The Kali Katha of Kolkata

Kalikatha!
She is mad. She is wild. She wears garland of human skulls around her neck and human limbs around her waist. She drinks blood. She is a rebel. She is an embodiment of raw power. She is an epitome of women’s liberation. Her dance is the dance of destruction. She creates maya. Her favourite haunt are the crematoriums. She feeds on the mortal remains of the dead. She is like a dark night. She is like a bad omen. Hers is a world that is dark, evil and gory. Kali, an incarnation of Dashamahavidya, is hardly the benevolent, loving, mother goddess. Yet, she is one of the most prominent and powerful figures of the Hindu pantheon today.
However, it would not be inapt to say that Kali is a subaltern goddess. Tribals, Dacoits and the marginal people living away from so called civilization and amid hostile conditions needed a warrior as their god to protect them from the natural and man-made calamities. Lord Shiva was still too much a God of the genteel class. And Kali fitted the bill. Her ‘fearful symmetry’ aroused faith—faith to triumph over various evil forces. Kali became the God of these people and her temples came up in the unlikeliest of places amid thick jungles where only the lion-hearted dared. It was much later, perhaps when these forests were encroached upon, that Kali got a place in the alters of the Babus.
What’s in a name?
Kali is the presiding goddess of the city of Kolkata and it is Kali which gives the city its name. If Nawab Siraj-Ud-Daulah was as lucky as the Left Front government and Mir Jafar and Omichand weren’t so blatantly influenced by Brutus, it might have just been a reality--much before Calcutta became Kolkata, Siraj-Ud-Daulah had rechristened it to Alinagar in 1756. However, this new move infuriated the vindictive dark goddess Kali upon whose name the city was named Kalikata (later anglicized to Calcutta) and her wrath fell on the young nawab leading to his devastating defeat in the Battle of Plassey. And the rest is history (of colonial Calcutta).
There are many theories regarding the source and etymology of the word ‘Kalikata’. Kalikata may have got its name from ‘khal kata’—after the great canal dug to prevent the Maratha Bargi invasions. But, then again, the place was known for manufacturing of shell-lime and the name could have been derived from lime (kali) and burnt shell (kata). According to some historians the name ‘Kolikata’ was derived from the Bengali term kilkila (“flat area”). But the most widely accepted theory is that it is linked with Goddess Kali. Kali is to Kalikata what Mumba devi is to Mumbai and Athena is to Athens --it is not only the presiding deity of the city, but also what has given the city its identity and its name.
The term ‘Kalikata’ may have come from Kali Kota which means ‘temple of Kali’. The temple of Kalighat, regarded as one of the 51 shakti peethas, has found mention in texts written as early as 15th century.
Many believe Kalikata was where ‘Kalika thha’ or kalika was. Some legends say there was a Kali temple and a ghaat made of stone (the name Pathuriyaghata came from this stone embankment) at the north of Posta. For reasons unknown, the Kapaliks took the Kali from this temple to Kalighat which was then a forest and built a temple there--hence where Goddess Kalika or Kali originally resided became Kalika thha or Kalikata.
Another popular belief is that Kalikata may have derived its name from Kali Khsetra.
As per Peethmala and Nigama Granth Goddess Kali herself told that there is a bow shaped land (khshetra) stretched from Dakshineswar to Bahulapur (now Behala). This triangular land is the abode of Bramha, Vishnu and Maheswar—the holy trinity. At the centre of this resides Kali and the whole area is Kali Khsetra –the chosen land of the goddess and hence one of the holiest.
Age of Kali
River Ganga took a left turn near Princep Ghat and past through Kalighat, Tollygunge, Garia, Baishnabghata and merged with River Bidhyadhari before flowing to the sea. This was one of the major business route of the time and finds mentions in the Mangalkabyas. The area was mostly a dense forest but the banks of the river boasted quite a few Kali temples where the merchants would stop by to offer prayers before starting their sea voyage. Later the river changed its course and today it is difficult to even imagine the Tully Nulla as a part of that Ganga where boats laden with merchandise rowed up and down.
Among these temples the most prominent was the temple at Kalighat. Kalighat area was previously a part of Sundarbans and was a dense forest infested with dacoits and kapaliks most of whom were ardent devotees of Kali. During this time human sacrifice was almost a regular ritual. As legends go the present Dakshina Kali idol was installed by two saints called Brahmananda Giri and Atmaram Giri who discovered fossils of fingers of Devi Sati's feet from the pond called Kalikunda. Later, a small temple was constructed by Raja Mansingha (alternatively Raja Basanta Roy )in the early Sixteenth century on the bank of the river Adi Ganga where traders used to stop over and pay their obeisance. The present structure was however, built much later in 1809 by Santosh Roy Choudhury-- a member of the Sabarna Roy Choudhury Family.
