Kolkata Winters

Winter is here in Kolkata - FINALLY ! Although it still  hasn't come with its usual sting ,but welcome anyway.

Winter in Kolkata has a definite definition , I feel. It is synonymous to innumerable things that make winter so special for Kolkata. 'Kolkata Winters' - this word draws an image in my mind , a very colourful one,  and here I shall try to pick out those colours and give each one a life of its own.

As soon as the Diwali( Kali Puja to the Calcuttans ) and Bhai Phota's over, people of Kolkata wait for their favourite season. It comes tenderly by the end of November and brings along with it happiness and a chilling warmth. Days become shorter and nights become so long.

U wake up in the morning, step on the grass of your lawn,  and you know that it's winter when the silent dews kiss your feet. Early in the morning , u can smell the heavy fog almost blinding your vision. Old and young morning walkers who otherwise throng the parks sleep peacefully, ignoring their health walk for once.

Our woolens and quilts which had been kept imprisoned for the last 12 months, in the dark depths of our cupboards  and bed-boxes are given their share of annual freedom. They feel the warmth of the sun and are made ready for service. All the shorts are discarded and the pajamas are pulled out and we start looking bloated due to the woolens. Small children don their colourful woolen garments and make their way school-wards in a sluggish gait. The cart of the vegetable vendors during the winter looks simply picturesque. They are decorated with yellow, orange , green , violet and so many other colours.

Morning is greeted with a cup of steaming tea and the famous 'Kochuri & Alur Dum' from the nearby sweet shop. 'Joynagorer Moya' is another thing to die for. People wait for the winter primarily for this, I guess. Every house build up their own stock of the same and every time you visit someone, there's always one in your platter. In the villages, the smell of jagerry (Gur) fills up the air. Women in almost every house start boiling the date- juice (it's sinful i tell you), and start making the gur. They come to the city in earthen pots, their mouths sealed with flour dough and dry shaal leaves. The Bengali Babus bargain on their high price and complain about the purity of the gur. Winter brings with it, mouth watering dishes in each and every Bong house. 'Koraishutir Kochuri', 'Muli ki paratha', 'Notun Alur Dum' are few of them.

And soon the time comes for 'Pithe' - another sweet-meat of the bongs . I want to be born as a bong ever and ever again only for the 'Pithe' , if for nothing else. In every house , the Mas ,Kakimas and the Didimas make different kind of  'pithe s'  - Patishapta, Sheddho Pithe, Gokul Pithe to name a few.

Short trips and long drives become common at this time of the year and the traffic increases manifolds. Our famous 'Maidan' gets busy greeting everyone irrespective of their social profile. The 'ghora walas' also have a nice time, with small kids having rounds and rounds of horse rides.

Picnics - how can I miss that ?  The outskirts of Kolkata also get busy at this time as huge 'Bagan Baris' get booked for picnics- Office picnics, school and college picnincs, local club picnincs , re-union picnincs - the list is endless. The hired buses smell of oranges, boiled egg, cakes and bananas- a common breakfast for the picnic. Children, and sometimes adults bring out their rusted badminton rackets, which otherwise lay abandoned at one corner of the house attic.

And then comes Christmas. 'Park Street ' - the very first name that comes to my mind while speaking of Christmas of Kolkata. Adorned with lights , Park Street looks stunning as ever . The decoration has not changed its pattern for the last god knows how many years, but there's still some newness about it every year. 'New Market'  starts looking like a Christmas Tree in itself.The christians of Kolkata throng the market buying Christmas tress, bells and Santa Clause models. It's all Red and Green, whichever direction you look at. New Market smells of vanilla . Christmas cakes beautify the old wooden shelves of 'Nahoum' - the oldest cake shop of the city.

And gradually , everything comes to a standstill on the eve of the next year. Before one can think of and jot down what one did on this present year, the latter bids us goodbye forever .And with a Bang steps in, the very fresh ,the very joyful , the very promising  and above all the very mysterious "NEW YEAR".

Winter passes on like a flash of lightning . So many events, so much fun , so many colours, all pass almost in the blink of an eye. And before we even know it, its gone and we again wait for the next winter to come and paint us all.

