This doesn't seem the end..

Howrah Bridge from Howrah Station

Every time I've come to Kolkata, it’s reluctantly. And every time I've left Kolkata it’s even more unwillingly.

The numerous trips have been for work, studies & holiday too! Notwithstanding the heat, I remember having come to Kolkata for a holiday during summers once! But, there is no particular time to be in Kolkata. It’s all the year round.

The dusty pale roads that suddenly become crowded and jam-packed during pujo seem just the place to put your feet on. The innumerable melas on every open ground. The paper-boys selling old newspapers for a Rupee to sit on the wet ground when it rains during the pandal-hopping days. The festivities do not die. “Come rain, come sun, we won’t cut down the fun!” This seems to be the motto of every Kolkata-dweller. 

Would you rather be at any place other than Park Street during the Christmas? I bet not. The festivities capture you and you just can’t go home. Nobody seems to mind the night out on the streets, stretching into the next day. The lights, fun and food beckon you.  The entire street closes to traffic from evening on, and every shop glows up in merry Christmas lights. The carnival here is a never-miss!

Calcutta University, opposite which the historic Coffee House is located

Old city Calcutta is a storehouse of historic assertions. It is full of buildings, old and dilapidated. But each of those is a heritage with some story that etches it’s connect with its past glory. I think the College Street Coffee House is probably the only place that allows smoking inside its premises. But again, it’s the only place that had the geniuses of Netaji Bose & Satyajit Ray come for a cuppa coffee too!

Inside the College Street Coffee House

The generous bus-conductors will spare you change for a 500 Rupees note even for a 6 Rupees bus ticket, if you call them “Dada”. And the smile never wipes from their faces. Every lady on the street-side chai-cigarette shop is a “Maasi”. She’ll pour steaming tea into an earthen cup from a metallic kettle that we had last seen in our alphabets book where we learnt “K for Kettle”. It is a visual delicacy. And the scent of Kolkata is undisputedly tobacco. Some person will definitely smoke on your face, to give you more than just a sniff.

The numerous puchka-walas at every street corner and the roll shops at the road-sides, every few metres provide the just right evening time snack. And every true-blooded Calcuttan will have a favourite shop in some ‘galli’ of some ‘para’.

One of my friends observed, “This city grows on you”. And rightly so. This city embraces you and doesn’t leave you. In case you still have to move on, it’ll go with you. How often in a new city have we bragged by saying- “But back in my hometown...”? For me Cuttack & Calcutta have been used interchangeably, in a complementary kind. 

Again providence has deemed it fit for me to move out of Kolkata. Still, this doesn’t seem the end. 

A Closure Quest

What is a good reason to move on?

What a stupid question to ask. But that’s the question at the top of my head when my mind and heart are at odds with each other. But why am I moving on? This would be your next question. Because a change was exigent, for one. Because I didn’t belong to where I was, is another reason. And maybe, as some wise old soul had observed, change is the only constant in life!

Move on, I must. But is it worth? Will I be taking any fragments with me or just shunning everything and leaving?

White earphones plugged into my ear, I sweat away the 45 minutes bus ride to my swanky office. It isn’t tedious, if I get a seat to sit. The rush, the chaos, I had begun to relate to it. Without that my life missed something. I cursed everyday about the congestion; even then, it had a settling effect on me.

The buildings on my way to office seem to have stood from eternity and maybe into forever too. When I left this city on a transfer, they stood their grounds. And when I returned after few months, they had not moved. And now, they seem to be pulling at my heart like magnets. It distresses me to think, how disheartened they’ll be, not to find me looking distractedly out my bus window someday.

Swiveling open the glassy doors and walking onto the glossy floors, that which is a self-contained world in its own, has people from all over the country, who have made it their home. The security lady dressed smartly with a cap, has the usual 30-seconds chit-chat with me. She is the most regular employee on floor. As I walk into my ODC, diffused lights glow brightly down on me and the dry coolness assuages the fatigue.

The late nights at office, the early morning calls at office, the sporadic training sessions, and the numerous mails over phone, were a commonplace. The managers, the mentees, the juniors, the senior, all would be addressed by their first names only. There was no strict hierarchal difference, except the ability to wield power at the appropriate (read ‘appraisal’) time.

The familiar perception about this job isn’t that heartening. Not only people belonging to the older age bracket, but people of our generation too, place an undue (my opinion) worth on other career preferences having any kind of government involvement.

I didn’t understand the abundance of commonality. It was rather a pride to belong to the cohort. I didn’t understand the lack of recognition. It was rather the joy of having the power to fix issues by being privy to coding. I didn’t understand the frustration of comparison. It was rather the surprise of having been chosen into this, in the first place!