Kalighat temple, regarded as one of the most important of the 51 Shakti Peethas was however not the only Kali temple when the British landed in Kalikata. There was the temple of Goddess Chitreswari or Chitriteshwari or Chitteshwari on the banks of Ganga at present day Bagbazar. It is said that the original temple was built by an infamous dacoit name Chite and has a rather gory past. After the death of Chite this temple lay abandoned until 1586 when a tantrik named Nrishingha Bamhachari arrived here and revived the puja. But, the present temple was erected much later in 1610 by the then zamindar Manohar Ghosh.
The name Chitpur was derived from this temple and along with Sutanuti, Gobindapur and Kalikata, this was the fourth village that existed during that time. And connecting the two grand temples was a pathway Chitpur road-- regarded as the oldest of Kolkata was then the ‘road to Kalighat’. On the way in the middle of the jungle of Chowrangi, where the new building of Asiatic Society is situated, was a shiva temple—probably erected by Chowranga giri—the same hermit who is at times credited to have built the original Kalighat temple. However, according to some the name Chowrangi came from the village-god Chowranginath-(Shiv); while others believe Chowrangi to be a derivative of Chirangi or Chirnagi –another name for Kali.
There is another Kali temple in Chitpur which finds mention in Bipradas Pilpai’s Manasa Vijaya written in 1495—‘Chitpurey pujey raja Sharbamangala’. Situated just half a mile from Adi Chitteshwari temple, the present Chitteswari Sharbamangala temple is said to be built after the ‘Robinhood of Bengal’ Raghu dakat found a stone idol in a nearby pond around 400 years back. According to the present priest, around the same time Ramsharan Shimlai, a Bangladeshi merchant was travelling past the place in his boat when he stopped by to offer prayers and stayed back. Later, when Raghu Dakat surrendered to the East India Company, he willed all his property along with the temple to Shimlai.
Another important temple of Kalikata is the Firingi Kalibari at Bowbazar. According to some this shrine was established by a man named Srimanta Dom. He also used to treat local people suffering from small pox and most of his patient were the newly arrived Europeans (Firingi ) of the locality. Many patients would also stop by and offer prayers in this temple and hence the temple became popular as Firingi Kalibari. However, the plaque on the outer wall of the temple suggests that this temple was erected in 904 Bangabda, (1498 AD) which makes it far older than the European settlement in Kalikata. According to the present priest the temple was initially a Shiva temple where the idol of Kali was installed on “Panchamundi Asan” much later most probably by Antony Kabial popularly known as Antony Firingi. Indeed under the main dome of the temple is a Shivling and the idol of Kali stand quite far from it, almost at one corner of the temple.
Birth of a City
Laxmikanta Roy Choudhury (1570-1649) received the ownership of eight villages, including Kalikata from Emperor Akbar. Job Charnock, East India Company’s Chief agent in Bengal, set up camp on the swampy banks of the Hooghly river on August 24, 1690 and bought three villages from Sabarna Roy Choudhury a descendent of the Laxmikanta Roy Choudhury’s for Rs 1,300 on November 10, 1698 and the city of Calcutta started rising over these three hamlets—Sutanuti, Gobindapur and Kalikata and in 1772 became the capital of British India. However, although Kalikata turned into Calcutta, the Kali katha of the city didn’t end.
In 1703 one Shankar Ghosh erected a Shiddheshwari Kali temple in Thanthania. However, according to legends the temple is older than this and was handed over to Ghosh by a tantric. The area was a dense forest then. It is said that in the 19th century Sri Ramkrishna Paramhansa and his disciples including Swami Vivekananda and Girish Ghosh became a regular here. The present temple is a new one and has no architectural significance. However, it remains one of the most famous Kali temples of the city.
In 1760 Nandadulal Roy Choudhury of Shabarna Roy Chaudhury built a Kali temple in Tollygunge after his beloved daughter Karunamoyee passed away. It is said Kali in the guise of his daughter visited the grieving Nandadulal in his dream and comforted him. After this incident he erected a Navaratna Kali temple along with twelve aatchala Shiva temples. Although, the present temple was built much later the idol of the Goddess is the ancient one. At a stone’s throw distance situated on the banks of Adi Ganga is another temple dedicated to Shiddheshwari Kali. This 200 year old Kali was installed by one Saraswatibabu and according to local people he was a warrior who lived amid what was then a dense forest and a den of dacoits.
