The Starting Line

Aastha Sheikh was the only 9-year old in her class never to have seen Ellis Bridge. All her friends talked about the wonderful view from atop their fathers’ shoulders, staring down in awe at the serpentine river weaving its way through the heart of the city and up in amazement at the wonderfully illuminated bridge. They would speak of families walking along the pedestrian paths on the edges, laughing and smiling with kids on laps, kids on shoulders and kids on their backs slurping on an ice-cream or struggling with a fluffy candy floss. They would giggle and suddenly dive into hushed tones and burst out laughing, reminiscing about young couples walking hand in hand, engrossed in the view- some of each other and some of the manmade wonder above the natural one. They would speak wide-eyed about the groups of friends cutting birthday cakes on the famous bridge overlooking the Sabarmati and wistfully hope that someday soon they would be able to convince their parents to give them the same freedoms. Aastha listened mute to all these stories and true to her name, believed that one day she would see this great miracle too.

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As her father brought the vehicle around, Aastha’s face lit up with an unadulterated joy that only a kid can show. She nearly jumped out of the arms of her mother, who for some reason did not seem happy at all. Perhaps she did not take too kindly to being woken up at 4 am in the morning but young Aastha who had been put to sleep early last night, had no sleep and only hope in her eyes as she finally managed to wrestle her way out of the reluctant arms of her mother and made a beeline for the vehicle. Her father got out of the driver’s seat and waited as Aastha’s little feet made the fifteen feet journey an arduous one. He knelt down and with a smile greeted his only daughter and then lifting her up in his arms stood up facing his wife. As Aastha looked at the vehicle in awe- a vehicle which she knew her father drove but had never seen, her parents carried out a hurried conversation in hushed tones. She realised from the tone of her mother’s voice that she was not happy about something but too happy to care about what, she let it slide away from her mind.

Minutes later, young Aastha could not believe that she was in a car, at 4 am in the morning, wide awake and with permission. As she let the cool October morning breeze hit her face and ruffle her hair , she felt something she rarely felt – a feeling that she couldn’t quite define but a feeling that had sporadically engulfed her when her father had taken her to Sarkhej Roza the first time. It was only a few minutes from their house but the sheer size of the lush green hills, the old and enticing remains of gates and palaces and her father’s encouraging look telling her to run as much as she wanted to made wave after wave of the feeling lash over her, making her feel as if she was miles away from dirty little Sarkhej. She had ran about to her heart’s content that day, her father barely managing to keep up. As they climbed down the outer wall that evening Aastha peacefully sleeping on her father’s shoulder, her arms wrapped around his neck and her drool all over his shirt, her father knew that his daughter was not one to be tied down.

As memories of that wonderful day came flooding back into her mind, Aastha looked towards her father driving the car and then back out at the empty streets and flickering streetlamps casting temporary shadows on the strays that looked up sleepily at the vehicle that rushed past . She suddenly felt very brave and special, sure that none of her classmates had ever seen Ahmedabad at 4am. As the vehicle took a turn and continued along a beautiful road , Aastha saw to her amazement that on her side of the road there was no longer buildings and concrete but instead a huge chasm , across which was visible a skyline silhouetted against the early morning sky of Ahmedabad. At the gradually lightening sky with a deft stroke of orange here and a slight dash of yellow there against a canvas of a purplish-black shaped by fluffy and bulbous silver-lined clouds stretching across the vast expanse, Aastha stared and stared unable to contain her excitement on seeing a sky that changed colour so quickly . Her father smiled as he changed the gear, perhaps for the first time during this time of the day although every day at this time he had been exactly here for the past 12 years. He looked at his watch and hoped that he would be on time.

Five minutes later Aastha did not know where to look- at the huge structure in front of her that stretched across the river below, the reflection of which in the still waters presented a beautiful scene of illumination against the dark reflection of sky , at the water itself, guarded by high stepped walls on either side and protected by the many sentinels hung over it at generous distances bridging the gap that it created or at her father who escorted her down a flight of steps and lifted her atop a raised platform , smiled at her and urged her to stay put and did what any clueless 9-year old would- sit and stare.  She looked at his retreating back up the flight of steps, knowing fully well where he was going- back to the vehicle.

