a brochure (city of joy.)

calcutta is a city of plagiarized nostalgia. of an under-construction modernity. or even a suburban jungle.

on my way to class, i enjoy looking out of the window. (preferably with headphones on, but there has been a temporary confiscation of the mobile.) every street has a story.

kolkata has an ugly sort of beauty to it. if one has a trained eye, of course. 

during our drives to diduner bari on the lazy after-exam late mornings, dadan used to tell us about the elongated garden-like structures in between roads. i remember he called it- boulevard. of french origin, the word originally referred to the flat surface of a rampart. 

the boulevards had flowers growing, and it was of little notice, but the flowers showed resilience in the face of adversity. so did the roads. forgives the continuous hurt. the humiliation. 

it is a soft disconnection.

little things, little teachings.

dadan is getting old. the roads are getting old. there are no flowers on the boulevard anymore. 

welcome to the city of joy, the metropolis of burning industrialisation and urbanization!

if you look  closely, the city is divided into two parts. but it is a cynical laugh at societal difference, the way there's a luxury building barring itself from the disease ridden slum around it.

shh, the people just don't care. it's a lot like how children respond with: that's not my problem.

the busy roads of kolkata are perhaps the most authentic things of the city. something that has remained unchanged over the years. 

for the natives of the city, discord and dyne are safe.

without a phone, or a book i try to immerse myself in the hillbilly of everyday chaos. if one is good at spotting , you might find a multitude of expressions during your people-watching. right then, i could see a hot headed business mogul of sorts scrunching up his face (looking a lot like a wrinkled tomato) using all his face muscles furiously banging his fists against his horn. then again you can spot a now unnerving spit droplet racing down the body of a truck (the truck driver has previously emptied his mouth of red paan masala). 

a booming yet not so convincing and incredibly wavering voice trying to bribe the masses into votes echoes and more importantly for our business mogul, blocks the road with a crowd of easily driven target audience. the blue and white police offices on the corners of the road (rhea mentioned here that roads, in fact do not have corners didi) look mildly ornamental. i come to a conclusion by telling myself that where supervision is a necessary, money makes it an accessory. 

and i watch a middle class man cycling on a road with frustrated noisy cars. his back is ridiculously straight. i smile as i realise riding a bike is a ritual for him. ma says, whatever you do - do it well.

-

 what makes kolkata, kolkata isn't the howrah bridge or eco park or the other must-visit-tourist-spots of the city of joy. it's the chips er dokans with the smiley shopkeeper who sneaks a toffee into your polythene bag and the second hand bookstores of golpark where the old man lets you have two of his half torn books for the price of one, or the calls of the fuchka seller in the evening when you would run to the red topped fuchka cart with a measly ten rupee note in your palm.

the little joys make kolkata.

it has the comfort of afternoons at diduner bari.

as a child i would always mention to my new friends, cleverly inserting the fact that i was from london. i mean, i was but back then it was a tactic to be a little more special than they were. just like those london people were.

 i later realised that there was an individuality and authenticity in me that i did not need to spice by whitewashing myself.

i hope the city realises that too.

                       (pham xang trung)

 

i like how i don't use my phone on roads anymore.