The Shiddheshwari Kali temple at Ratan Babu’r Ghat in Baranagar is around 300 years old and was established by Khudiram Chattyopadhyaye. The idol here is made of neem wood. Close to this at Kuthighat is the majestic temple built by Joy Chandra Mitra in 1850 upon a Dutch cemetary. It is a navaratna temple with a nat mandir and 12 Shiv mandirs. Here the Goddess is Kripamoyee and the Shiv and Kali is curved from one single stone. Built 6 years after this, it is said that Rani Rashmoni’s famous Bhabatarini Kali temple at Dakkhineshwar used this temple as a blue-print and the same person is supposed to have built the three idols—Siddheshwari of Ratanbabu Ghaat, Kripamoyee of Kuthi Ghaat and Bhabatarini of Dakkhineshwar.
The small temple complex at the South Eastern Railway headquarters in Garden Reach looks like any other small roadside temple but enter the Kali temple and you’d be in for a surprise. The Kali idol here is as dark as a moonless night and yet as bright as the blazing sun. According to the priest of the temple the Kali is 800 years old and was discovered floating in the river. Until a few years back it was a crude wooden idol but even now the trimmings of modernity have not been able to fade the radiance of its raw power. Then there is the Dakatiya Kalibari at –around 150 years old this rather small Kali temple is said to be built by one Manohar dakat.
Later as Kali become one of the most popular and most worshipped Goddess, temples cropped up at almost every nook and corner of the city including a Chinese Kali temple at Tangra. Today, Kali continues to be the life force behind Kolkata and Kali temples can be discerned even at the most non-descript corners of the city
Kali’s city
Kolkata to many is all about naked starving children, dark and dingy lanes piled with garbage, streets soiled with blood, and it seems with its squalor, muck, madness, decay, suffering and rebellion Kolkata reflects the very spirit of its presiding goddess. Just like Kali, the city which seems malevolent and grim. But at the same time, like Kali it is a city that dispels the evil through destruction, her insanity brings back order, she is dark yet beautiful, she is terrifying yet she protects, to her own she brings assurance and is a source of strength, courage and inspiration. No city could have been more apt for Kali and no goddess better than Kali to own a city like Kolkata. Kolkata is Kali and Kali is Kolkata.

SHONAAR KELLAA!!! (Jaisalmer)

My tongue was still savouring the heavenly taste of the last crumbs of my Pyaz ki kachouri, it was raining outside and the bus was passing through lush green meadows replete with ponds-but wait! This was supposed to be an arid, barren land riddled with cactus, there ought to be a railway-track somewhere and the road was supposed to be strewn with broken glasses. Something is surely wrong. I should have checked where the bus is heading, it would have been the most obvious thing to do but then I was too busy buying kachouris. My autowalah, who had made it his responsibility to board me to the right bus, had got me the ticket and almost hurled me into the already moving vehicle (I have always depended on the kindness of strangers!).
The bus was packed but a ‘girl travelling alone’ has her advantages! And the ‘helper’ obliged me with his own seat (the lone ‘single sitter’) to make sure ‘Madam’ doesn’t have to huddle with rustic passengers. I was on my way to the Mecca of Bong travellers but 3 hours into the journey and things were getting too green for comfort. What if this is all part of some sinister plan? What if all these people are part of some bandit group and I am being abducted? It was 4 in the afternoon and the highway was empty. There was no network on my mobile phone. I am trapped.
Then suddenly I saw the sign! Pokaran! Wasn’t this the place where the evil Mandar Bose and the fake Dr. Hajra had their secret rendezvous? So, I was on the right bus and was not being abducted (I was a tad disappointed though…it is not every day that you get the chance to play the helpless princess).
After Pokaran the landscape began to change and looked every bit like what it was supposed to look like! -the lush green melted into rocky brown and then turned rough sepia. A few camels started appearing now and then and I could almost hear Mr.Lalmohan Ganguly’s famous lines: ‘Utera ki kanta bechhey khaye?’ But, thankfully, there was no broken glass on the road (guess Mandar Bose now works in some IT firm and is happy in his ‘cubicled’ life!) and within an hour we crossed a road sign that said: ‘Welcome to Jaisalmer’! So, I was finally there!
Bengals love-affair with this sleepy speck of a hamlet amid the Thar Desert began way back in 1971 with Satyajit Ray’s famous detective novel, Sonar Kella and turned into an obsession with the release of its movie version. And this had spawned the phenomenon of mass migration of bongs to this once obscure place.
I do not remember when I first saw or read the book. Born a decade after Prodosh Mitter aka Feluda- the famous detective and one of the most loved characters of Bengali literature-had chased the goons in the narrow alleys of Shonar Kella (Golden Fortress); I like every Bong born after 1971, inherited the legacy of Ray and knew the lanes and by-lanes of the majestic sand-stoned fort of Jaisalmer like the back of my palm.
