Smells like Joy

“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).