Be there.

I was too far away. Sweat reminded me of the present moment. Its perception is fleeting, every second. A willing suspension of disbelief hits us as I enter her. Together yet apart… She rests her head on my chest. Deep breaths punctuate the silence. A trip to far-off lands… a cloudy, misty, foggy lush of green surrounded by hills thrust into the bosom of the earth. A slithery tongue grants her pleasure. Her lips grant me mine. Together yet apart, we shower in our senses.

My city, my religion.

Kolkata… the mysterious mistress I fell in love with quite young. Her lakes, her monsoon, her greens have been my childhood friends. As I aged, I understood her pulse better. She is dynamic, moody, gracious and even bat-shit-crazy at times. The breathtaking sunsets over the Octarloni Monument… the Ganges gently touching her curves like a long braid of hair as it flows south, caressing her… the stunning cityscape leaving a trail of gasps for her lovers.

This is where I met yet another mysterious woman- Roshni. Studying together at the University of Calcutta, she and I became friends. Roshni is a brilliant photographer, a book-sniffer, a co-traveller's delight and her chicken recipes are delicious… most of the time. It was quite surprising to find her interested about Kolkata. Why surprising you ask? Well... though the city has a large number of photographers –far too many perhaps– they are more interested in the frames rather than the stories behind them. So it was rather surprising to find a good photographer hungry for stories.
One night, I asked her to come to Tirhetta Bazaar with me. "Eeeeeeee....let's go... yaaayyyy." –she texted, getting an opportunity to 'shoot at will'.
Breakfast at Tirhetta begins early, very early. At 6:30 in the morning, our cab stopped in front of the broad alley that was filled with traders, food stalls, dogs, poultry and the smell of smoked pork. A cute pup sniffed at my toe and Roshni got busy clicking. We moved towards the last stall towards the end of the alley where the road met another at the middle— Aunty ka dukaan. There's no rule to start from here; it was just a matter of choice. Aunty is a Chinese woman- busy, stressed, inquisitive, always calculating, always questioning. Also, she sells heavenly fish momos. For Roshni, it was love at first bite. I chose a fish ball soup. Sadly it wasn’t nearly as good as the momos. We paid 90 bucks and moved on to the next stall. We are a hungry pair, you see. Here we found another woman– not Chinese but probably Bihari judging by her Hindi accent– selling chicken spring rolls, dimsums and fried momos. We tried the rolls. They were awful. The dimsums were cold. It was a sour anti-climax, the opposite of foodgasm... food-nausea?

Roshni was hardly bothered by the taste of the food. She was more interested in the colour patterns and textures of the houses around, the elderly Chinese couple, kids playing with puppies, the toothless old guy asking to get clicked and so on. We moved past the stalls and turned left on the connecting street. Bright-coloured walls, Chinese hoardings, dragon graphitti – it was hard to believe we were still in Kolkata. A girl with a camera and a guy with exploring eyes – this was a rare sight for the local people. Some were friendly; others threw disgusted looks murmuring, "Look at these clowns… fooling around early in the morning." You have to take everything in good sport.

Down the alley, we stopped at a small dusty door. An unassuming noodles factory. Those delicious strands of flour we devour look highly unappetizing when they are first prepared. A large mound of dough is put through a roller much like those sugar cane juice machines to press them out into long sheets. The process is repeated till they are thin enough and then the sheets are cut and shredded to form noodles as we know it. "What do you want?” –asked the thin Chinese lady managing the factory. We intended to ask to click photos and get a story and a guided tour of the factory. Instead I found myself asking "How much for the noodles?" She packed a kg of hot and fresh noodles for Rs 30. Meanwhile, Roshni took photos of the machines, the workers, and the lady– who refused to smile.

It was thirty minutes past eight by my watch. Blame my office hours but we had to call it a day. As we walked past Tiretta Bazaar going towards the Central Avenue we came across a dumping ground or more of a scrap godown. Hundreds of barrels were piled on top of each other on the roadside. The blue barrels formed a phalanx-like shape and in front of it we saw something that we thought were an extinct species– a telephone booth.

If you are an Indian and have grown up before the 'mobile generation', you would be quite familiar with the STD-ISD-PCO-Local telephone booths. As we moved towards the glass windowed dusty box, a head peeped from inside– a boy of about eight. With his bright eyes, brown face and yellow sweater, he made an enthralling frame with the worn-out booth. Roshni found her 'subject of the day'. The boy, patient and calm in front of the two elated clowns, glanced behind us a number of times. I turned around to find a rickshaw-puller with an assuring smile on his face– his father. That smile, that moment made my day.