But, almost half an hour into Jaisalmer and all I could see was a vast expanse of monochromatic landscape-and then suddenly it rose from the sand! It rose from nowhere! And it rose like magic! The first glimpse of the magnificent edifice that has become a cynosure of a state 2000km away from the sandy hues of Rajasthan and shimmering under the last rays of a fading sun Ray’s Shonar Kella shimmered like a dream...and disappeared like a dream-of course the bus had to take a turn into bumpy reality. When I reached RTDC’s Moomal it was 7pm.The hotel looked straight out of some Walter de la Mare poem! When I finally managed to find the manager and he found the keys of my room, I was too tired to do anything and the soft white bed was too tempting to even try anything else. So, I sold all my horses and donkeys and went off to sleep.
The autowalah arrived sharp at 6 am. After a quick breakfast I started off for the holy land and when we reached the gates of Eden, the new-born sun had imbued the yellow sandstones with an ethereal golden glow and the castle emanated fairytale. Like Mukul, I gasped and heard myself say: S-H-O-N-A-R K-E-L-L-A! Was this really real? The willing suspension of disbelief was short-lived. As I walked into the ‘walled city’ the shrill voice of a bargaining Bong spoiled my slow-mo dream sequence-the supposedly deserted desert fort of the crime-thriller is actually a buzzing town! The 800-year-old citadel is home to several thousand people and is in fact the only fort in India where people still live in - the chaiwalah enlightened me and in the next few hours I discovered a whole new Jaisalmer where intricately carved sand-stone havelis still speak of traders with long trains of camels loaded with silvers, rugs, and perfumes travelling to far off lands and of riches unimaginable while the narrow strips of streets speak in all languages possible-Rajasthani, Bengali, Hebrew, Hindi, Gibberish. It was a heady mix of fairytale, folklore, urban legend strewn with mirror-worked lehenga-clad village belles, dhakai saree wrapped mashimas and tattoo-covered lonely-planet hippies.
As I wandered through what I thought I knew like the back of my palm I suddenly heard Mukul whisper into my ears: ‘Eta Mondir’-I was standing right in front of the breathtakingly beautiful Jain temple which Mukul had remembered from his past life! I can feel a gush of chill run through my spine! Mukul took my hand and led me through the dingy by-lane next to the temple. We crossed Ratan’s house and Giridhari’s house and the place where they played holi. But, he abandoned me just as we reached the lane that led to his house. I turned around. The whole town was made of same yellow sandstone and was glistening like gold! Ray couldn’t have possibly found a better setting for his story about a 7-year-old boy who was suddenly getting visions from his past life where he had precious stones lying in his house and the walls were made of gold. The ‘dushtu lok’ (evil guys) kidnap the boy and embark on a treasure trail only to find out that the fort of gold was in reality a fort made of yellow sandstone and Mukul was no prince but a son of a jeweller and there was no treasure hidden in the ruins of his house.
Indeed, Mukul was no prince, but whoever was must have been pretty lucky living in such an intricately carved, seven-storey haveli. And the view from the roof-top was stunning-the sprawling sand-stoned town, hemmed by a desert of melted gold, was dazzling under the mid-day sun.
The priest at the Jain temple had recommended three must-visit havelis. First was the Patwon-ki-haveli-if the finesse of the stone filigree of a mere trader’s house astonished me, the price of the fine fabric they sell to the tourists almost gave me a heart-attack! Next was Salim Singh’s haveli . The architecture is exquisite- there are 38 odd balconies and each distinctly different from the other. The owner was a nice and knowledgeable man in his mid-forties and patiently took me through each of the rooms, explaining the exquisite architecture in intricate details.
Nathmalji-ki-haveli was less touristy and a bit difficult to find. But, the carvings were like poetry on stone and arguably the most grand and intricate of the havelis! Like in Salim Singh’s haveli, the owners still live in this magnificent haveli but their days of glory are long gone-once the house of the prime minister of the royal court now sells homemade artworks to make a living. I discerned one of the descendents of Nathmalji in a dimly-lit corner giving finishing touches to a peacock. It was so intricate that I could almost feel his heart-beat through my eyes! Naresh and I gelled like jelly. We spoke for hours over cups of homemade hot kesariya chae. He told me about his art, how they make colours from stones and brushes from peacock feathers, and also gave me ‘student’s concession’ on the painting I bought!
When I left the haveli, the sun had sobered down and as I made my way through serpentine alleys lined with harlequin kitsch, friendly locals, over-friendly shop-keepers, visibly lost tourists, Bengali-speaking tourist guides, flying peacocks and fleeting memories of Mukul and Feluda, I realised that Satyajit Ray in his book had only but given a teaser of the actual experience that is the fort of Jaisalmer. It is much more than the golden citadel from Mukul’s past life, much more than a desert castle of dreams, it is a city that oozes romance, opulence, myth and life. It is a city frozen in time and it is a city that transcends time.