It shouldn’t have been difficult. I knew the friends here, were only for their own benefits. I knew the ladder to success had a few rungs broken. I knew the podium of achievement was already a crowd. I knew every boss had his own camarilla.

But I also knew it won’t be the same anymore. I was aware of my efforts to carve a niche in this competitive field. However I hated it, I knew a part of me belonged here. I knew, out of here, I would be like a fish out of water. I knew there were a thousand reasons not to continue here, but that one reason in favour, was enough to dissuade.

There have been so many people who in their own small ways had made an impacting difference to everyday life. Some with their wide-grinned morning greetings, some with their approachability, and some with their ‘always there to help’ attitude. And even some with their unseen backing. 

There is no thorough way to thank them. Even less, with a goodbye-thank you. And when at the inevitable end you take leave, expecting to get a chance to continue to be grateful, you get an “all the best” and “meet you soon”. And that’s when you realize, you had not expected it. You had not wanted all to come to an abrupt end.

Some goodbyes seem so broken and incomplete. And due to these, the quest for closure still remains.

The Indecent Touch.

“Hello, Ruchika here. May I know who’s speaking?  Ohh, I’m sorry. I’m waiting for the bus, will reach office in another 30 minutes.” I put down the phone. I had just been saved from being hit by a speeding taxi, which scraped past me.

Ah! There came my bus, flashing ‘K1’ in bold orange. After the 25 minute wait in the sun, I was relieved. Little did I know that my relief was soon going to turn into despair!

The bus came to a screeching halt right before my frantically waving hands. I was smiling at some grouching faces. But I dint mind, I had finally got my bus! I tried to make my way onto the first step of the bus, but I couldn’t. I waited impatiently while the driver was honking, asking me to get on board fast. Some people who were hanging from the foot-board grudgingly got down making space for me to step on.

I stepped on. But now, I had no place to move ahead. Grabbing onto my bag, I managed to climb onto the 4^th and final step. I tried to search for some place to plant my feet, because I was standing on somebody’s beautiful brown shoes. And the poor fellow wasn’t shouting or complaining. He must have been getting his shoes spoiled every day, I guessed. I quickly jumped down to take the place of someone else who inched towards the door to get down.

I tried in vain arching my neck to see if there was any place where I could stand without touching anyone. But all I could see was shirts and smell the stench of deos & sweat. Everybody was cramming around me. In that condition my mind stopped judging every touch, whether it was deliberate frottage or the desperate struggle of every other passenger to get a breathing space, literally!

I thought it safe to have a stronger hold on my bag, so I brought it close to myself & hugged it tight. I was at a loss thinking which way to angle myself so that I would fit in like a puzzle piece. But however I tried to stand, I hustled somebody or the other. Fed up, I stood like that, hanging onto the bus rod.

Precariously, I was clutching my bag with one hand, hanging onto the rod at the door with the other hand and balancing, leaning on someone else. Its at such a point that the unanticipated happened! The jam-packed bus had to take a sharp turn. My right-hand holding the rod slipped. I fell towards somebody standing on the second last step. I let out a shriek, as did the other women passengers.

But I wasn’t scared of falling out. I somehow knew that I was safely packed on all sides. Even if the misfortune happened, and I was jolted out of the bus, I would still land safely upon a heap of people, hazardously standing with hardly a place to keep their toes.

Every passing minute was a pain, trying not to come in someone’s way. But everybody had to cross me and go since I had managed to secure a place right next to the door.

The hoarse voice of the bus conductor started shouting ‘New Town namabe’. I sensed a greater relief as compared to the previous time. The bus came to another screeching halt. The braking of the bus sent shudders through my body, just as scratching nails on a blackboard gives me goose bumps!

I was pushed out of the bus, as everyone scrambled to get down. I collected myself. I was still in one piece, safe & sound. My dress wasn’t torn, nothing had been stolen from my bag & I wasn’t bleeding. Though, my feet looked as if they desperately needed pedicure.

I was finally out of what I would call a crusher. I was panting. In those 30 minutes spent in that bus, I lost all sense of touch. All those mushy romantic scenes meant nothing to me anymore.

I had always thought, how would it feel, the first time when my hand would brush against his?  Would I get butterflies in my stomach? The sudden flush of red in my face which I’d try to hide so that he doesn’t see that I’m blushing. When he comes close to speak to me & I suddenly turn to see his face close to mine.

Alas, now I wouldn’t even realise when that happens.