Kolkata Karcha
It’s been a whole year – full 365 days – that I have been living in Delhi. Away from home, far from friends, beyond the confines of my book-stuffed room of childhood memories…
I have always dreamt of leaving Kolkata and traveling far and wide. The bumpy roads, crowded buses, nosey neighbours, wasted talents and frustratingly small ‘situations vacant’ columns in newspapers prompted huge sighs and ardent wishes to leave that ‘blasted’ place. Little did I know then – how deeply I am rooted in Kolkata, my lazy, lovely Kolkata.
The dazzles of Delhi have worn out long back. Not that I don’t like what I have got. Once I wanted a room with a view. Now I have a whole balcony – all to myself! I can even lie down in my thin bed and look at the sparkling stars and the moon outside. For three thousand and two hundred rupees a month, that’s something I get daily. My small white-washed room, grumpy kitchen, oddly placed wash basin and of course – the balcony – they are something that Delhi has given me. And I am happy about it all.
Human desires are elusive, really. Delhi has given me my moon – and yet I look at it and wonder if my friends in Kolkata are looking at it too. I often think about the ‘jheel paar’ – and our ritualistic Addas at that lakeside heaven of Jadavpur University. People might still be spending lazy hours there, blown away in smoke, music and brain storms. The chap outside the gate might still be running in and out with fuming glasses of lemon tea. Gobindo Da – our ever-smiling librarian, tempting books at the Departmental Library, seminar rooms, the Profs we loved, the Profs we gossiped about, and the Profs we adored … they might all be there. Only I can’t be there.
There are times when I wake up in the morning and decide that I would dedicate the day to window shopping at Gariahat, only to realise moments later that those windows are far, far away from my door at Delhi. A walk down Park Street, a movie at Nandan, Bratya Basu at Academy, hard bargain at College Street and burning midnight oil before M.Phil dissertation … today it all seems a dream to die for.
And yet, and yet…
I feel like thanking Delhi for giving me my room, along with a balcony (which, I must say, is a rare privilege for migrant, middle class, career-seekers like me, in Delhi). Thank you Delhi for making me realise how precious my land, my people, my language and my existence is to me.
Thank you for making me feel the love I nurture for that ‘blasted city’ of mine.
It’s been a whole year – full 365 days – that I have been living in Delhi. Away from home, far from friends, beyond the confines of my book-stuffed room of childhood memories…
I have always dreamt of leaving Kolkata and traveling far and wide. The bumpy roads, crowded buses, nosey neighbours, wasted talents and frustratingly small ‘situations vacant’ columns in newspapers prompted huge sighs and ardent wishes to leave that ‘blasted’ place. Little did I know then – how deeply I am rooted in Kolkata, my lazy, lovely Kolkata.
The dazzles of Delhi have worn out long back. Not that I don’t like what I have got. Once I wanted a room with a view. Now I have a whole balcony – all to myself! I can even lie down in my thin bed and look at the sparkling stars and the moon outside. For three thousand and two hundred rupees a month, that’s something I get daily. My small white-washed room, grumpy kitchen, oddly placed wash basin and of course – the balcony – they are something that Delhi has given me. And I am happy about it all.
Human desires are elusive, really. Delhi has given me my moon – and yet I look at it and wonder if my friends in Kolkata are looking at it too. I often think about the ‘jheel paar’ – and our ritualistic Addas at that lakeside heaven of Jadavpur University. People might still be spending lazy hours there, blown away in smoke, music and brain storms. The chap outside the gate might still be running in and out with fuming glasses of lemon tea. Gobindo Da – our ever-smiling librarian, tempting books at the Departmental Library, seminar rooms, the Profs we loved, the Profs we gossiped about, and the Profs we adored … they might all be there. Only I can’t be there.
There are times when I wake up in the morning and decide that I would dedicate the day to window shopping at Gariahat, only to realise moments later that those windows are far, far away from my door at Delhi. A walk down Park Street, a movie at Nandan, Bratya Basu at Academy, hard bargain at College Street and burning midnight oil before M.Phil dissertation … today it all seems a dream to die for.
And yet, and yet…
I feel like thanking Delhi for giving me my room, along with a balcony (which, I must say, is a rare privilege for migrant, middle class, career-seekers like me, in Delhi). Thank you Delhi for making me realise how precious my land, my people, my language and my existence is to me.
Thank you for making me feel the love I nurture for that ‘blasted city’ of mine.
posted by Ananya at 1:09 PM
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