Somewhere down the line, I've begun to accept Calcutta as a part of me.. Is it because of the realisation that I am one of them? I don't think so. It's been twenty years since I've known that. It can't be that. Is it because of some reverse psychology that is making me like the city because I'm not being forced to travel there. I hope not. I'd be grateful to myself if I could turn out to be less shallow than that. Probably, on some abstract level, that would hold true. But that can't be the be all and end all. I refuse to accept that as the truth. Somewhere, down the line, I've realised it's deeper than that. But I'm afraid I am yet to see the end of the tunnel here. Is it because my closest friend is from there? Does that change things? Or is it because I'm bringing myself to terms with my situation, and becoming more accepting of the fact that I don't have much left to take from the city that's been my home for nearly two decades. My parents will be retiring soon, and with that, it's au revoir, Bombay. Is that it? Or is it because of some insatiable and undying desire to dig deep within my roots, to truly understand who I am. I believe one can never really know where one's going unless one knows where one's been. History and tradition have always appealed to me deeply. Whether it be in matters of sport or academics or even my personal life, I've always had a flickering penchant for what's bygone.
Like a candle in the wind, it never douses, always reminding me of the road I am on.
Let me go back down memory lane. I come from an upper middle class Calcutta family, which in turn migrated from the erstwhile East Bengal. My father, if I may so, had a slightly restricted childhood. He was the only brother among five siblings, and came from a rather conservative family set up of the Bengali Indian household. He's never completely opened himself up to us, and I don't think he ever will. I've always felt that he has had enormous regret for things he was unable to do when young, which he has tried to rectify by never making us feel we're short of anything. It pains me that I know so little of him, and even the part I do know seems to be shrouded in mystery. He studied Economics from Jadavpur University, and worked in some insurance company. He got his current job in the early 1980s, and was relocated to Bombay, as it was then. 1985, he was set up in an arranged marriage with my mother.
Two strangers, in a stranger city.
My mother is a twisted person of sorts. I don't mean that in a bad way, but she's always been a sort of confused soul. Born into a slightly better off family than my father, her father, if I'm not wrong, was from a really well-off family somewhere near Dhaka. My mother's grandfather was a reputed doctor, who got torn during the political clashes of 1947 and 1971. Her mother on the other hand, is the only one of my grandparents from Calcutta. The eldest of three siblings, my mother, so she claims, was good in studies, but was denied higher education by the patriarchal set-up of the newly independent India. She pursued English honours from Jadavpur University, but never knew my father at that time; they are separated by a difference of five years in age. My mother comes from a family understanding that to teach the child, you must use the rod, even though she does not herself believe in it. Her upbringing has been such that it has been ingrained into her, much against her own cognitive process. An arranged marriage got a terrified young woman to a completely different city..
The city that never sleeps.
My parents' marriage never got off to a good start. It was nearly twenty years into their marriage, around fifteen years into my life - and I never suspected a troubled relationship. It all began when we were in Gangtok. Oh, how I shall never forget that! I don't even remember what brought it all up. I don't think I did then, either. Was there even something that sparked the entire issue? I think not. Either way, a match was lit, and a forest fire started. It was then that I heard all those horrific stories about my parents' first few days into their marriage. How my mother tried to initiate talk with my father, but he seemed totally aloof. Was it sexual? Or plain marital? I shall never know. Was it the terror of a new city? I shall never know. I've heard many stories, and I have never seen such an image of my father, but I must give credit to my mother - she wouldn't rant on untruthfully. Assuming what she said was true, I shall then assume that my father was probably not used to such interaction, and probably wasn't ready for it. I might be yanking, but it's just a hunch. Anyway, February 1986, and I know their marriage was consummated, because nine months later, I had myself an elder sister.
My sister was born in November 1986, when my parents were among the first residents of Maker Kundan Gardens (Oh, how I love that place!). She's always been a little shy, a little aloof from everyone, a little afraid to express herself - always living in her own world. Academically brilliant, she's always had an indirect adverse effect on me due to the constant comparisons that were drawn up between her and me, by our mother, and her relatives. Even though it never affected us personally, it always left a scar on me. 1988, my parents shifted to Bhubaneshwar, Orissa - oh the pain of a transferrable job!
