I was barely eight when baba started taking me out on trips to places in and around the city. In a few weeks time, it became a ritual. Come Saturday morning and the father daughter duo would set out on journeys that sent me to dizzy heights for the next few days till another Saturday came knocking…
By the time I was ten, I had been to a zillion places and had learnt about a zillion more.
Victoria.check.college street.check.town hall.check.potoldanga check. Marble palace.check.check.check.check…
I had ridden a pony near Victoria. head bobbing, pigtails swinging in utter ecstasy.
I went for plays,ma baba in tow. and being all of eleven twelve I understood little of what was being vociferously delivered on stage. I would even sink back into the seat when the actors were particularly outrageous and even incoherent by my limited-vocabulary-standards!
I had dolefully watched a naked potbellied child being mercilessly beaten by his mother near entally and had cried for days at an end till there was nothing left to mourn for.
And in the process of growing up, these images and a thousand more got firmly entrenched in my memory. Images that soon spread out to form an obscure collage of the city-images held by a meshwork of invisible strings that in due course gave me a notion of the city. My city. A city that gradually became a part of my growing existenceAn indispensable part of me- a part I was so passionately in love with. And still am….
And even though the Saturday sojourns have been long out of practice still feel those strings tugging me. Just as they did some thirteen years back.
The collage has slowly unfurled itself. It's not as obscure as it once was.
With time, the pigtails, the head bobbing, the starry eyes, the puerile prattle all became a thing of past.
The city, too, shed her inhibitions, pushed all the dust and grime underneath the carpet and underwent a stark metamorphosis. A flyover here. A shopping mall there. Some coffee shops and bookstores thrown in between. A this. A that.
tra la la la la..
Someone changed her name from Calcutta to kolkata.and a thousand more faltered with her pronunciation."Kol-koe-tah"."Kalkutta"."Kal kota". The confusion prevailed.
Someone claimed job charnock is not her founder. Someone else denied her birthday. Celebrities swarmed in from all over to cut albums, launch films, and inaugurate music stores. From business tycoons to actors. From politicians to cricketers. The glamour and the glitterati sashayed down lisping the magical words-"kolkata, ami tomay bhalobashi"in broken bangla sending the crowds into absolute frenzy.
"Dada" was chucked out of the 'blue'team. And the city went agog with rage.
"Didi" went on a hunger strike and the entire city went down with her.fretting.praying.fretting.eyes glued to the T.V screen watching her every move.
One fanatic girl got herself married to an abhishek bachchan poster.
Some other was married off to a dog owing to the dearth of an eligible groom.
The crowd oscillated with its random mood swings. Garlands today. Effigies tomorrow. The rage persisted unabated…
The Nobel Prize got stolen. Someone lifted the copyright on rabindrasangeet.poltu and jhontu committed virtual hara-kiri on "gram chhara oi ranga matir poth." in the name of bangla band. The elders shuddered in disapproval. tsk.tsk."Ajkalkar chhelemeyera…" tsk.tsk..
Multinationals infiltrated the local market.flury's replaced jolojog.dominos replaced das cabin.barista, coffee house. McDonalds and c3 ripped off the city's quintessential 'bangaliana'.
TV anchors dressed like BBC correspondents and poised uncomfortably before the camera.plastered smile.hair in place.accented bangla.perfect!
Flyovers conjured bottle necks, the roads inundated twice annually and the potbellied naked children on the roads of panchanantala played gilli danda,oblivious to the changing times.
It rained in winter and grew insanely hot by end of February. Elders shuddered at the prospect of being "victims of global warming".
Lifestyle changed many fold. Commonplace modhyobitto Bengali now holidayed in Goa, Singapore, Malaysia.
'Kaku-kakima' learnt the virtues of surfing the net and sent e-mails to 'babu' in America twice daily!
Uttam suchitra flicks got remade. Teens and tweens crooned to "ei poth jodi na shesh hoi."
Lovers sought recluse in theme parks.families,dadu dida in tow,splashed in aquatica to 'beat the heat'
The angel atop Victoria memorial swung one more time after a long lull only to be put to sleep again.
Maidan was saved finally! The bookfair moved to salt lake. Most sulked sentimentally. People read less and munched more. Someone bought a broom. Someone else got his portrait made.
Baroyari durgotsav got a new edge. One pujo committee had the idol carved out of recyclable stuff. Some one else made a pandal out of biscuits.
Trees were cut down. Ponds got dumped.multistories caressed the skyline. The city became an asphalt jungle.
But in the midst of all cacophony and delirium, the city held onto its intrinsic charm.
And even till this day, the city holds a special position in my heart. And every Saturday it tugs at my strings and beckons me to get lost in its ethereal wilderness…

disillusion and despair has many faces.way more than you and i have discerned.
im just guessing how many!
the department i am in,comprises a swarm of people all abuzz with activities.
they dont yap.they dont while away time.they dont even squat on twos gazing listlessly at passers by,head resting on chin munching on a dhoper chop... for days at an end.
shudder!blasphemy.dear god.NO!!!
they study.and when they are not doing that,they discuss studies.or else if they are having one of those i-don-feel-like-studying-today days, they troop into the library and look up references.
ugh!!tear hair.yell.guffaw.tear more hair.grit teeth.ughhhhhh again!!!
and when they are doing neither of the above,they photocopy reading materials.
sheafs of pages.piles of books.plethora of notes/print outs/ downloads.
its a routine now.class ends.teacher exits.a motley crowd of pupils exit simultaneously.(how that is mathematically feasible,given the length and breadth of the door,size of each,is not point of concern right now)
the motley hurries down the stairs and troops into the library.
(imagine napoleons army,racking and plundering everything that catches their eye)
within minutes the motley has gone further down(puns intended!)
they are in the xerox centre now.books/papers/notes in tow-nudging jostling one another for space.a few more minutes and you see them returning.there! work done for the day.
this has been happenning for quite sometime.enough to drive an indifferent me up the wall.
i have had it.i cant take it anymore.
i wish all these narrow minded academia-centric prepostorous dextrous morons rot in hell!
ugh!