I have met people who know about Kolkata possibly more than anyone in the city. I have walked with photographers - local and foreign - and seen them take breathtaking shots of the city. I have been asked questions about Kolkata's lifestyle, culture, heritage, history, crisis… its people, places, colours and cacophony. That kid and his father may not remember me now. The daily toil of life would have erased those five minutes from their memory. But the next time someone asks me "What is the best thing about Kolkata?” I know what I will say. Here, a lifetime can be lived in a moment and memories can be found in scraps.

Winter Lady stay a while

She was not looking attractive. She was not looking gracious. When I first saw her, she was not looking at me. I lit a cigarette and looked around the empty road. The red traffic signal was the only thing my eyes could catch until they got a sight of her. Brown, hazy eyes… black saree, low-cut blouse made of some glossy stuff that would instantly provoke one to call her a whore.

She looked at me. Winter in her eyes.

I have always avoided that stretch of Sovabazaar. Somehow, I felt very uncomfortable around that area, those cheaply decked bodies, that strong perfume and those blatant eyes.

My heart was pounding. Those sharp brown eyes were piercing through the moral grey areas of my conscience. I started to walk away.

“Ei chhele…”

I did not look back.

“Oi chhele, shon.”

I stopped.

“Kichu bolchen?”

“Hmm… shudhu dekhbi?”

“Err… na… maney… ami asole bari jachhilam.”

“Toh ja. Ekhane bari tor?”

“Na. Ultadanga.”

“Oh! Amaro bari ultadanga e. Chol tor bari jai.”

“Eh? Na... mane… bari te baba maa ache.”

“Tate ki? Bolbi ami tor girlfriend.”

“Hehe… na… ora amar girlfriend ke chene.”

“Ishhhh! Tahole bolbi eta notun girlfriend. Ajkei hoyeche…”

She laughed. The most shockingly fake yet strong laughter any man could endure.

Bling! My phone interrupted.

“Ke? Girlfriend?”

“Ha. Kotha bolbe?”

“Se ki re! O kichu mind korbena?”

“Na na. Or bhaloi lagbe. O jane ami ekhane oi sob karone asini.”

I did not know how to put it in any other words.

“Ki sob karon?”

“Na. Kichu na.”

Two guys passed by us with huge grins. A drunken taxi driver yelled at another girl who was standing two lampposts away. A group of boys walked by passing typical comments.

All this could not penetrate that 10-second silence.

“Tomar akta interview nite pari?”

“Ei! Kon channel?”

“Channel na. Emni. Nijer jonno. Kothao chhapabo na jodi tumi baron koro.”

“Amar didi janle kintu taka chaibe.”

“Se chak. Tumi raji?”

“Thik ache. Ami ei somoye ekhanei thaki..."

“Oi! Edike aye.” That taxi driver called her.

“Jaa bari jaa. Pore kotha hobe.”

Vulnerable. That is all I felt my way home. Naked to the soul, I tried to sleep that night. The night I talked to the girl who holds winter in her eyes.

A sunset, a dolphin, and no photos

"Dolphin!"

Roshni said with a childlike joy.

The Ganges is known to have dolphins but rarely do they make an appearance.

Both of us stood silent for a minute and there it was. For a brief second, the brown-backed dolphin peeked through the afternoon water.

A cloudy and rather disappointing day was no more there.

As I prepared the camera to get a photo of it, a flock of egrets flew by making a white V against the orange sky. I might be visibly upset as Roshni looked through her big yellow glasses and said: "Some things are just meant to be seen."

I put the camera back.

No clicks, not a single frame to immortalise the beauty of that afternoon.

There we stood on the New Jetty in Diamond Harbour, silent. I enjoy these comfortable silences.

I close my eyes today and remember every moment of that sunset — the orange sky getting purple, the glittering water, the breeze, the dolphin, and her smile.

Some things are meant to be seen and remembered on a pensive afternoon, without any support.

Dry Riverbed

“Bling!”

Another uninvited message from my girlfriend got ignored as I waited for the perfect shot. “Splash”, and it was gone. The moment, for which I had been kneeling down on the ground, flew past my shutter. 15 minutes gone in vain. Paltoo, my local acquaintance might have noticed my frustration as he offered another cup of tea. I realised that not answering unnecessary texts had become a challenging task so I switched it off. 

“Paltoo, let’s head for Khoyai (dry riverbed). Enough with the riverside.”

Paltoo nodded and pushed the worn-off paddles of his rickshaw with his firm calves. It was excruciatingly hot. Palm trees, little huts, vast fields- the abundance of nature seemed to suffer from blisters just like me. The scorching heat of May was glittering on Paltoo’s sweaty shoulders. Surprisingly, the 20-odd guy showed no sign of exhaustion.

