Oh Calcutta

I think it’s fair to say that we don’t put weekends into context till we have reached that stage in our life where we have to ‘earn our daily bread.’ When the final touches of my week long work are administered on Thursdays, I feel like I am emancipating my mind and body from what we often hear of as ‘stress’. What ensues over the next 48 or so hours is typically my definition of a ‘weekend life.’

It is on weekends that I get my time out from the frenzy of private limiteds and get to absorb the cosmopolitan world around me. Dubai – the big daddy of the world’s riches, the home of the world’s tallest towers and the parliament of the world’s Ferraris and Lamborghinis. I don’t get myself through a weekend without a can of Heineken or my favourite Jack and Coke. I seem to love strolling around with empty shopping carts in the biggest and the wondrous malls of the world. In the night time, we hop into convoys of Hondas and Mercedes to arrive at the busiest nightclubs of Dubai. Thumping beats from the latest Bose surround sound speakers get our feet tapping right up to the wee hours of the morning. That’s Dubai, and my weekend life in the city.
Question is, how the hell did I get myself here.

The story begins in a city that Dominic Lapierre once called the city of Joy. Growing up in the noisy and smoke filled Dhakuria, by the bridge side, I lived and breathed Kolkata city for all the 22 years of my life I lived there. Hopping off the school bus meant that I had to run the fastest sprint of my life to get back home, slip into my sporting gear and head back out on to the streets to play ‘gully cricket’ with my ‘para friends’. Each of them were called by funny pet names, like Bhombol and Motku (yes, you’ve heard these before). These guys were our best friends outside school, and played cricket with us right up to the time one of them tasted his first Navy Cut cigarette of his life. That would imply that he was now a ‘dada’ and had other things to prioritise on.

Sometimes cricket sessions would get the better of us, and we would be devoid of any physical energy after the end of a game between 2 bitter ‘para’ rivals. This would be the best time to hop onto Motku’s cycle and hitch a ride up to Rabindra Sarabar Lake, where ‘Shonkorda’ sold one rupee Pepsi sticks. Ma never approved of ‘Pepsi’ as she felt that they mixed chemicals and colour to produce that taste. However, few things were available for 50 paise, and at my pocket money, ‘Pepsi’ was probably the only thing I could afford. Motku would offer us a nice ride back home, and it would be time for homework with Ma’s glaring stares welcoming me in.

Greener pastures were found in Park Street, figuratively speaking. The Connought Place and Piccadilly Circus of Kolkata is home to the best Chinese restaurants and roll shops of the city. Music World on Park Street was the most incredible thing I had seen in my high school days. The very thought of an air conditioned music shop with juke boxes in it was overwhelming for a music junkie. Park Street, as a matter of fact, was also home to schools that treated each other as arch-rivals, but at the same time, churned out brilliant students year after year. There were days when I walked down Park Street in my Xaverian uniform and exchanged silent nasty glares with Martinians in their yellow and blue ties. Park Street!

As years went by, Park Street became the same road that had Park Hotel on it, and Park Hotel of course had Someplace Else in it. Someplace Else represented a shelter for me, a shelter where like minded souls gathered. Where mundane dwellings and silent nights traded places for clouds of smoke, pitchers of beer and Nondon Bagchi singing Wonderful Tonight with Hip Pocket. Park Street stayed on in my life like a story unfinished, while the rest of the action shifted towards College Street.

In the 3 years that elapsed between 2002 and 2005, I found myself spending a considerable amount of time in College Street. I doubt if I will ever be as possessed with the legacy of a street as I was with College Street. No Music World, no Someplace Else, but College Street introduced me to a world of organised protests, coffee houses and book shops. It showed me tram lines, bus number 240 and small food shops with names like Putinam. You can earn in dollars or dirham, but nothing quite compares to the four rupee snack at Putiram. If you know what I’m talking about, you’re smiling now.

Truly, there was simplicity in the way we lived our lives then. Putiram is long gone; I look for value meals in McDonalds. Music World seems insignificant in front of Virgin Music Store. The Lakes don’t seem to provide the same atmosphere that the Cornice in Dubai does. Someplace Else looks very small in front of the Buddha Bars and the Ministry of Sounds of the world. The one rupee Pepsi sticks have now been replaced by Heineken cans worth five bucks each. And yes, no Motku will drop me home in his cycle-far from it, we’re talking of the Chevys and Hondas and the Nissans here.

I’m having sex with life here. But as the saying goes, no one forgets his first kiss. I love you, Kolkata and I always will.