One of the questions I find most difficult to answer is the name of the place I belong to. The answer should ideally be Patna, the Capital City of erstwhile Lalooland, and currently Nitish Kumar's New Bihar; for I have lived almost half my existence there. At the same time, the remaining half of the story includes some of the most memorable chapters of my life's unfinished book - Three delightful years in Ranchi, Four crazy ones in Vellore, almost three in the not-so-meetha 'Gur'gaon and a chatpata 'Amritsari' experience in between.
However, the prologue of this hypothetical book must start in the City of Joy, Kolkata. Not because I am a Bengali, though that makes my connection to the city sound an absolutely logical one. My Dad works in a Bank, and that partly explains why I have always been a wanderer. Kolkata is where he started his career - His first "Karmabhoomi". A few years later, Kolkata became his son's "Janmabhoomi" : This is where I took my first steps, uttered my first syllables, and then the inevitable tranfer orders came. Relatives and family functions made sure that I stayed in touch with the city. Many years later, as my Dad's bosses ran out of ideas and cities, they ordered him to pack his bags and march back to the same old place where it all started. So, here I am, standing at the Howrah Central Railway Station, trying to recall my new residential address.
I walk out with my two black bags and it does not take me a long time to spot a yellow ambassador, a synonym for a taxi in Kolkata. "Garia Haat jaabe?", I ask. The driver nods, takes his seat and clicks the meter on. Now, that's a relief. Unlike the NCR, where the auto-wallahs almost never agree to use the meter, the cabbies in Kolkata don't need such instructions usually. You can't deny the possibility they may choose the longer, circuitous route, if they feel you can't make the difference. But, I have a faint idea of the city's roads plus I know the local language. So, I assume I won't be taken for a ride.
The taxi yawns, shrieks and groans into action. Within a few seconds, it comes to a standstill. Can't blame the old machine - there is a major traffic jam. I look outside the window and I see a few tricolored plastic flags waving at some distance. A closer look reveals the coloured flower and green grass on each one of them : Electoral symbol of Ms. Mamata Banerjee's Trinamool Congress. I also see a poster of Mamatadi, smiling and waving a triumphant 'right' hand to all her voters and supporters. I look around and she is everywhere. Posters and banners of different shapes and sizes with the leader in the forefront, accompanied by her flower. She has finally arrived. For almost a decade, if not more, she has been the only visible political opponent to the collosal left front in the state of West Bengal. And she has taken them down. After 34 years. Thirty Four Years. If the magnitude of this number does not hit you instantly, consider these facts : As many as 11 different leaders have taken oath as the Prime Minister of India during this period, some of them more than once. In 1977, when the dream run started under Mr. Jyoti Basu, Barrack Obama and Shah Rukh Khan were teenage students; The WTC Complex was still under construction, not reconstruction; Osama Bin Laden was nobody; Kapil Dev was 6 years away from his greatest claim to fame; Sachin Tendulkar had just started playing cricket with a Plastic Bat; Mahendra Singh Dhoni was yet to arrive : On Earth, that is. Even as the USSR disintegrated into countries with complicated spellings and impossible pronunciations, West Bengal remained a dark red spot of faith and belief for the communists in India. However, over the years, the red colour degenerated into a reddish-brown, resembling rust rather than revolution. A fresh coat of colour, change, development and new ideas was needed. A speck of bright green was noted in Singur around 2007-08, and it now adorns the entire state, 'that red spot'. For the comrades, it's a reminder that in a democracy, if you ignore the wishes of the people, they will ignore you sooner or later. Theories are great, but the common man believes only in tangible results. For Didi, she now knows that success is truly sweet; Success, cooked in the kitchens of time, is sweeter. The greatest test for her now is to remain level-headed and focussed on cleaning up the mess.
It's difficult to remain in thought when your body is under stress. The taxi hasn't moved an inch and by now, the characteristic humid Kolkata air has seeped into my clothes and I am sweating profusely. About an hour back, I was wrapped up inside a blanket in an air-conditioned compartment of the Rajdhani Express, enjoying my morning tea, oblivious to the world outside. How much I wish I could get back there right now ! The driver is also getting restless. He informs me that a traffic jam outside the Howrah station is unusual, it does not happen regularly. I find it a little difficult to digest. It's obvious that the roads have not been repaired for some time now. And they are not wide enough to accomodate the flow of buses and taxis which use them everyday. They are dirty, and so is the railway station. For a large number of people who come to a city for the first time, the railway station/airport/bus-stand is the first base on which they form their opinion about it. And we know the importance of the first impression, as per the cliched phrase. Certainly, the state outside the Howrah station won't help in the formation of a positive opinion. Hopefully, this will be one of the points in Mamatadi's agenda.
