we'll go back to our Bombay's and Delhi's and Pune’s and Americas.
And while driving our air conditioned luxury car to work, we'll tell ourselves in a whisper,
"Next year, we'll go back to Calcutta for good."
And I'm thinking.
I'm thinking of the years I grew up here.
In this house.
In this para.
In this city.
I remember for instance going to salt lake and back, all in 22 bucks. Add another ten bucks for the cheap Charms I used to smoke. And another 15 bucks for the bloody [red] noodles I used to eat at gariahat.
Those days all the attractions that came with it were fully paid for under a hundred bucks a day.
At the most.
Love, for me was a matter of habit back in those days. I dated indiscriminately, and I fell in and out of it shamelessly. Pleasures were simple. A movie at Maidan maybe. Perhaps lunch somewhere economical and lonesome afterwards. And if my parents weren't home, maybe even a little hookie.
Good times.
I remember with a smile, the boat rides by the Ganga, and shooting balloons with an air rifle. I always managed to hit the coin. Haven't done either for ages now.
A couple of months back, I was on my roof with a mug of beer in my hand, enjoying the lovely winter sun. Occasionally, I smoke when I drink. And that day was one such occasion.
I was drinking and smoking and looking at my house.
Well, okay Grandpa built it in 1955. But if all legal deeds and taxes are to be worked out, it's safe to say that a small portion of this house is mine.
It felt nice to be on the roof of a house I own.
Never felt it before, surprisingly when I was living in it.
And perhaps, if I didn't have to fork out an amusing sum of money as rent every month for a house I didn't own, I wouldn't feel it even now.
For a minute there amidst all this over emotional thinking, I wanted to come back.
Bag, baggage, job.
But then that moment passed, and the probing mole inside me took over. And it asked me, in a tobacco drenched throaty grunt of a voice,
"If you loved this goddamn city so bloody much, why the fuck did you leave?"
And then, it all came back.
Like an avalanche of vomit, the reasons hit me one by one.
I left because of the lazy people here.
I left because of the quicksand of politics here. A quicksand of people trying to pull you down.
I left because people here are actually happy with an increment of 500 bucks a year.
I left because I don't like mediocrity. And mediocrity is unfortunately, all I see around me here. Till now.
I left because I wanted more.
More than this city could ever hope to give me.
I live in Pune now.
People say I've become a Pune-Boy. I hate it when they call me that.
But sometimes I can't help but wonder if perhaps they're right.
I'm far more confident now.
Sometimes a little too much.
I have a okay job.
I earn okay, I guess.
I get taken to expensive clubs and restaurants by my cousin and friends.
Slowly, I've joined this club thousands have been and will always be a part of.
A club that is torn between two cities.
A city that gave them seven buck egg rolls, cricket matches at the Maidan, peanuts by the lake and culture by the road.
And a city that gave them the cars, the houses, the bank accounts, the job satisfaction and the cosmopolitan life all of aspire to have.
All of us in the club frequently tell ourselves we'll come back.
Next year when we get married.
Calcutta is good for married life.
It doesn't happen.
So year after next.
When we have a kid.
Calcutta has the best schools.
Doesn't happen.
And so it goes, the promises to return and the excuses not to.
So here we are, coming for a Durga Pujo, coming for Christmas, coming for bhai phonta.
Coming to relive those old streets where we grew up.
Coming to have ten phuchkas for twelve bucks.
Coming to spend some time with family, relatives and family.
Coming to have a beer and a smoke on the roof our house.
Soon, we'll go back to our Bombay's and Delhi's and Pune’s and Americas.
And while driving our air conditioned luxury car to work, we'll tell ourselves in a whisper,
"Next year, we'll go back to Calcutta for good."
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