In August 1992, in the midst of a torrid torrential rain, I was born. A cute, slightly chubby little baby - I was the pick of everyone's eye - as the photos do suggest. June 1993, and we shifted from my birthplace to what I consider my hometown - Bombay. Soon after, I learned to walk, between the walls of B - 43, Maker Kundan Gardens. But, alas! Diaster struck. 1st August, 1993, and a baby had lost his grandfather. My father who was in Bhubaneshwar at that time called to give the bad news to my mother. We didn't have a phone then; the news was given to one of our neighbours who came and told us. My mother, from what I've heard, was uncontrollable. She did not know what to do. Two children, one nearing seven, the other not yet one. She had to book plane tickets for the three of us to Calcutta - completely terrified. And there goes our first plane ride. Back in Calcutta, we all joined in the formalities, and left...
For Bombay.. where my life.. as I remember it, began.
The irony of the Calcutta-Bombay conundrum is that when it all started, my father was all for moving to Bombay, while the my mother was against it. Nearly thirty years later, the pendulum has changed completely - while my mother has become Bombay-cised, my father still harbours a dream of going back to Calcutta. From 1992 to 2008, in sixteen years, I travelled to Calcutta multiple times. The early morning 6 a.m. Gitanjali Express from Dadar, where the tiny me would be woken up at 4 a.m., to take a taxi ride to the station, and wait sleeplessly on our Milton water flask. The memory of sitting on the brown-cream flask, and the image of the terror of the rail train entering the platform with its horns blaring and smoke from the top - is one I shall never forget. Those hard, long hours in the train, when slowly, we would pass Nagpur, and then the long stretch of Kharagpur, and slowly enter Howrah, as we would see the bridge looming in the horizon. We would usually live at my grandmother's in Mukundapur, along with my masi, uncle, mami, and their li'l girl. Soon they shifted nearby nearby to Kasba, leaving just my masi in the old cottage home that my grandfather built all those decades ago.
I suppose the reason for me harbouring all this hatred for Calcutta is because of my mother's side of the family, especially her brother. They've always had a dictatorial way of doing things, which I soon began to associate with all of Calcutta. I would be forced to go there every holiday, much against my wishes. Soon, the hatred shifted focus from a familial hatred to a general-Bengali hatred. I began to detest Calcutta Bengalis for their way of life - the certain attachment that they had for their own roots. My father was transferred to Calcutta for a couple of years from 2002-2005. Hard years for him. Being away from his children, his father passing away, and his mother following suit. He was there with them till their very end, and I hold this in deep regret, not being able to go and pay my respects. This, done.. he returned.. and the three of us went to receive him when he arrived.
He looked much older than I last saw him.
In April 2008, the tide was turning.. My school was ending, my sister was graduating from college - My father had applied for a transfer to Calcutta, and received it. He expected my sister to enroll herself in IIM-C, while I was secured admission in LMB. The worst part of it is that I wasn't informed of any of it. I created a huge ruckus, and got the entire thing cancelled. As things turned out, my sister got admission in almost all the IIMs, except Calcutta, and I could never thank her more for it. Ahmedabad being the closest to Bombay, we secured victory. My father once again giving himself up for what we wanted.
Thank you, dad.
Unfortunately, all of it made me strengthen my hatred towards Calcutta. However, being sixteen, I guess a sense of maturity and responsibility was beginning to dawn in me. Two years in a new school in Bombay, along with the entire melodrama of securing college admission - it was November 2011 before I visited Calcutta again. One of my cousins was getting married, and though I was in college in Delhi, and my sister in Bombay, I insisted that I attend the wedding. Not for the wedding as such, but because I missed Calcutta. In all her glory and flaws, I missed Calcutta. I could feel an overwhelming urge to dig deep into my roots to realise who I am and why I am. The trip was a mere forty-eight hours, but it felt good to be back.
I could feel an overwhelming sensation of homecoming.