Fairy's Wheel and all that jazz!

Paas woh aaney lagey zara zara, zara zara zara zara zara zara... was playing in a loop. The fairground was just waking up from its slumber— the ferris wheel (or what I knew as fairy’s wheel) and the merry-go-round were being oiled, the first batch of jilebis were already floating on the golden simmering sugar syrup and set and the shops were rolling up their covers and sleeves for the evening crowd. It was not a planned trip. The bus was stuck in the Moulali crossing and I suddenly remembered my visits to the Rother Mela which used to take place each year in this very place, leading to huge traffic jams. Today, the Mela was making its presence felt like never before with its absence. The signal was about to go red, I suddenly heard the conductor shout: ‘Astey, Bachcha achhey’ and I saw myself get down from the bus — my grandfather grabbed my hand as soon as I hopped onto the street.
Grandpa was a well-built, tall and serious man who mostly wore white and resembled Chhabi Biswas (the stern, no-nonsense father in Bengali cinema) from every aspect —so much so that I often wondered how the 6-foot-tall man manages to enter the small television box (it was much later, while reading Alice in Wonderland that I realised the trick! Of course the homoeopathy medicines he took were spiked and they had properties that can make you tall and short).
It was on rare occasions that he would manage some time off his busy schedule as a doctor, and be a full-time grandpa. It was on one such evening that I had landed in the same place (which turned into a fairground during this time in those days) with my hand tightly held by my grandpa — I was barely a 4-year-old then. At first I was scared of the crowd and the chaos and being a ‘short’ person made matters worse. If not for grandpa’s tight clasp I would have got lost at least a hundred times amid those tall, fast-moving legs.
It was supposed to be a Rother Mela but I couldn’t discern any roth (chariot). Instead, there were brightly coloured wooden toys, intricate clay vegetables/fruits/fishes, the ‘very expensive’ gas-balloons, and scary-looking paper-mache dancing dolls with large faces and big eyes, some even taller than me, which would roll their heads and waist every time I looked at them. And then there were the exotic winged prisoners — iron cages stashed with birds of myriad sizes and colours. Grandpa would ask the shop-keeper the names and their specialities and would then patiently explain them to me.
As I walked through the same pavement which now seems to have forgotten its past, I struggled to remember the names of those birds, the smells of the achar and papad bhaja, and the feel of grandpa’s huge palm that the little me found almost half of me clasped in.
My stream of thoughts was broken by a cacophony of birds and almost like déjà vu, I saw myself standing next to a row of shops selling birds! ‘Now, that can’t be legal...’ I heard myself mumbling. I could/should have dwelled on that thought but I was too excited to meet my childhood on the lost toyshops and fairy’s wheels. The fair is now held in a park and its past grandeur was trimmed down to fit into the small space. As the afternoon rolled towards evening, the makeshift bamboo shops got ready for business and they sold almost everything under the sun — hair clips, bangles, plastic guitars, bats, and dolls, achaars, hojmi and muri lozenge, stickers, clay figurines, kitchen utensils, customised key-rings, wooden temples, gods, dresses for gods, dresses for children, and dreams for all. However, the paper-mache dancing dolls and the wooden toys that were so unique to Rother Mela were missing from the show. It now looked like any other fair. But, so do the annual fair next to our house. Subhash Mela used to be quite an event. I remember going there with ma almost every single day and was allowed to shop as much as I wanted as long it was within 25 paise! It was the age of the epics and wooden bows and arrows, silver-paper wrapped swords and plastic gada were a favourite among us kids as were wooden drums, flutes and bhempus and the huge horses made of bamboo and hay. But the best thing about Subhash Mela was not these but the palki ride! They had an original palki which was carried by four men and kids like us (after being a ‘good girl’ for days) were allowed to take the royal ride for just about `1 (which was considered a rather expensive affair then and could be indulged into only once or twice a year). I would wait for the days when thamma would take me to the fair — there would be no 25-paise-limit then and I could take ‘as many’ rounds of palki ride as I wanted!
As I grew up, the fairy’s wheel got more giant and the simple merry-go-round lost its fans to the more suave (and complicated) Tora Tora, the toy train lost its sheen and the palki was discarded. But, the fair remained — now instead of toys and dolls we would bargain for colourful glass-bangles and kuler achaar and posters of the cute Aamir Khan!