“Bhai (brother), don’t you get tired of pulling this? Why don’t you work at some factory or shop? It would be better for you.”

Paltoo wiped his forehead with a Gamucha hanging from his left shoulder and replied: “Food dada (big brother), my maalik (owner of the rickshaw) gives me two meals a day and 1200 rupees a month. In the shops, who will give me food?”

“You can always buy food. You will get paid at the shop.”

“I am not allowed to enter the bazaar, dada.”

“What? Why not?”

“I am a Baishnav dada. It’s a Hindu market. Baishnavs are not allowed to go there. I was a Baul myself, dada. I had to do this for my stomach.”

“Don’t you have a family?”

“They abandoned me. I had leprosy two years back.”

It took 30 minutes for us to reach Khoyai through Santalgaon and it was sunset. A group of Baul singers were chanting some romantic lines. The sun decided to call it a day and have mercy on us. I took out my camera and clicked a random portrait of Paltoo.

“You are wasting it over this black-faced slave, dada,” he said with a grin.

“Here, have one.” I pulled out my cigarette pack, handed one over to him and lit one for myself.

An eagle flew over a palm tree, crossing the sun, and headed towards the woods.

I took out my phone and texted my parents and my girlfriend: “Am alright. In Shantiniketan. Will call you later.”

The red dry riverbed bore long palm tree shadows as I shared a puff with Paltoo, my bhai.

Disgusted time-traveller

Rain disgusts me. Trees look like witches. Roads look as if some drunk guy forgot to stop peeing. I hate it.

“Stop it, you fool!” I yelled at the sky. Why? Why do you people look up to complain? Who’s up there? Up… above… why would I want someone above me? Humans are so self-loathing. They subjugate to ideas.

“Hey you… you there. Yes you. What’re you looking at?”

“Nothing Sir. I am trying to find my way home. Please help me.”

“Listen boy. This street leads to the graveyard. You go straight… and…What are you doing? You go straight I said. Straight!”

“Relax Sir. Let me calm you down.”

“No! Get your hands off me.”

“Please Sir… please let me calm you down.”

“No!”

I started running. The alley seemed longer. At the corner of Phalgun Das Lane and Creek Row, I stopped.

The walls were red. Those drunk bastards… puking all over the place. Ah!

I closed my eyes.

The alley was so dark. I couldn’t see my hands but I knew they were sweaty.

Am I lost? Impossible!

“Run you bastard!” I told myself. My voice echoed.

“Run all you want… I can see you… Sir.”

“Nooo…”

I did not say a word. Trust me. I did not. I did n…

“Please, go way… I mean no harm… why are you doing this?” I asked. Yes it was I.

For that silent minute, I waited for my voice.

“Hello…”

“Hello…”

“Hello…”

“H-hello…”

“It won’t hurt. I assure you Sir. Calm down… yes. Good man, sit properly. Haven’t you learnt anything at school?”

“I don’t remember going… I did not go to school. Please let me go.”

“Rubbish! Did you not take up that one lesson? Or the morning you went there fully dressed to be enlightened, to serve His purpose?”

“No. I do n… go away you fucking maggot! Or I …”

“Or you what? Kill me? Kiss me? Slap me? Trap me? Ask me to kneel down at your altar? Put that candle inside me? Fill me in?”

“Go away... have mercy.”

“Relax.”

I got out of that alley. It was cold. January can be harsh at times. The moon shone high above the NRS Hospital. I turned to say thank you… Sir.

Nijer?

Amar sob kota shira jeno tor jonnoi rokto race e dourae. 

Ei odbhut kotha ta bhabar por kobi pen chhure fele dilo. Bhabnar gondi periye hajar ronger nishan gulor dike takiye theke bollo- “Grant me the serenity to accept the things I can’t change.”

Sob noshter gora ki?

Bhalobasa? Nah! Tar jonnoi toh lekha.

Rag? Na. Rager boshe gaali beroye. Lekha na.

Obhimaan? Hingsa? Prem? Nirapottar nirobota?

Oshushtho kobi bhanga pen tule dekhlen kali akhono furoyeni.

Se jaye tar prem er sondhane. Bondhutter potaka oraye. Dhoya e sajay khela ghor.

Kobi shudhu bhabe. Bhabe ar rege jaye. Raage ar gaali dey nijeke.

Nijer haat duto dekhe. Kolpona e thappor mare nijer gaal e. Nijer bolte nijer e kemon onischit lage.

Ki nijer? Konta nijer? Haat nijer? Gaal nijer? Byatha nijer? Koshto nijer? Raag, dukkho jontrona kanna nijer???

Bhul. Shudhu bhul gulo nijer.