THE UGLY FANGS OF THE CITY OF JOY

All of ten, he had come to see the huge City of Joy, flooded with lights, adorned with beautiful and artistic ‘pandals’ at every nook and corner, with loud deafening music of Hindi movies on the streets. He had come with his rustic dad, who was equally overwhelmed by the sight of Kolkata’s magnanimity. The city seemed to embrace everyone, irrespective of their caste, social profile etc, with a warm smile and a loving hug.

They had boarded a bus, probably for the first time. For people who have no idea of the buses of Kolkata, let me give you a rough idea. They keep filling till you choke inside and people hang out of the doors like a bunch of monkeys. But luckily the boy and his father got themselves a much coveted window seat. The boy had wide open eyes and it seemed, he wanted to take back home the whole of the city - the fun, the noise and the essence, imbedded in his mind. He was collecting stories which he could share with his less fortunate friends who never had a chance to visit Kolkata.

The bus was filling up fast with people - ‘Urban’ and ‘Well educated’ men, women, children, all decked up and looking their best. There was already a commotion inside. To be able to stand still without being stepped on, or being hit by someone’s elbow seemed practically impossible. People gave cold stares at the rustic duo as they occupied the seat which otherwise could have been taken by anyone else…The local Miss India with her painted face, the middle aged mother of two, the elderly man in Kurta Pajama. But all these people were not lucky to get that seat and were somehow managed to stand still as the bus raced along the road.

Suddenly, the ‘little boy’ grew restless. “I want to throw up, I want to throw up,” he told his father. A more confused dad, completely unaware of the ways of the city, didn’t know what to do. Before he could think of anything, the ‘little boy’ threw up- And hell broke loose.

People standing close to them, waiting for their turn to take the seat were repelled as if struck by lightning. Immediately in a rippling action the pandemonium spread. It was a wild fire. One could hear a growing shuffling of the feet and groan and grunts from the far corners with the precariously hanging passengers nearly thrown out of the bus. A mini rampage set the whole place astir. There were stiletto jabs, elbow knocks, missing bags and broken finger nails. There were shrieks and cries and angry shouts from all over. The duo in their pool of yellow slush was the least of the problems but they were the villain of the piece alright. “Why do the buses allow such villagers who have got no civic sense?” shouted a middle aged man carrying a small girl of his own. “Hey you stupid oaf, jut the boy’s head out of the window. He’ll ruin our dresses,” shouted another woman.

The perplexed father couldn’t even comfort his terrified son. He had no clue what to do. He tried to push his little head outside the window to assuage the crowd. He was like Abraham trying to please the God. “Just put your head out,” he said with great annoyance. He was not angry with the child. He was unable to handle the indignity they were thrown into. He was just flushed and angry and humiliated and it showed in his face.

“No, daddy pleases … the wheels the wheels” was all the frightened boy could manage to say. His body was crocked up uncomfortably, his throat choking in the firm grip of his father. His face was smeared with tears, dirt and water. His new clothes were soiled. His father’s clothes were soiled too. He wondered if he was being punished for his vile act. In his meek voice, he simply told his dad, “I’m sorry, I’ll never do it again.”

He wanted to go back home to his mother, amidst his own people. He wanted to be pampered, to be asked thousand of times how he felt, to be offered some cold water and lime to make him feel a bit better, to be assured that “Nothing’s wrong, it’s absolutely OK.”

But to the contrary, things were so different here. Not a single soul had a kind and healing word for them. Everyone looked down on the ‘little boy’ as if he was some criminal. People covered their noses with their hankies. The women, who probably have mothered so many children, shouted the most. The Miss India made an act as if she had never witnessed something so horrid and would throw up herself. A man, all decked up, yelled “Get off the bus, you moron. People like you should not be allowed on public transports”.

They rebuked him, made him feel like a pest in the world full of colourful people who only physically resembled him and his hapless father.

Like frightened new born calf he shuddered now and then and sat glued to his father. They both seemed to seek refuge in the other. They seemed inseparable in their pain. All the excitement in the boy’s eyes had been replaced by awe and horror. He was stunned to see his city of joy suddenly reveal it ugly fangs and its gnawing claws.