A couple of years later, in March 2013, I once again insisted on going to Calcutta for a week's holiday instead of spending it at home or in college. I guess, I consider Bombay my home because I've lived there for so long.. still do. But, it'll never be an intrinsic part of my roots. Bombay begins with me. Calcutta goes much, much beyond it. There is family, there is culture, there is history, there is tradition - there is so much about Calcutta that is unexplored mystery, and that I am dying to unearth. In Bombay, no matter how much I am attached to her, the city begins with me, and ends with me. There's no underlying meaning to my existence there. In Calcutta, there are generations and generations of history and strife.
In Calcutta, I was born...
Like a candle in the wind, it never douses, always reminding me of the road I am on.
Let me go back down memory lane. I come from an upper middle class Calcutta family, which in turn migrated from the erstwhile East Bengal. My father, if I may so, had a slightly restricted childhood. He was the only brother among five siblings, and came from a rather conservative family set up of the Bengali Indian household. He's never completely opened himself up to us, and I don't think he ever will. I've always felt that he has had enormous regret for things he was unable to do when young, which he has tried to rectify by never making us feel we're short of anything. It pains me that I know so little of him, and even the part I do know seems to be shrouded in mystery. He studied Economics from Jadavpur University, and worked in some insurance company. He got his current job in the early 1980s, and was relocated to Bombay, as it was then. 1985, he was set up in an arranged marriage with my mother.
Two strangers, in a stranger city.
My mother is a twisted person of sorts. I don't mean that in a bad way, but she's always been a sort of confused soul. Born into a slightly better off family than my father, her father, if I'm not wrong, was from a really well-off family somewhere near Dhaka. My mother's grandfather was a reputed doctor, who got torn during the political clashes of 1947 and 1971. Her mother on the other hand, is the only one of my grandparents from Calcutta. The eldest of three siblings, my mother, so she claims, was good in studies, but was denied higher education by the patriarchal set-up of the newly independent India. She pursued English honours from Jadavpur University, but never knew my father at that time; they are separated by a difference of five years in age. My mother comes from a family understanding that to teach the child, you must use the rod, even though she does not herself believe in it. Her upbringing has been such that it has been ingrained into her, much against her own cognitive process. An arranged marriage got a terrified young woman to a completely different city..
The city that never sleeps.
My parents' marriage never got off to a good start. It was nearly twenty years into their marriage, around fifteen years into my life - and I never suspected a troubled relationship. It all began when we were in Gangtok. Oh, how I shall never forget that! I don't even remember what brought it all up. I don't think I did then, either. Was there even something that sparked the entire issue? I think not. Either way, a match was lit, and a forest fire started. It was then that I heard all those horrific stories about my parents' first few days into their marriage. How my mother tried to initiate talk with my father, but he seemed totally aloof. Was it sexual? Or plain marital? I shall never know. Was it the terror of a new city? I shall never know. I've heard many stories, and I have never seen such an image of my father, but I must give credit to my mother - she wouldn't rant on untruthfully. Assuming what she said was true, I shall then assume that my father was probably not used to such interaction, and probably wasn't ready for it. I might be yanking, but it's just a hunch. Anyway, February 1986, and I know their marriage was consummated, because nine months later, I had myself an elder sister.
My sister was born in November 1986, when my parents were among the first residents of Maker Kundan Gardens (Oh, how I love that place!). She's always been a little shy, a little aloof from everyone, a little afraid to express herself - always living in her own world. Academically brilliant, she's always had an indirect adverse effect on me due to the constant comparisons that were drawn up between her and me, by our mother, and her relatives. Even though it never affected us personally, it always left a scar on me. 1988, my parents shifted to Bhubaneshwar, Orissa - oh the pain of a transferrable job!
In August 1992, in the midst of a torrid torrential rain, I was born. A cute, slightly chubby little baby - I was the pick of everyone's eye - as the photos do suggest. June 1993, and we shifted from my birthplace to what I consider my hometown - Bombay. Soon after, I learned to walk, between the walls of B - 43, Maker Kundan Gardens. But, alas! Diaster struck. 1st August, 1993, and a baby had lost his grandfather. My father who was in Bhubaneshwar at that time called to give the bad news to my mother. We didn't have a phone then; the news was given to one of our neighbours who came and told us. My mother, from what I've heard, was uncontrollable. She did not know what to do. Two children, one nearing seven, the other not yet one. She had to book plane tickets for the three of us to Calcutta - completely terrified. And there goes our first plane ride. Back in Calcutta, we all joined in the formalities, and left...