And going to the fair on the evening of Saraswati Pujo became a ritual almost as important as the morning anjali. Love usually bloomed during this time of the year and usually came with an alert sign — and it was impossible to play blind to the fact that suddenly all the flower that were supposed to be going towards the goddess during the anjali was in fact landing on you! Then the chits would arrive, some friend would be bribed to play the messenger, a time would be fixed to meet near the comparatively less crowded turnstile of the fairground, some friends would again be bribed to tag along (by the girl) and some to ‘not’ tag along (by the boy) and eventually it would be a girls’ party sponsored by the boy and the trick here was for the boy to convince the girl that (A)he actually liked all her friends and is happy that all of them came along, (B) by ‘like’ he meant that he regarded them as sisters, (C) he ‘really likes’ her a lot and by this he ‘does not’ mean he likes her as a sister, and (D) the saree is looking great on her and she is not looking rounded at all. The fairground would then double up as Cupid’s playground. The two-seaters of the fairy’s wheel were the ideal place to romance then (provided the girl didn’t have vertigo like me!) and the best way to impress a girl was to shoot the maximum number of balloons stitched on newspapers on slow, rotating boards. Subhash Mela stills readies itself for the crowd each year on 23rd January but the shops are few and the guests fewer—the lovers now prefer multiplexes and the ‘warrior’ kids are too tech-savvy to venture out of their video games, and the middle class have just too much money to be tempted with the yellow board saying: “ja neben 7 taka”! (Anything for `7)
Charak Mela near Beadon Street was a fair I discovered at an age when none of us really bothered about going to fairs anymore (apart from of course the new breed of wannabe Raghu Rais).
This was a fair that came with an ‘A’ certificate— ma would always tell stories of how macabre the practice of Charak is where people would pierce their tongues with iron spikes and hang with ropes from a tall bamboo structure for hours—it was definitely not a site for children. So, I had to wait till I was ‘old’ enough to first venture into a fair that was at a stone’s throw distance from my school. I was a tad scared to go there alone, but it was impossible to convince ma to accompany me to see this ‘horrible practice’. It was much easier to persuade my boyfriend. As we reached the venue I saw a man was indeed hanging from a poll with a rope but I couldn’t discern any iron spike coming out of his mouth. I never imagined such a mad rush and was feeling almost dizzy staring up at the tall poll.
I was beginning to feel like the 4-year-old lost in the crowd when I felt a tight grip on my hand — Grandpa! I turned around ...only to find my boyfriend grinning at me...he had bought me a taal-patar shepai. I had almost forgotten how I adored these palm-leave soldiers when I was young. And it is perhaps a kind of collective amnesia that killed the fairs which once sold unadulterated joy for just 25 paise!

Coffee and Cigarettes!

An obscure entrance flanked by a mundane cigarette shop and then a winding staircase. Almost as if in a trance I got my ‘6 classics’ from the corner store only to remember that smoking is now banned in public places. However, I stashed the sticks in my pocket and started to climb the stairs. The smell of fresh paint was almost nauseating. The walls that used to be plastered with layers of pamphlets and memories now stand white-washed. We were never the ‘first floor crowd’ but still I chose to check out the haloed ‘hall of fame’ (better known as ‘house of commons’)once before climbing to the balcony aka 'house of the Lords'. The dilapidated door was replaced by a plush one and boasted a new signboard- I hesitated a few moments, I was still not sure if I was ready to face the ‘change’. Suddenly, a familiar voice: ‘Ki go didi atodin por? Bakishob kothaye? Opore esho .’ (Where were you all these days? Where are the rest? Come upstairs) –startled I looked around and there he was! Our very own ‘his highness’ in his white formals replete with white turban and green cummerbund (this non-descript man may come across as an ordinary waiter but the character of Don Vito Corleone was actually based on him). He didn’t wait for an answer and I realised that I am inside a sunshine-yellow hallway adorned with brightly painted canvasses and in front of me was a huge full-length poster of young Tagore . This is hardly the Coffee House I left 4 years back! Since 1942, it has acted as a greenhouse to the budding philosophers, writers, actors, directors, politicians and lovers and ever since Manna Dey sang the famous lines: ‘Coffee House er shei adda ta aaj ar nei’, Indian Coffee House at College Street has been a source of collective nostalgia for bongs- even to the first timers! The very fact that the place was once a favourite hangout of stalwarts like Satyajit Ray, Manna Dey, Amartya Sen, Soumitro Chatterjee, Aparna Sen, Ritwik Ghatak, Mrinal Sen has given it a halo of a sacred place to the city ‘intellectuals’. To be able to sit on same spot where Allen Ginsberg, Sunil Ganguli and Shakti Chattopadhyaye spent hours dissecting romance and revolution over cups of infusion is enough to give a high to most. I don’t remember when I first went to Coffee House. Going to College Street to buy school books was an annual event and this usually ended with a ‘treat’ at Coffee House. At that age the ‘haloed place’ looked rather