Aastha looked on in awe at the troika of a dark canvas gradually sprouting lighter shades, with a sudden leak of reddish hues and silhouetted skyline of a vibrant multi-cultural city still cloaked in the black of the night, a still, silent, powerful, ever-moving serpent, weaving its way across the city and the illuminated man-made engineering marvels slung across the lifeline connecting the city and completing the canvas. She was so engrossed in the scene that she almost missed what her father had brought her there for. She would have missed it had it not been for her father waving frantically from down below with a huge bucket in one hand and a broom in the other, pointing excitedly at the skyline behind him and quite extraordinarly following the line of vision of his outstretched broom Aastha saw a chrome ball rising above the minarets,kalasas ,amalakas and highrises. As the Sun rose above the city it gradually threw off the dark shroud the city had wrapped itself in and the canvas changed from a purplish-black to a soothing light blue bordered by white cumulonimbus. Aastha watched in wonder as the Sun illuminated the city and the artificial illumination on Ellis Bridge paled in comparison.

Having cleaned the stretch designated to him, as he had done for the past 12 years Ahmed Sheikh returned to where he had left his daughter. Not seeing her there, he kept the bucket and broom there and ran down the steps looking left and right as he covered two steps at a time. His heart racing, thinking now about his wife’s reprimanding, Ahmed rushed along the river not knowing where to look. He knew shouting was futile and huffing and puffing, just about to collapse Ahmed, saw to his amazement a 9-year old girl running on the platform above his head towards Ellis Bridge. Taken aback but still thankful that he had spotted her, he rushed along trying to find the next flight of stairs. By the time he found it, Aastha had reached the bridge. Climbing two steps at a time and knowing full well that his body might collapse any moment, Ahmed continued spurred on only by his love for his daughter. Finally having caught up with her, he fell down to his knees, famished and ashen-faced, his shirt soaking wet on an October morning and his face grimy already. He looked up at his daughter who excitedly pointed to the reason why her father had run so much. Still trying to gather breath, he looked up at a sight which even in that state, he had to behold.

Through the caged structure that was Ellis Bridge, the sun played hide-and-seek as it ascended the limitless sky, its light skidding off the metal and disseminating into multiple rays in all directions. As he looked on in wonder, the sun continued to rise up and while doing so, bathed the bridge in a warm haze of October sunshine and as the sound of crows crowing and dogs barking aggregated with the gradually increasing sounds of horns honking, gears clunking and the occasional train whistle in the distance, Ahmed realised why his daughter had run- to take in the true essence of an urban sunrise.

Aastha Sheikh was the only 28-year old among the competitors to have seen the sun rise through Ellis Bridge. Being mute since birth, she however could not tell anyone how beautiful it was but the daughter of the municipal garbage collector remembered how she had run that day to watch the scene in time. As she looked up at the track in front of her in New Delhi, Aastha Sheikh knew what awaited her at the end of a hundred metres, just like she knew that October day, 19 years ago. As the gun was fired and all the athletes took off, Ahmed Sheikh, municipal garbage collector of Ahmedabad City, standing in the stands knew that just like that day in October, 19 years ago, Aastha had again left everything in her wake.

The Living City

“The end justifies the means”, they say but if there is one entity that wakes up every day to prove them wrong and goes to sleep knowing it has succeeded, it has to be Kolkata. Unlike your other corporate cities, Kolkata sleeps and goes to bed early too and definitely on Sunday afternoons. By 10 pm the roads bear a deserted look and transportation is hard to get and yet it is perhaps only in this city that you can still walk home safely- for this is precisely what this city embodies and personifies – the journey more than the destination.

