Everyday Things...

Steaming Vanilla Lattes in Styrofoam cups,

Frosted breath on the cold window

Waiting for the bus…

Getting ready to go!

In walks the Professor

Clicker in hand,

There come the dreaded papers

I can barely stand…

I look out at the snow

Piling up on the sidewalk

And think of distant Kolkata

Reeling in summer’s shock!

Cherry trees blossom

Tulips in full bloom

The sun shines brightly

Driving away the gloom

Up we go,

The plane flies high

Over the sparkling ocean

Through the blue sky

Twinkling lights greet me

The seat belt sign switches off

My bags take hours and finally…

The pollution makes me cough!

Home is where the heart is

Somebody was right

It never felt so good

To step into the Kolkata night…

The City of Wonder....

When you live half way across the world, you really gain perspective. Of who your loved ones really are and who your fair weather friends seem to be. When you're not around everything changes. People change, feelings change, relationships change but most of all...the city changes....

Born and bred a true Bangali, it is hard to quench my thirst for all that is identified with my culture. The maach-bhaat, Pujo, pollution, clash of old and new, rosogollas and ultimately PUCHKA! All of these eventually get rolled into one big ball of Bengali-ness and thrown into the corner of my memory while I live in a foreign land and try to enjoy the foreign-ness.

When I say the city changes, I obviously refer to Kolkata, my hometown. When I say it changes, I don't mean it physically changes even though I'm sure in the year I've been away, it has physically evolved and grown. What I mean is, it's place and stature in my mind changes everyday until the point where it is just a romanticized figment of my imagination. I am sure this holds true for every individual that leaves their country in pursuit of better things in another.

At this point, even though it has only been 10 months, I have forgotten the heat, the pollution, the traffic, the population, the poverty and all those seemingly unpopular aspects of my city. What I remember and hold close to my heart is the the pulsating energy of the city, the taste of cool lebu'r jol on a hot summer's day, the smell of khichuri wafting through my house on a rainy monsoon day, the pomp and fanfare of Pujo in October, the brightly lit streets of Park Street, the bussle of New Market, the delicious Chinese at Jimmy's Kitchen, the warmth of friendship in Coffee House, the crowded metros at 5pm, the chaat outside Lake Kalibaari, the tranquility of Mosque Island, the memories at the Hanging Bridge, the late night chats on Madhu's chhaat, the delicious aroma of Ma's chilli chicken, those wonderful evenings of Pol Science tuition, cold coffee and gossip, the broken hearts and the mended ones, the budding affairs and the dying ones, those friends that once were just a phone call away, the loud and wonderful rumble of baba's voice, the sizzling of ma cooking in the kitchen, the sound of the TV over Sumit's laughter, the houses of friends and family, the old world feel of North Calcutta, the life and energy of South Calcutta, the soulful music at Someplace Else, the calming effect of Daab Sarbat at Paramount, the institution that made me who I am today, La Martiniere, the adventures Mad, Shreya, PD and I shared, the shops on Bye-Pass we stopped at, Ma's voice floating over my stereo, Dugs' frantic typing on the PC, Kalpi and Minu Mashi hovering around to help, Mohan da's broken tooth, the regattas and regatta nights, rowing on the lakes, finding a best friend, winning BRC 4years straight, finding love and letting go, bonfires and New Year's Eves, Christmas Parties at Raji and Jayatri's, Magic Moments at Debu Motel, slumber parties and family.....

The list goes on of what I think of when someone merely utters 'Kolkata'. It's a feeling unlike any other and it's hard to understand unless you've been away. I go back to that city of my dreams in 2 weeks and I know my romance will be shattered but for now I'd like to think of Kolkata as my Utopia and home as Paradise....

Unfaithful

You hurt him, he moves away
Afraid he’ll be burnt by your touch
You call him, you say,
“I’m sorry for being a bitch”

You move right on,
You don’t look back
He thinks you’re done
And moves off the track

Then you get hurt, you call him
You cry a lot, he comforts you
And runs right down on a whim
To tell you it wasn’t true

You were never over
This was how it was meant to be
That was just a cover
And now it’s just ‘u n me baby!’

You hurt him again and again
But he holds on tight
Standing against all the pain
Just refusing to fight

You cheat, you hurt, you lie
But he goes on loving you
Refusing to say goodbye
Swearing he isn’t blue.

Why do you do it?
Why be a bitch?
Why can’t you be faithful?
Why must you twitch?

The Old Man and His Bitch

(inspired by ‘The Goat or Who is Sylvia?)

“I’m in love! I’m in LOVE!” the old man cried
Tears streaming down his baggy cheeks
He lifted his wife smooth off her feet

“What?” his old lady cried
“In Love? Whatever do you mean?”

