“And the choice you
make, between hating and forgiving, can become the story of your life.” Shantaram
This city welcomed me with freedom, the freedom to spread my
arms and fly to wherever it takes. It smelled like the first chill of winter.
Every city has a smell and story of its own, both continuously progressive. This
city had the smell of something not very attractive yet gripping. Heat is the
welcome lullaby of this city, sweat comes as a constant company yet there is
solace and there is a sweet breeze somewhere cascading down the busy traffic,
breathing through the nicotine and gasoline rich air, crushing down the dark
lanes and flowing through the messed up cries of millions, not ignoring but
slowly absorbing the aroma of the silent struggle and the cold revolution this
city offers. Every city speaks aloud its own tale of being and everyday it’s a
different story. Kolkata is no exception. It speaks of everything from poems to
progress, from gods to spirits, from vague to valiants.
“People, everywhere
they are struggling; some under the sun, some under the roof.”
The first smell of this city I breathed, was now I know a
blend of. million breaths, unforgiven sweat, delirium, agitation, hatred, heat,
smoke, nicotine, drugs, films, faces and footfalls sweetened by the aromatic
roadside cuisines, extravagant restaurants, eclectic Ghats, refreshing air, the
evening breeze, the nostalgic sky and the egoistic stars. The smell was also
swarmed over by, which I now know as, a thousand splendid ideas, a sting of
change, tensed minds and able brains, enriching literature, stories of
jeopardy, tales and recitation of love, expressions of survival and reminiscences
of lost brilliance amidst a lot of brilliant work. There is a sweet love cooking and dying inside
every window visible. There are deeper sub texts to life hidden behind every
door, every wall. There is life on the streets but the puddles speak of the
burden. There is serenity near the Ganges but the song is incomplete if seen
from across. There is difference splurging the city of joy, there are flyovers
spearing the freedom and promising progress. There are a thousand smiles and
innumerable suppressed agonies.
“And when all the wars
are done, a butterfly will still be beautiful.” Ruskin Bond
Even if there is no existence, innocence will still drool
over the silence. With each new sun that blesses the city of joy, comes along
hopes strong enough to awaken humanity and peace strong enough to silence the
evil. There is life in the early morning newspaper, there is freedom in the first
cup of tea, there is nostalgia in the kullahds, there is prosperity hidden in
the crowded buses, there is happiness in the rucksack of the ragpicker, his
little eyes shining under the scorching sun. There is a dusk sulking in the
eyes of the prostitutes. There is a smell of transformation, a smell of change,
a smell of power, a smell of win, a smell of love, a smell of care, a smell of
happiness. This city knows, happiness is not in anything but little sweet
moments that you again carry as healthy memories. This city knows what it is to
complain yet finds delight in little adjustments. This city knows torture yet
is a boiler of thoughts. This city knows freedom. This city is always on the
move. The sleepiest of all maybe a strong revolution, while the loudest of all,
a simple individual caught up somewhere. The walls withhold in them a thousand
voices of protest, defence, authority and justice. The fading ends of the city
believe in a brighter day to come. The inequality prevails but happiness finds
a place too. There are smiles everywhere, some thriving on merriment while some
on concealment. It’s a situation we can’t change but in this city, you will
enjoy the fall as intently as the rise. It’s all a journey, this city takes you
through yourself, at times, in states of unawareness, maybe.
From a.c. metros to taana-rickshaws(hand pulled rickshaws),
from no refusals to drunk muscles, from vanquished cries to pretentious smiles,
from sold flesh to extravagantly dressed up souls, from dirt to tyndall,
Kolkata is a city of JOY( Bengali – Win).
