Forty years ago, I fell in love.

 

Forty years ago, I was struck by the divine emotion. There were no thunderbolts or outbreaks of heavy breathing. Just a conviction that this was where the heart would reside.

I first saw her on a blisteringly wet day in May. As I got out of the airport, she was right in front of me. I don’t really believe in love at first sight, and she wasn’t exactly your ethereal beauty with tendrils of soft, silken hair but more of an earthy, dusky maiden with a tinge of weariness (that would disappear with the setting sun, I learnt later). And she was older to me. At that age, I didn’t really understand the implications of falling in love, let alone with an older being. But I wasn’t about to hesitate and let such dystopian considerations stop me from letting in the divine E.

She accompanied me as I drove along the wet road and I realised that she had a lot of hidden charms which were not evident at first sight. I was given a glimpse of tantalising vistas, dark yet inviting spaces fragrant with the scents of a life lived with full fervour, and the ephemeral sense of being led on to something bigger than self, where the soul could find repose. Which is what my fevered brain considered love to be.

 Even after all these years, I have not been able to find a coherent explanation of why I love Calcutta so much (it may be Kolkata on maps but it’s always Calcutta to me, just like Bombay). She is not as beautiful, clean and well laid out as Paris, she’s not as naughty as Amsterdam, she’s not redolent of Empire as much as London (well perhaps that’s not quite right but you know what I mean). Even the people are not entirely palatable. The only thing that can be said in her favour is that’s its easy to find fault with her. But over the years I have been repeatedly drawn, like a male bee to a Queen bee, to this crazy, volatile, barely functioning yet thriving megapolis. I have visited as a tourist, transited as a passenger and lived as a resident in her heaving bosom, and have always left wanting more and have returned to drink greedily at the fount. I think there are several reasons for this mad infatuation.

The first reason is the ladies of Calcutta. “Bengali Beauty” is an oft-bandied phrase that may not mean much to a non-Calcuttan (different from a non-Bengali, for Calcutta is not necessarily Bengal), but every 2^nd lady walking down the street, however mean and dingy it may be, can stop you in your tracks, with the same impact as walking into a lamp post. They can take your breath away even when they are cursing you. I am privileged to count a few Calcutta ladies in my circle of close friends, and they have always brought good cheer and rays of sunshine into an otherwise humdrum life. And lots of food.

The second point is the food. Since I love seafood and Chinese food, and am generally a laid-back food lover, Calcutta appeals to my epicurean sense (which some unkind people call gluttony). It offers provender of multiple origins in tiny shacks, glittering 5-star hotels and everything in between. We are talking about love here, so I won’t get into details of the exquisite rolls, noodles, fish curries, biryanis and parathas that I have scarfed down over the years. Suffice it to say that Calcutta will give you a Happy Belly. Always.

The third point is nostalgia. I will confess to being an Empire buff and have always felt a faint regret that Empire pulled out of its brightest crown jewel (as I heard someone describe India), of which Calcutta was the Centre. So, for me Calcutta was and is a means of connecting with a past that was rich, glorious and dilettantish, with a side of madness which used to afflict Empire builders so that they could go forth and conquer. My first visit to London reminded me so much of Calcutta I had to stagger into a passing tea shop and restore the tissues. Of course, the tea shop belonged to a Bengali from Calcutta. Today, that rich past is not even a shadow of its former self. It clings precariously to a diaphanous existence in the minds of people and to a sprawling diaspora which always gets teary-eyed at the mention of mishti doi (not one of my favourites by the way).

Finally (at least for this piece), is perhaps the sense, not always well-defined, of being slightly above the material. Yes, there are rich Calcuttans (not always Bengali), but in the city you will be hard put to find ostentatious displays of new wealth. The wealth in Calcutta is old, very old, and is not meant to be displayed to the average bipedal. The wealth is not always economic - it is very intellectual, it is very gastronomic, it is very cultural, it is very literary, and it is very much there. I find this very liberating, coming as I do from Bombay where your wallet size determines your social standing. Many of my close friends are from Calcutta and their disdain for the cushion of currency has always fascinated me. They are richer than I am in more ways than one.

There are many more reasons, and every day will push one or more as the most important reason. Because this is classic love – complex, ever changing, waxing and waning, yet always burning bright.

Forty years on, I will never fall out of love with Calcutta. I may not have always been faithful to her, but she doesn’t really care. She has far too many suitors to worry about the one. On my next visit, I will perhaps discover yet one more reason to stoke my love for her. Till then, শীঘ্রই আবার দেখা হবে.

sunday mornings were special!

ah those sunday mornings! when the laziness of being took centre stage and nothing more demanding than a languid arm raised to bring the tea cup nearer to our face could be expected.

we dont much remember sundays in our salad days - just a day off from the humdrum of school [unlike most, we did not enjoy school and are not in touch with anyone from those dark, dickensian days]. university was a week-long holiday broken by sundays spent training for the forces. we would actually get up at 5 am to go tramping and running and marching. fun times, they were!

it was during these sunday morning excesses that we stumbled upon the idea of "sunday breakfast". our group of eager lads willing to commit all for flag and country was also a very hungry group and the 10 am break led to a storming of the nearest restaurant - a simple, 5-table south indian food outlet whose owner trembled at the sight of 30 menacing looking lads thumping up and demanding victuals.

our sunday morning experiences were considerably improved when we set foot in la belle paris. although it took us a while to get used to the laughable concept of "continental breakfasts" - two croissants and coffee - we found the idea growing on us and in our wish to emulate the natives we plunged wholeheartedly into this habit. losing about 20 pounds in gross tonnage in the process.

our forays in the wilds of africa led us to discover a little-known fact - sunday mornings, being the sabbath, tend to be busy. we discovered the "sunday lunch" - heavier cousin of the breakfast - here and we put back the 20 pounds and more over a period of three years. some of those sunday lunches especially when bivouacking in the far north of nigeria remain green in our memory to this day!

back in the native we honed our skills at the sunday morning omelette - a process where finesse, urgency and imagination brought forth a plump, steaming piece of goodness if we may say so ourselves. this skill has been maintained over the years and there is nothing better than an omelette with a plateful of toast and tea, we can assure you!

we also added a layer to the sunday morning experiences while in calcutta. the "puri-aloo-cha" combo of the stall outside the faded but memorable mona lisa guest house was our go-to in those pleasant days. and of course being in calcutta, this was followed two hours later by the famous sunday-lunch-in-calcutta consisting of fish curry and rice with some vegeterian elements trying to elbow their way in. extremely burp-worthy sundays they were.

now that we are in a heathen desert, fridays are the new sunday. the habits continue. but the charm of a "sunday" tend to be diminished when one is working. because sunday is a normal working day. and therein lies the rub.