A few false starts later, the taxi finally takes a turn towards the Rabindra Setu, popularly known as the Howrah Bridge, the city's most identifiable landmark. As the vehicle gathers some speed, I can feel the breeze flowing from the river Ganga. About a month back, I had seen the same river, in Rishikesh and Haridwar, though there hardly seemed to be any resemblance between the two. The river I had seen in Rishikesh/Haridwar looked pure and lively, full of fun and energy, the bluish green colour complementing that image. Here, it wore a calmer, jaded look, perhaps the outcome of a long and arduous journey. The accumulation of dirt, garbage, shit (both human and animal), industrial waste and the sins, which
people in India try to wash away in the holy river, on the way, has altered its colour to a dullish brown. Back in school, my Hindi teacher had once equated the life of a human being to that of a river. The derivations were now much easier to comprehend. The river I had seen earlier symbolised the unfazed youth; the one in front of my eyes represent the older version, now filled with memories and experiences, on the verge of completing his voyage. In terms of West Bengal, the Trinamool is the younger Ganga, at least expected to be so; the outgoing Left is the senile, tired one.
Plenty of shops and offices around mean that I have entered the main city. In some time, I should be home, gorging upon the plate of Chicken Biryani waiting for me. I can now see the Hind Cinema, once a single-screen theatre that has responded to the calls of changing times, as the additional letters FAME indicate. However, the city in general, hasn't responded to these calls whole heartedly. Kolkata has a proud past, and some part of it seems reluctant to let it go. It hasn't moved ahead as swiftly as the other metropolitan cities or even the newer ones like Bengaluru or Hyderabad. One of Trinamool's popular slogans during the elections in response to the Left rhetoric was "Bodla na, Bodol chai", meaning we want change, not revenge. Bodol is expected to be the buzzword in the state in the months to come, especially in the Capital. I hope it achieves the desired result, without distorting the identity of Kolkata as one of the hubs of tradition and culture in the country. It must remain the city of Rabindra Sangeet, Roshogollas, Durga Puja, Tramlines. What Kolkata
needs is a makeover, not a Plastic surgery.
However, the prologue of this hypothetical book must start in the City of Joy, Kolkata. Not because I am a Bengali, though that makes my connection to the city sound an absolutely logical one. My Dad works in a Bank, and that partly explains why I have always been a wanderer. Kolkata is where he started his career - His first "Karmabhoomi". A few years later, Kolkata became his son's "Janmabhoomi" : This is where I took my first steps, uttered my first syllables, and then the inevitable tranfer orders came. Relatives and family functions made sure that I stayed in touch with the city. Many years later, as my Dad's bosses ran out of ideas and cities, they ordered him to pack his bags and march back to the same old place where it all started. So, here I am, standing at the Howrah Central Railway Station, trying to recall my new residential address.
I walk out with my two black bags and it does not take me a long time to spot a yellow ambassador, a synonym for a taxi in Kolkata. "Garia Haat jaabe?", I ask. The driver nods, takes his seat and clicks the meter on. Now, that's a relief. Unlike the NCR, where the auto-wallahs almost never agree to use the meter, the cabbies in Kolkata don't need such instructions usually. You can't deny the possibility they may choose the longer, circuitous route, if they feel you can't make the difference. But, I have a faint idea of the city's roads plus I know the local language. So, I assume I won't be taken for a ride.