You may be wondering why I called the city an entity. Anyone who has stayed in this city will be able to tell you that Kolkata or Calcutta (as some of us still prefer) is nothing less than an emotional living organism. Much like your average Bengali girl, the city is moody – sometimes the rains cheerfully cascading off the lush green foliage and old buildings and sometimes lashing gloomily against the concrete jungle and black umbrellas. The rapidly expanding city sometimes burns under the ferocious glare of the enraged sun and yet it is the same sun which smiles down mildly on Sunday mornings, touching the feet of the lazy citizen devouring the newspaper. There exists within this macrocosm a city which exists for everyone – for the bibliophile who believes in the journey of discovering the book more than actually finding it , there can be nothing more satisfying and more romantic than walking through the cobbled roads of College Street , popping in and out of every shop, feeling century old second-hand yellowing books in their own hands, perhaps enjoying an enriching conversation with the old shopkeepers over a steaming cup of cutting chai or a cooling gulp of Paramount sherbet. That is not to say that the city does not have the Starmarks and the Oxfords and Crosswords – it does and they too have embedded themselves into the rich versatility and diversity that this city is. At the end of the day, no matter whatever complains you have about the city, you cannot say that it is not accepting for Kolkata will not suck you in instantly into a vortex of revelry and celebration, nor will it ignore you and let you be but the city will slowly entice you and seduce you into discovering it, into delving into the city and in doing so it will compel you to listen to your heart and discover yourself.

Kolkata is like every Bengali girl, an amalgam of opposites. For every narrow, winding, heavily branched North Calcutta bylane you have a 4 or 6-lane avenue or overpass. For every Dacres Lane, MNM Row or Camac Street serving thousands every day with the best in street food, locally reinvented global favourites from Chinese delicacies to Maharashtrian and Gujarati favourites, from Lebanese rolls to kathi rolls, from Mughal influences to South Indian strongholds, from Punjabi dhabas to pice hotels there are fine dining experiences and multi-star restaurants that are not so pocket friendly. For every slow and unreliable, yet soothing and romantic tram ride there is a metro that rushes beneath the city every 5 minutes. For every sleepy Sunday afternoon there is a city wide awake, decked up and crowded during Durga Puja. For every report that lambasts the squalor and dirt of the city that has seen famines and floods, wars and embargoes there are citizens and tourists who can’t stop raving about the City of Joy. For every Nandan, Navina, Star and Mitra there is an Inox and a Cinemax. For every Rabindrasangeet and Nazrulgeeti function in makeshift temporary constructions under poorly lighted shamianas, there is the heady dash of jazz in Trincas and rock and roll in Someplace Else. For every connoisseur of everything fine and coarse in life, there is something in Kolkata. The city will never leave you disappointed. If versatility and diversity could be a city , I have no doubts that it would be Calcutta for few or no other cities can boast of having a Turkish settlement, a vibrant Parsi community, an Armenian church, a Bangal-Ghoti rivalry, the largest cricket stadium and the second largest football stadium in the world, the house of the Bard and a market selling just lard,  British era museums and art galleries, hand-pulled rickshaws and an underground metro, a Gujarati business community and a Marwari real estate one, a Punjabi locality having dhabas and gurudwaras, Protestant churches and mazhars, masjids and Catholic churches, a tremendously Calcuttan Chinese area in Tangra and an Anglo-Indian one in Bow Barracks, one of Asia’s largest artisan communities in Kumortuli, one of the country’s largest goldsmith communities in Bowbazaar and one of the subcontinent’s largest red light area too. Kolkata is the home to one of the oldest footballing rivalries and the newest football champions. It is the one place where even test cricket brings alive the stadium. Having said what I have, I must however also present the disclaimer that Kolkata is an acquired taste. It is not for the fast-paced, in-and-out personalities, nor is it for the précis loving character who reads only the reviews but doesn’t watch the movies, who reads just the summary and not the book. Kolkata is not for you if you are not in sync with your senses, it is not for the unemotional robot who refuses to feel for Kolkata is not merely a city to visit, not merely a metro to live in but it is a feeling, a sensation to be felt, to be inhaled and to be submerged in.