shabby to me and I hated the long wait for food. But, it was when I enrolled for my Masters in Calcutta University that I truly ‘discovered’ the place (and the fact that there are actually many people like me who really never liked ‘infusion’!). What really made Coffee House an instant favourite among us was not its ex-client list but the fact that it was pocket friendly and you could sit there for hours- and we sat there until they pulled the shutters down and almost threw us out! However, this ‘sitting’ part really needed technique for the wooden chairs and tables were home to millions of bed bugs. But then where there is a will there is always a way and if there aren’t any, you devise one! And as dedicated we were to our adda sessions we indeed came up with quite a few of those. From bug creams to bringing empty folders just to use them as hand rests to the boys trying to impress the girls by finding that rare steel chair-we did all that it takes to survive and fall in love with Coffee House (with its bugs! ). What made this coffee house a ‘home’(for us humans as well) was really its people, especially the waiters- the very soul of this place. Their memory used to store the names of the famous and the ordinary college goers alike; a memorable day that has gone down the pages of history to how many cups of 'infusion' and cutlet you have devoured they kept a track of it all. Apart from serving our orders ‘his highness’ wouldn’t hesitate to rebuke us for having too much coffee and cigarettes, and if we came in too drenched after romancing in the rain, his would be the concerned voice to caution us not to sit near the fan. Then there was the silent cashier with a head-master’s gaze and bell to match-when things got too loud the bell would ring to warn us check our decibel levels! Food was the last thing on the menu as far as the coffee house adda was concerned and we mostly survived on cold coffee (which was actually normal plain coffee served cold) and cigarettes. However, the first thing I noticed on the grime-laden menu card, apart from the grime, was a lot of ‘do’s- Chicken Do, Vegetable Do, Egg Do etc and it took me quite a few days to decipher this code. It was simply a ‘Ditto’ sign under the sandwich! Such oddities were common in this house of commons. But, today’s renovated coffee house hardly looks a place that we-the then-wannabe-rebels would have felt at home. Sitting in front of that huge a size of poster of Tagore can have a rather intimidating effect! However, as I climbed the stairs and reached the balcony I felt a bit less lost. Thankfully, ‘our’ table was not occupied and sat on the bright red plastic chair-- there are no bugs now but you can hardly sit on it with your legs folded as we would in our old wooden ones-- I sighed and closed my eyes. I could almost see the familiar faces crowding around me, the first rain splashing on the staircase through the tall windows, five of us almost crawling out of the classroom, rushing through the corridor, the old elevator, crossing Rakhalda’s canteen where J is still waiting for R, crossing the rain-soaked laal bedi looking as red as revolution, the water-logged College Street, clattering of trams and rickshaws and ‘mundaneness’, smell of wet books, the two of us making lame excuses to ‘the rest’ and taking roundabout ways, getting drenched, finally joining ‘the rest’ at the ‘balcony’ and sinking into the chair--‘his highness’ appears ‘Ki go ar karor dekha nei je? Ki khabe bolo?’ (Where are the rest? What will you have?) –startled, I open my eyes, he had the same stern smile. Suddenly, I realized there was really nothing wrong with the sunshine yellow or the huge poster or even the ‘bugless’ chair- all that mattered was how close you keep your friends and how many rounds of random discussions you can survive!

A Rainy Day!

I have walked out in rain
- and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.
I have looked down the saddest city lane.
--Robert Frost

It was raining since morning and the lane that joins our housing complex to the rest of the civilization now looked like a river. The vinyl record was playing Sawan gagane ghor ghanghata from Bhanushingher Podaboli and I had already made seven glossy paper boats made from the pages of Anandalok which I had managed to sneak out from Thamma’s room (my grandma was obsessed with the Bengali film magazine and instead of fairytales I grew up on Tollywood gossips). I was feeling increasingly restless.
Suddenly, it came! The signal! There was a nudge on the thread that was the cynosure of my attention for so long. I ran to the matchbox attached to it and put it close to my mouth: ‘Hello! I station zebra?’ Then I pressed the box to my ear: “I station zebra” came the answer. That was our code for the day. (Well I came to know much later that the name of the book was Ice Station Zebra and I was absolutely heartbroken to know that it had nothing to do with Zebras...adult world was rather difficult to fathom then ) The matchbox on my window was attached to a thread and on the other end of the thread was another box which was stuck to the window of my friend’s house who lived in the building just opposite to ours-this was our very own ‘telephone’ and it was strictly for confidential conversations and hence password protected (although mostly it consisted repeating the words the first person asks). And on days like these when we were not allowed to play outside or go to each other’s house, this ‘telephone’ became our sole source of communication. So, finally it was time! I rushed downstairs with my paper boats.