I reached out and gave the father my chilled bottle of water for his son. But the ‘little boy’ refused to take it. I was taken aback. What must have that little soul gone through, that he refused water when he needed it the most?

He reminded me of my chartered bus trip to Digha when I was his age. We didn’t have a car at that time, so we were on a chartered bus – One of those old and rusty one which rattled each time it dropped in a pothole. I used to get sick in them Felt nauseas each time and would eventually throw up. My mom had tried all sorts of things to make me feel comfortable - Feeding me an hour before boarding the bus, stuffing me with antacids, not feeding me at all, feeding me on the bus etc. But nothing would help. I would inevitably feel sick at the smell of petrol and would just throw up.

Later my mother came up with this ingenious idea of carrying plastic bags for an emergency puke attack. She knew my fear of jutting my head out of the window in the National Highways with buses coming from opposite direction at the speed of light.

Puking till date makes me very uncomfortable. Memories of that day, memories of the pinched expressions on the faces of the co passengers have infused in me the fear of puking in public. If I am sick now I have to isolate myself completely from everyone even from my parents. And every time I throw up, I cry. I feel this strange, inexplicable pain within. My body seems to refuses to take part in the activity against gravity.

The little boy brought it all back. While others would have pressed ctrl alt del and forgotten that little incident the moment they got down of the bus, amidst the gaiety of the Pujas, I could not forget the pain in his eyes.

I felt ashamed of being part of the city people who showed no compassion to him and treated him like a dog. I felt embarrassed at our hollowness in the midst of the plenty we project. I felt guilty I couldn’t hold him and comfort him when he needed it most. What stopped me?

Bong Connexion

Had a lovely day yesterday . Away from the so called sophistication , away from the malls which has become the latest fad now .Went to Minto Park with my boyfriend . Had some work there . Then we walked till 22 Camac Street .The scorching sun , the sweltering heat though uncomfortable seemed so pleasant after such a long time . There we avoided Westside and Panatoons .Instead , strictly stuck to the roadside stalls :)

Had a barf-gola (kala khatta) .... It was worth 25 bucks . I mean I'm so tired of having Baskin Robbins ,Gellatino and Kwality Walls swirls. They burn a hole in my pocket but somehow cannot touch the heart . My boyfriend who has this immense fetish for saving grumbled for having to spend 25/- on ice alone but then I knew that even he was enjoying the unconventional which strangely was so familiar and close to our heart.

Then we called another friend and decided to watch Angshumaner Chhobi at Nandan .

It was just 1.00 pm and the movie was scheduled at 4.15 . So we had to spend 3 long hours . So we took a cab till Nandan . Bought 4 tickets . Then we walked back till Haldirams.

Had our grub there . Cheap and filling =)

We still had 1 hour to spend. So me and my guy again walked till Emami Starmark . fidgeted with some books and then in an hour walked till Nandan again. But then 2 of our friends had arrived .

So we watched the movie. It was a nice movie .A bit philosophic but good.Nandan is a different experience completely . So much better then a multiplex but so much BONG .

After the movie we took a BUS till Park Street .From there ,we walked along the footpath . It was such a different experience after such a long time. From there I got the entire twilight series (pirated though) worth 450/- .

Beat that =)

My guy bought a fake Reebok bag worth 200/- . All of them had left the bargaining to me . I'm good at it ...

And then we were awfully hungry , so again from the Indian Museum we walked till Mac D -Park Street . Had Chicken Mac Grill and Iced Tea (its my fave).

And then we boarded the Metro and came back home . A day well spent but at the cost of terrific foot ache :(

We have become so rusted from within that now a walk gives us foot ache and non AC markets makes the mercury of our temper soar higher and higher . We all have become sophisticated bongs now . We think that a shopping not done at South City Mall is not shopping at all . We have completely forgotten places like New Market ,Park Street footpaths ,Gariahat,College street so on and so forth.

But these are the places where a BONG's heart will always be and always crave for visiting .