The taxi yawns, shrieks and groans into action. Within a few seconds, it comes to a standstill. Can't blame the old machine - there is a major traffic jam. I look outside the window and I see a few tricolored plastic flags waving at some distance. A closer look reveals the coloured flower and green grass on each one of them : Electoral symbol of Ms. Mamata Banerjee's Trinamool Congress. I also see a poster of Mamatadi, smiling and waving a triumphant 'right' hand to all her voters and supporters. I look around and she is everywhere. Posters and banners of different shapes and sizes with the leader in the forefront, accompanied by her flower. She has finally arrived. For almost a decade, if not more, she has been the only visible political opponent to the collosal left front in the state of West Bengal. And she has taken them down. After 34 years. Thirty Four Years. If the magnitude of this number does not hit you instantly, consider these facts : As many as 11 different leaders have taken oath as the Prime Minister of India during this period, some of them more than once. In 1977, when the dream run started under Mr. Jyoti Basu, Barrack Obama and Shah Rukh Khan were teenage students; The WTC Complex was still under construction, not reconstruction; Osama Bin Laden was nobody; Kapil Dev was 6 years away from his greatest claim to fame; Sachin Tendulkar had just started playing cricket with a Plastic Bat; Mahendra Singh Dhoni was yet to arrive : On Earth, that is. Even as the USSR disintegrated into countries with complicated spellings and impossible pronunciations, West Bengal remained a dark red spot of faith and belief for the communists in India. However, over the years, the red colour degenerated into a reddish-brown, resembling rust rather than revolution. A fresh coat of colour, change, development and new ideas was needed. A speck of bright green was noted in Singur around 2007-08, and it now adorns the entire state, 'that red spot'. For the comrades, it's a reminder that in a democracy, if you ignore the wishes of the people, they will ignore you sooner or later. Theories are great, but the common man believes only in tangible results. For Didi, she now knows that success is truly sweet; Success, cooked in the kitchens of time, is sweeter. The greatest test for her now is to remain level-headed and focussed on cleaning up the mess.
It's difficult to remain in thought when your body is under stress. The taxi hasn't moved an inch and by now, the characteristic humid Kolkata air has seeped into my clothes and I am sweating profusely. About an hour back, I was wrapped up inside a blanket in an air-conditioned compartment of the Rajdhani Express, enjoying my morning tea, oblivious to the world outside. How much I wish I could get back there right now ! The driver is also getting restless. He informs me that a traffic jam outside the Howrah station is unusual, it does not happen regularly. I find it a little difficult to digest. It's obvious that the roads have not been repaired for some time now. And they are not wide enough to accomodate the flow of buses and taxis which use them everyday. They are dirty, and so is the railway station. For a large number of people who come to a city for the first time, the railway station/airport/bus-stand is the first base on which they form their opinion about it. And we know the importance of the first impression, as per the cliched phrase. Certainly, the state outside the Howrah station won't help in the formation of a positive opinion. Hopefully, this will be one of the points in Mamatadi's agenda.
A few false starts later, the taxi finally takes a turn towards the Rabindra Setu, popularly known as the Howrah Bridge, the city's most identifiable landmark. As the vehicle gathers some speed, I can feel the breeze flowing from the river Ganga. About a month back, I had seen the same river, in Rishikesh and Haridwar, though there hardly seemed to be any resemblance between the two. The river I had seen in Rishikesh/Haridwar looked pure and lively, full of fun and energy, the bluish green colour complementing that image. Here, it wore a calmer, jaded look, perhaps the outcome of a long and arduous journey. The accumulation of dirt, garbage, shit (both human and animal), industrial waste and the sins, which
people in India try to wash away in the holy river, on the way, has altered its colour to a dullish brown. Back in school, my Hindi teacher had once equated the life of a human being to that of a river. The derivations were now much easier to comprehend. The river I had seen earlier symbolised the unfazed youth; the one in front of my eyes represent the older version, now filled with memories and experiences, on the verge of completing his voyage. In terms of West Bengal, the Trinamool is the younger Ganga, at least expected to be so; the outgoing Left is the senile, tired one.
Plenty of shops and offices around mean that I have entered the main city. In some time, I should be home, gorging upon the plate of Chicken Biryani waiting for me. I can now see the Hind Cinema, once a single-screen theatre that has responded to the calls of changing times, as the additional letters FAME indicate. However, the city in general, hasn't responded to these calls whole heartedly. Kolkata has a proud past, and some part of it seems reluctant to let it go. It hasn't moved ahead as swiftly as the other metropolitan cities or even the newer ones like Bengaluru or Hyderabad. One of Trinamool's popular slogans during the elections in response to the Left rhetoric was "Bodla na, Bodol chai", meaning we want change, not revenge. Bodol is expected to be the buzzword in the state in the months to come, especially in the Capital. I hope it achieves the desired result, without distorting the identity of Kolkata as one of the hubs of tradition and culture in the country. It must remain the city of Rabindra Sangeet, Roshogollas, Durga Puja, Tramlines. What Kolkata
needs is a makeover, not a Plastic surgery.