The last two steps of the staircase were under water. I sat on the third and started floating the boats. We watched dazed as each crossed the bend of the lane and disappeared -one, two, three...seven! I could see another row of boats emerging from the other side as well. It was such a pretty site! I prayed with all my heart ( God was an old man with white beard and an eerie similarity to Santa back then) that it would remain waterlogged till the boats reach the ’faraway land’ and none would encounter any man-hole in the course of their journey. I loved going to school on such days! That gave me an opportunity to get up close and personal with the mud, puddle and the absolutely gorgeous murky water.
I never liked raincoats until I was brainwashed to believe that even Sherlok Holmes wear raincoats and he wears it all the time (of course it was easy to bluff a 6-yr-old and trench coats did look a lot like my Daisy Duck print plastic raincoat.) So, there we were, me, my school bag, inside my Sherlock Holmes raincoat; and my shoes and socks in a plastic bag- all set for the expedition! As I hopped skipped jumped my journey to the bus stand, I would at times imagine myself to be a pirate braving the turbulent ocean and at times I would be a princess in distress but I loved myself as ‘FreeWhilly’ the most.
We never had an official Rainy Day in our school. But, I loved everything as long as it rained (I could survive even the scary maths classes on days like these!) and my mind could wander along the wet wooden staircase that smelled like hot chocolate fudge and run wild in the lush velvety green playgrounds or would just watch the wind caress the raindrop-laden trees after a fresh spell. The school wore a resplendent glow after the rain and the faint music from the grand piano in the chapel would turn it into one of those enchanting fairytale castles (I only hoped they could do away with the ‘studies’ part)
At a certain point I lost track of the winding stairs, the Gulmohars, the European buildings and the report cards with always came with ‘very talkative’ on the remarks column. I changed schools and when I was in class 6 I landed in one which was almost an integral part of our family tradition. Most of the teachers were the same who taught my ma and two aunts and hence kept a hawk’s-eye on me. It was a school where my classmates are still learning the basics of English at class 6 as I fumbled with learning the basic terms of all the subjects in Bengali (and stop using English words in my conversations), the library didn’t have one single book of Nancy Drew, and all girls were supposed to be good at singing and sewing (I abhorred both).
I was a total ‘misfit’ living in a petri dish under a powerful microscope. But, the monsoon would have its magic on such a dull, claustrophobic place as well! The gloomy-looking Corinthian pillars as well as the teachers would suddenly all look cheerful and it would seem as if I can hide myself under the blanket of rain and escape the gazes that had become an integral part of being the ‘fat girl who shows off her English’ experience.
But, what I liked most about a rainy day was the fact that on days when few students managed to turn up, the school would arrange for Kichhuri and Aloo Bhaja for us all! The school still followed the age-old custom of providing lunch to the students (and the fee for that was Rs 10/ month) and it varied from luchi torkari to muri alur chop to plain muri. But, on special days like these, some of us would brave the torrential rain and wade through knee-deep water just for this scrumptious platter--Kichhuri and Aloo bhaja never tasted that good before or after that!

But, it was in college that I fell truly, deeply, madly in love with the rain. The heady mix of the smell of old books and chipped plaster along with the petrichor, wet rings of smoke, and rain-flavoured tea from mati’r bhaar –even the die-hard love-atheist would have found it hard to resist the charm of College Street during the rains! After that there was no looking back! I fell in love with my city all over again. Each nook and corner, each street of this old city had its own story and rain adds poetry to each. And nothing gets you closer to the soul of a street than getting drenched walking through it under a sky cracking up with thunders!
Today, sitting at a coffee shop in Park Street watching the blue neon rain lash the night and tail lights of speeding cars leaving trails of liquid light on the rain-smudged streets, hearing the cacophony of mundane life melt into white noise, and munching on half-forgotten memories I suddenly felt empty inside--a sense of loss gripped me as I mourned lost paper boats that never made it to the faraway land, ghoti-goromwala who emerged only when it rained, dark afternoons spent with thamma listening to weird stories, sound of wet school shoes, singing in the rain with friends, listening to ma recite poetry (which she will forget halfway), convincing friends that there is actually nothing more fun than wading the waterlogged streets, scribbling songs to each other as the professor went on with his lecture and the sound of rain drowned his monotonous voice, bunking classes and getting back absolutely drenched, crazy long-drives amid torrential rain, standing in the middle of the street with arms stretched and feel each drop of rain fall on my skin and seep into my soul, and I mourned the friends and lovers who had disappeared on one such rainy day. Just then waiter arrived with a steaming cup of coffee and I discerned a Cumulonimbus in my cappuccino! I gulped it down. My heart needs some rain tonight.