Having lived in the city for 23 years, I obviously feel strongly about this city and what it has given me and most importantly, what it has taken away. I do not believe that a city, any city, is simply the brick and mortar buildings or the metalled roads, the beautiful parks and the majestic monuments. They may comprise the body of the city but the heart of any city lies in the gastronomical delights that it has to offer and the soul of the city lies in the people that make the city what it is- alive. If this is true, then the huge heart that Kolkata has stretches from the alur chop and beguni shacks of North Kolkata to the vada pavs and pau bhajis of Camac Street, from the puchka stalls of across the city to the biriyani outlets competing for space and profits, from the liver and brain kathi rolls of Zeeshan to the dumplings and momos of Tiretta Bazaar, from the halim and nihari of Zakaria Street to the ice-cream on hot brownie of Bon Appetit, from the authentic Ghoti cuisine of 6 Ballygunge Place and Bhojohori Manna to the lip-smacking Dhakai cuisine of Kasturi, from the kasa mangsho of Golbari to the cutlets and kabirajis of Anadi Cabin , from the steak and beer of Olypub to the microbrewery of Beer Republic, from the Fairlawns to the Wise Owls, the Bachchan and Azad Hind Dhabas to the Chillis- Kolkata has place for everyone , be it a global giant or a local David . As far as the soul of the city goes, you can ask any random stranger on the street for directions, chances are that you will be shown eight different routes to your destination and if you’re lucky you may even be informed about what’s best about each route. The city where even a rickshawallah can quote a Nobel laureate, a street food vendor can effectively talk politics and a Taxi driver can hum any song and mouth any dialogue from any film, that city is Kolkata. The city where love letters are still hidden under pillows, where hands are still held on streets, where boat rides and tram rides are romantic and not tedious, where poetry is an everyday truth and every corner, every nook and cranny is brimming over with stories, that city is Kolkata.

Kolkata is not a city that will hit you in your face with its extravagance , neither is it the city which will bowl you over with its grandeur but it is the city which will slowly make you fall in love with it , the old kind of love , the one that lasts. You can travel from the north to the south in under an hour, taking the underground metro and perhaps soon from east to west, under the river, in half an hour too but it is only by walking on the roads of this erstwhile capital of the British Empire that you will realise the enigma that is Kolkata. It is on the most disappointing day of your life , on the saddest day of your life when nothing seems to be going your way , when your famished feet land on the royal roads, when your broken body gives in to the cool breeze, when your spent senses breathe in the green freshness of the foliage , take in the aroma of the street food that wafts in slowly through your walls that your fatigued form will be reinvigorated by the indomitable spirit, the contagious energy of the city that will heal you. Kolkata is an emotion meant to be felt not only analysed, a food meant to be devoured not only digested, a song meant to be memorised to the extent that it flows through your veins, not merely listened to, an enigma that must be enjoyed not decoded.

Kolkata is as sweet as the sweetmeats and cottage cheese delights it is famous for and as tart as the tamarind water, without which it cannot imagine its puchkas. It can give you a high as high as the Shahid Minar or make you feel as low as the underground metro tunnels but rest assured Kolkata will bring you back. The city is as shy as a newlywed bride peeking from behind the betel leaves and as outspoken as the local uncle criticising your haircut. The city is as free as the Maidan and as claustrophobic as New Market, as spontaneous as the Ganga and as difficult as Park Circus 7-point. The city is everything and yet nothing, it is hilarious and serious, it is contented and disheartened – all depending on which pair of perspectives you choose to put on. The city of Feluda, Byomkesh, Kiriti and many more prove that Calcutta is like the mother that welcomes her sons, prodigal or otherwise, with open arms. The city has for centuries welcomed foreigners onto her shores and in her railway stations , embracing the Portuguese and the French, the British and the Chinese, the Marwaris and the Biharis, the Gujaratis and the Tamilians, the Punjabis and the Malyalis, the Parsis and the tourists and making them an integral part of the history and story of the city. The legacy of the great city lies not only in its rich Bangla heritage but in its pan-Indian and global appeal. Kolkata exists in the sounds of the dhaaks that fills up the minds of the Calcuttan living abroad when autumn comes knocking, in the smell of freshly made sweets which waft in through the senses of the Calcuttan living abroad, in the memories and fantasies of Calcuttans across the globe because, my dear , don’t you know that a city like her cannot be caged by brick and mortar, by cement and stone ?