Shimla

In the summer of 1958, my father came to Shimla with his sister and nephew and nieces. It was summer and the season of apples. They walked till chhota Shimla and Jackoo hills and so many other places. And of course, they stayed at the Kalibari. Those were the days when rickshaws pulled by men were seen on the mall and the Ridge.

Twenty years later he came with my mother and a group of friends. They stayed at the Kalibari once again and walked all the way to Jackoo hill; my mother was not impressed. It was the year of the floods and they quickly moved to Manali. That was a couple of years before I was born.

Fifty years later, last Sunday, he again went to Shimla. This time I was around and his family was complete. He has been to Shimla when he went to school, he was in Shimla when was young and strong, he now went to Shimla--slightly weak, and very old. It indeed has been a pilgrimage. Bengalis have made similar routine out of Darjeeling and Puri; Shimla is indeed a little strange place for such a feat. I feel that he has also been lucky.

We stayed near the Mall, and in a hotel. Kalibari was visited once and casually. The room was well appointed and pricey. Life indeed had turned a full circle. He had come with a Roliflex in '58, in 1978 he carried a Minolta SRT101, and this time around I used a Canon Powershot. He loved sipping the tea at the Sarkari-tourist-department run cafe on the Ridge and watching children on horseback. We didn't go to Jackoo hill or Chhota Shimla but we went to Fagu, Naldera and Kufri. He did not climb any mountain slope but quietly sat for coffee at Fagu and waited for my mother as she limped and struggled to get out of the tourist bus. They were happy and tired. After a long and a lonely while--I was at peace.

Ten years that shook my world

I spent ten years in Kolkata. When I came, it was known as Calcutta. One day, much to the chagrin of many (and that includes good ol' Fr Pat Eaton, sj) it changed to 'Kolkata'. I came here in summer; it was April, the 'cruelest month'. Thrust into Park Street, this country-oaf from Durgapur was both amazed and confused. There were so many lonely walks on Short Street, Harrington Street, Hungerford Street. Then there was this friend of mine--Swagatam. Both of us soon delved into Kantian noumena, Heiddeger and Kierkergaard. While most of my friends gunned for the IITs and the medical colleges, we spent hours at Nandan. Nothing great was achieved. I still had to negotiate cruel hours in stranded trains, messy Sealdah in the rains, running from one bus to another. There were girls from Loreto, and Birla High on the tube. One of them, was ravishing. I was particularly jealous of a St Joseph's boy who managed a cosy fifteen minutes with her, everyday. Later, he came to my college and soon dropped out. He stayed close by in Barrackpore. I am told that he is into some business in Singapore. He didn't have the girl, but, did he care?
Swagatam died on 13 January, 2004. He was killed by a bus driver who drove over him. Swagatm and I had chatted, cried and been tortured by the world. He was a wonderful boy. Yes, a boy he was. When did they allow him to grow into manhood? To hell with Calcutta and its rowdy, hooligans like cadre-driven society.
Did the city care for me? I doubt it. After college, where I learnt a lesson that I've kept very close to my heart, getting into the finest University was a breeze. Yes, where was I? On lessons learnt. In this city the 'system' is much bigger than the individual. No matter how good you are, it is going to cut you down to the size of a Bantu. The university, the board, teachers, all of them would set the standards of mediocrity and then ask you to beat nincompoops. Mugging answers, rote learning critical surveys, and writing fancy long winded English was more important than being original, imaginative and crisp. Of course I look back to college with affection. I wouldn't have learnt how to read poetry had it not been for Bertram Da Silva, I would not have read with passion and zeal for performance if it hadn't been for Partho Mukherjee. And, who could forget the dedication, steady hard work, and the gentlemanly warmth that Professor Kapadia had.
The amazing interiors of Goethals Library, reading a dusty cloth covered book--tattered at many ends--at the National Library, as the November sun mellowed upon the dust on the teak of the table, was something that Calcutta offered with ample happiness. So was the smell of jasmine flowers I bought for someone at Rashbehari, while she was schooled in Rabindrasangeet. We walked, softly, as summer eased into rains, through Garcha, Dover Lane ,Hazra....
If Hussain’s does Hyderabad proud, we have our Foreign Publishers' on the Grand Hotel arcade. Babuda, would always have the odd book, and he could make you buy it. Ashis Bhattacahrya has been known as Babu to many Calcuttans. He has a credit system for those wrinkled, frowning and bemused intellectuals who avoid or abhor credit cards. He can sell academic hardbacks like no one else can. And, it has always been a delight talking to him. Conversation would be a mix of adulation, criticism, and the banal. I bought my RSC Shakespeare from him and he favoured me with a good discount. Warm regards for Babu-da
The old British Council, on 5 Theatre Road, was also a pleasure. It had cane chairs, a nice cafe, and long umbrellas for rainy days.
I watched films at Metro and Globe and preferred them to Priya. The multiplexes are such an abuse of cinema-going! The Dharamtullah halls were all dirty, didn't make much money, but, the day they turned Lighthouse to a shopping mall I was angry. That was plain uncultured and the Bong-middle-class Chief Minister couldn't care less. However, I do love the rejuvenated Coffee House on Central Avenue. Though, the micro-wave heated pakoras are a bit disappointing.
The day I got my job at Orient Longman, I walked all the way, in rain, from my office at Chandni Chowk to Coffee House on College Street. I met a friend of mine; he was well past sixty and a radical--Professor Pranab Nayak. I would also not forget Kanchankumar Mukherjee and Rabinbabu. We shared a cup of black coffee and listened to stories of a generation murdered and dragged down the drains by Indira Gandhi's stooges. And, the communists-in-power exonerated all that. I wrote for a magazine called Ikshan. Long live the revolution of the Bengali gentleman!! De la grande Mephistophilis. Yak Yak
I left for Delhi ten summers after I'd come. I had fallen in love, gone to the University, taught at colleges, hated the mediocrity and the middle class that is so typical of the city. Once on the train, I realised I hadn't taken my ticket! Did the city not want me to leave? The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind.

Hi,

Sorry for the goof up, but it seems that I've unwittingly deleted my first post! I will be back with it shortly.