Sunday, February 14, 2010

Here or not, wherever I will be, I will always have a little of Kolkata in me.

‘I am wrapping up from Kolkata’ – a phrase that I have been using opulently since the past week. After staying here for almost six years I am going back to my roots, to my hometown. I have carefully distanced myself from the most hyped about class of people for whom Kolkata is the be all and end all.And now as I feel terribly attached to this city and begin to grow cautious of overstepping the ‘balance of emotion’ I so insist upon I realize that this city means what it does to me because of the people that I have encountered and associated with.
Coming to Kolkata has been about getting into school to learn from amazing teachers, who have come to be a treasure for my life, knowing friendship and finding  amazing friends and guess what - about discovering my own self. Living here has been about finding new meaning in the odd bunch of relations I had known to exist in all parts of the city and about having weird experiences in the PG where I stayed and having all the more weird food the tiffin service had to offer the poor veggie gal and wondering how I was putting on weight in spite of surviving the daily torture of  papaya.
It has been about walking down the streets of College Street, having ludicrous experiences in the famous Coffee House, having Momo at the Exide crossing and being called ‘Momovati’ by a dear friend(Oops!), meeting unexpected people in the library, cursing the CU people almost to the verge of hating my self for coming to this city(wince wince), fighting over with my friend on whether to take the metro or the bus, being told by her - at almost every crossing-how awesome the phuchka wala is(which has almost led me to believe that all phuchka walas in Kolkata are awesome).
It has been about noticing a house named "’Khelaghar” (playhouse) on my way to school with charm; as it bore the name of one of my most favourite songs penned by Tagore; of savoring the flavor and feel of the silent past of ‘North Calcutta’, of running to the refuge in Belur, of being desperate to go back to my hometown during Durga Puja and of just being and knowing more of myself.
And now as I am on a spree of tracing back my steps and gathering all the little somethings , I think of missing the people and the aeon spent here, and know for myself that all of it has beautifully become a part of me.
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Saturday, February 13, 2010

Knowing Words

There are always several words which remain unsaid or unheard. We forget some and some we remember all our lives. Some words though are not meant to be said. Theworld jumble wordsy just come -
“Hello! Can you hear me?”
Of course you can but who’s that.

“ Its me,” (hmmm… lets say joy), “Joy. Remember we saw each other a couple of days before.”
“Saw each other? When?”
“The day you had been watering your lilies and a butterfly had got wet in your rain. Rings a bell?
I was just there.”
You obviously have no clue.But somehow you happen to trust that voice and you open the door and let Joy in.
Joy seems familiar,someone you think that you might have come across in some of your letters or may be in some of your notes to yourself.
Yes, you vaguely remember him.
“ So finally we meet”, says he.
“ We have met.”
“No, you have seen me.”
He walks across your room, browses through the books on the shelf, passes through your well kept kitchen, looks out of the windows.
And you wonder why he is here.
Its a question he definitely doesn’t answer.
He just stays, saying nothing, listening to all you say. He waits and waits till you grow tired of trying to say something or to hear something from him.
Exhausted,you recline yourself on the sofa and just let yourself go.
There the word, Joy as he calls himself, looks into your eyes, smiles at your desperation to find answers to some petty questions about him (something he knows is typical of you), lets you go beyond the ceremony of giving and finding answers and solutions.
And once he is done with all of this, he places himself silently in the centre of your room, closes his eyes and remains.

Some words like Joy are just meant to remain .
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