Walking down an ancient tramline.... faster than the tram moves towards its shed....the pompous blaring of the loudspeaker... my destination - the legendary architectural vision of Sir Hogg, the New Market, a relic of the splendour of old Calcutta and its aristocratic obsession. The bad quality speakers are belting out the trilingual hum honge kamiyab-we shall overcome - aamra korbo joy, in all their pompous glory, while a man asks this backpacked Calcuttan the way to a place around where she got lost just yesterday, somehow brings out the spirit of the city.
I closed my eyes and allowed myself to be guided from the back entrance to the front to ensure that I entered the building the right way. The first glimpse I got as I walked in from the grand entrance was that of Masterda Surjo Sen. A strange choice of statue to erect in front of the Calcutta High Court... or perhaps not so strange. You may wonder why there was no Nehru, or Gandhi, or Bose, or Ambedkar. Why the greatest and first among law-breakers chosen over men, who are more known, more glorified, and have contributed more than him. Perhaps, that is the exact reason why...The magnificent and inspiring architecture gives way to courtrooms which are just as inspiring. Courtroom drama here is a joke. Pending cases, lawyers attending court just to ask for more time, badly made arguments and upset judges are what you find in them. You see, they inspire you to initiate a change. Yet, there is some magic in the air when a quick joke is shared within the dusty walls of the courtroom [1]( do read the footnote, it’s not a citation), and a room full of ‘black and white’ lawyers, burst out in laughter.
Met a few friends at their college and was sneaked in with a fake ID card. One of the oldest educational institutions in the city, and we spent a winter afternoon debating on the huge school field. You need to imagine a bunch of kids arguing matters on an open field, people walking around, laughing, talking, and meeting others. You need to imagine, the splendour in this simple exercise of practice, friendship, occasional laughter, constructive criticism, and an element which sets it apart, from a similar exercise elsewhere - a whole lot of innocence.
There’s this one stretch of footpath along the grand colonial building which is really a museum that houses the Ashoka Pillar from where our national symbol is evolved. Artists and poets and students of history and science visit this hallowed place. The footpath is flooded with thriving hawkers of knives, socks, sunglasses, jute bags, attar, cold water, undergarments, photocopied books and pirated music. Among them sits a cobbler who at exactly 1 30 pm draws out a steel tiffin-box out of his bag and begins to eat, a strange mixture of rice, dal and aloo. Sometime during his lunch, a squirrel comes up to him from inside the museum, sits down trustingly next to the old man, and allows him to put into its mouth tiny morsels of this food he works so hard to earn.
I wonder what it is about this place that makes even its own transport system so very different, unique and warm. Even as the first underground metro-rail in the country transports you across kilometres at a price lower than any other form of transport, anywhere in the world, (here I’ve even taken into consideration Bangladesh!), there are trams chugging slowly along with the pride of living a special kind of hangover, knowing that some parts of its city, are doing their best to make sure, it dsn’t die a complete death, at the altar of development and reasonable use of space. The yellow and black ambassador cars which dot the roads as taxicabs, and the shuttle autos that run on some parts of the city, reflect the paradoxical love for convenient exclusivity, and unmindful sharing, that runs among the people here. It is those very people who on buses can have heated discussions about football, and Bollywood, and politics with a bunch of strangers. The very same people, who walk in large numbers to their decisions, giving the city streets the personalised feel that they do.
It was the first time a bunch of Indians had defeated the British at their own game. (no. This isn’t a fictional lagan I’m talking about!) [no. It isn’t even cricket!!] A group of brown men in green and maroon had beaten a team of whites, at a game called football. This, was the first victory before several of the MohunBagan Football Club (a name that now bears the very unceremonious prefix of Macdowell’s). Now they play matches, which are politicized just a tad bit lesser, with mad crowds at stadiums, ready to fight and die, for their own team colours.
They came here by the river.... the white guys that made this city... they settled around the river. And the strand road has remained one of the most important roads since then. There are all kinds of ghats here. From where goods enter a vast hinterland, where the children of dead people shave off their heads, where eunuchs smoke pot, where lovers hold hands, and where ‘Tollywood’ films some of its most poignant scenes. They are also where a ‘Millenium Park’ has been constructed (for families to spend happy Sunday evenings with their wild children), and a fancy Floatel, (which serves coffee and where there are fashion shows) which stand occupying a position of glory only second to that of Princep Ghat, which testifies an era of colonial flamboyance. The river, and its nalas (they are actually failed attempts at making canals), effect the city in ways unnoticeable to many of its dwellers. It is the Ganga... The holy river.... Continuing to be the lifeline of Calcutta, as it’s always been.... The very reason for its existence.
[1] Ok...you got to imagine this in the proper accent
Judge (with a glint in the eye to the counsel arguing): Your client is a baarbaar??
Advocate: Sir, I do not wish to say it. ( then quietly, as if saying: don’t tell anyone but I’m telling you this) Actually sir, he trades hair for utensils.