“It’s nothing that I’ve felt before…
But when I looked into those eyes,
She was the one I’d been waiting for
All of my life!”

“What then, is to become of me?”
His old lady wailed, clearly distressed and grieved
“Who is this witch who’s stolen your heart?
And left me here to weep?”

“It’s a woman unlike any other!
In shape and form and race!”

“Race? Oh! Woe is me! This man has fallen…
And what is to become of me?”

“Who is she? Who is she?” the old lady screamed
And shook her fists in his face
“I’ll bring her down, I’ll bring you down
And if need be, I’ll destroy myself in it too!”

The old man sighed and stared dreamily into space
And moaned, “Lucy, Lucy…aaah…Lucy”

“Lucy?!” she exclaimed
“Why, that’s what they name dogs these days!
Old man, what have you done?
Who have you fallen in love with?”

“A dog? A dog? Yes, indeed! A dog!
I’ve fallen in love with the sweetest,
Most wonderful, adorable little bitch!
And she has loved me too…”

“Old man, have you lost your head?
Listen to yourself talk!
No gentleman refers to a lady
(No matter how vile she may be)
In quite those terms!”

“She is a girl but of the doggy kind,
I met her on my walk.
She ran beside me and as I stared into
The black pools of her eyes,
I knew it had to be love!”

“Then she wagged her furry tail
And rubbed her nose against my shin
She turned her bottom to my face
And wagged her furry tail!”

“It was then that I knew,
She wanted me, just the way
I wanted her”

“And we went to bed
And that’s all that can be said
For with such details, I wish to
Bore you not!”

“Bore me?” she shrieked
“It sickens me you vile disgusting pid!
You tell me you’re fucking a dog
And hope I understand?????
“Where is this Lucy?”

“She lives two doors down
Aah Lucy, Lucy…”
She stormed out the door
He sat dreamily still

Ten minutes later he heard a yelp
As loud as loud can be
And as he rushed to the door
Through the window he saw
His beloved Lucy

She hung limp and lifeless
On a rake that stuck out of the ground
Her tiny heart, filled with love for him,
Speared by the rake’s sharp claws

She stood over the body
Maniacal grin on her face
And glared at him challengingly

He bent his head low
And mourned his beloved
While the rake
Went through a heart once more...

Being Indian

She sat there, head buried in her hands, silent tears streaming down her face, eyes glued to the book in front of her. She was reading; reading about her childhood, her life, her future. Well, technically, she was reading Jhumpa Lahiri’s latest but from it, appeared the demons of her past, present and future. She saw herself in ‘her’ shoes. Living an empty life, growing up, growing old, in a country so far from being ‘home’. As she sobbed, her tears stained the pages of the book in front of her and pooled around her elbows on the table. The high shelves of books around her provided comfort but remained unmoving in her moment of weakness. She tried to focus on the letters that seemed to jump out at her and run all over the page, blurry and impatient. She blotted her tears with an already soaked Kleenex and continued to read…

Page after page of incongruous words floated through her head and yet, all she could think of was her own silly insecurity. She had decided that she would grow to love her new world and she’d easily forget the old but now, in this sudden rush of emotions, she knew that she could never forget. She knew that she was not made for this life; that she loved the food, tradition and customs of ‘home’ too much to adjust to this new life. Yet, she knew that she had made that decision a long time ago, a decision she might regret at different points in her life but one that she would not go back on. It would all be better, she told herself, once she “had the big job and made the big money” but no amount of cajoling could pull her out of her melancholy at that moment.

She knew she’d live a life of comfort and if she was accepted to the best law schools in the country, even a life of luxury but all of that seemed unimportant at that moment. She thought of her future; her career, her home, her kids even (despite having sworn she would never have any). She cried for those unborn, unwanted infants, who would grow to be empty, hollow people, devoid of roots and history, having no connection to their birth land and wanting no connection with their true homeland. She refused to accept their fate. She wanted her kids to go to the same school she had attended, wanted them to enjoy the things she had as a child, especially her mother’s insanely wonderful cooking. She wanted them to learn her language and love her traditions (even though she maintained very few). All this she thought of and her despair grew.

She pondered on what she was, what she was meant to be, in this alien country. Did she really want to grow old here? And where was here exactly? She knew it had to be the coasts. She couldn’t stand being away from her culture and it was on the coasts that it thrived; sometimes even more than back home. Yet, she feared a loss, a most terrible loss and regretted her life’s biggest decision.

In the onslaught of her emotions, she realized that she loved her home and she was more Indian than she’d ever thought she was. She was more Indian than the ‘Saas Bahu’ serials her mum was so addicted to. She was terrifyingly loyal to the one place she’d left far behind and she swore that someday, somehow, she would go back. She would die in the country she was born in and she would never let the love she nursed in her heart, die.