For Bombay.. where my life.. as I remember it, began.
The irony of the Calcutta-Bombay conundrum is that when it all started, my father was all for moving to Bombay, while the my mother was against it. Nearly thirty years later, the pendulum has changed completely - while my mother has become Bombay-cised, my father still harbours a dream of going back to Calcutta. From 1992 to 2008, in sixteen years, I travelled to Calcutta multiple times. The early morning 6 a.m. Gitanjali Express from Dadar, where the tiny me would be woken up at 4 a.m., to take a taxi ride to the station, and wait sleeplessly on our Milton water flask. The memory of sitting on the brown-cream flask, and the image of the terror of the rail train entering the platform with its horns blaring and smoke from the top - is one I shall never forget. Those hard, long hours in the train, when slowly, we would pass Nagpur, and then the long stretch of Kharagpur, and slowly enter Howrah, as we would see the bridge looming in the horizon. We would usually live at my grandmother's in Mukundapur, along with my masi, uncle, mami, and their li'l girl. Soon they shifted nearby nearby to Kasba, leaving just my masi in the old cottage home that my grandfather built all those decades ago.
I suppose the reason for me harbouring all this hatred for Calcutta is because of my mother's side of the family, especially her brother. They've always had a dictatorial way of doing things, which I soon began to associate with all of Calcutta. I would be forced to go there every holiday, much against my wishes. Soon, the hatred shifted focus from a familial hatred to a general-Bengali hatred. I began to detest Calcutta Bengalis for their way of life - the certain attachment that they had for their own roots. My father was transferred to Calcutta for a couple of years from 2002-2005. Hard years for him. Being away from his children, his father passing away, and his mother following suit. He was there with them till their very end, and I hold this in deep regret, not being able to go and pay my respects. This, done.. he returned.. and the three of us went to receive him when he arrived.
He looked much older than I last saw him.
In April 2008, the tide was turning.. My school was ending, my sister was graduating from college - My father had applied for a transfer to Calcutta, and received it. He expected my sister to enroll herself in IIM-C, while I was secured admission in LMB. The worst part of it is that I wasn't informed of any of it. I created a huge ruckus, and got the entire thing cancelled. As things turned out, my sister got admission in almost all the IIMs, except Calcutta, and I could never thank her more for it. Ahmedabad being the closest to Bombay, we secured victory. My father once again giving himself up for what we wanted.
Thank you, dad.
Unfortunately, all of it made me strengthen my hatred towards Calcutta. However, being sixteen, I guess a sense of maturity and responsibility was beginning to dawn in me. Two years in a new school in Bombay, along with the entire melodrama of securing college admission - it was November 2011 before I visited Calcutta again. One of my cousins was getting married, and though I was in college in Delhi, and my sister in Bombay, I insisted that I attend the wedding. Not for the wedding as such, but because I missed Calcutta. In all her glory and flaws, I missed Calcutta. I could feel an overwhelming urge to dig deep into my roots to realise who I am and why I am. The trip was a mere forty-eight hours, but it felt good to be back.
I could feel an overwhelming sensation of homecoming.
A couple of years later, in March 2013, I once again insisted on going to Calcutta for a week's holiday instead of spending it at home or in college. I guess, I consider Bombay my home because I've lived there for so long.. still do. But, it'll never be an intrinsic part of my roots. Bombay begins with me. Calcutta goes much, much beyond it. There is family, there is culture, there is history, there is tradition - there is so much about Calcutta that is unexplored mystery, and that I am dying to unearth. In Bombay, no matter how much I am attached to her, the city begins with me, and ends with me. There's no underlying meaning to my existence there. In Calcutta, there are generations and generations of history and strife.
In Calcutta, I was born...
