'The city I call Home'....She said..

Back to where I was supposed to have taken those first baby steps….back to that city which has witnessed all those tumultuous years of my growing up days…back to being driven from the Howrah bridge to a place called home…

Was is another lifetime when coming back home made my heart beat faster? Where has that child like exuberance evaporated? Those hand pulled rickshaws, those trams that moved slowly at its own pace while luxury cars whizzed by…why do they no more conjure up any old world charm for me? My eyes drifted from the angel atop the Victoria Memorial & the horse driven carriages full of tourists…to the billboard featuring a petal shaped sensually full lips on a glowing dusky skin that had the texture of velvet , a demure yet subtle wild smile playfully lighting the face that looked ravagable , her vermillion red round bindi smeared on her forehead gave her the typical Bengali touch….draped in a simple white saree with red border offset by an opulent rich maroon blouse with slightly puffed sleeves…reminiscent of the bygone dress code of the bahus of the Bengali Zamindar clans…Her oval face complemented her slantish doe eyed big eyes…kohl lined eyes….drownable eyes…but then, Bengali women have been notorious for these very eyes that have trapped many an unsuspecting man…vaguely, past memories stirred…grandma’s stories…of men from far away lands who fell in love with Bengali women after setting eyes on them, women so elusive that they slipped out of the fingers of their suitors & played the ‘hard-to-get’ game to the hilt …Bengali women who were known for the Black magic spell that they wove on men, …men who swore they’d never touched skin softer than a Bengali woman, like the wings of a butterfly.…skin that glowed with raw sensuality…
I touched my skin & realized that the Delhi sun had done irreparable damage to my once flawless glowing skin passed on from generations like a legacy….reminded me of the first time He’d touched my face on the pretext of getting rid of a mosquito coz He’d never seen such skin…and now what remained was a skin devoid of a good diet…but did it matter any more?
My eyes riveted to the fish mongers sitting by the sides of the road, while men in white dhotis noisily bargained. The taste of prawns dipped in coconut cream …hilsa in a rich tomato curry….fried pomfret….tiny fishes as surprise finds in dal…kaleidoscopic images floated in my mind.
Multitude of sweet shops stood silently punctuating the humid city like exclamation marks at regular intervals….childhood memories of me clutching dad’s hand & walking to the nearest sweetshop & buying my favourite sandesh mixed with jaggery, shaped like a sea shell & rajbhog dripping in a syrup. Spongy rosogollas that told sweet tales of its own…

Avoided looking at the strikingly palatial building where He used to work, the fountain at the entrance of His workplace wasn’t working, a metaphor for his love that had dried out ….but somehow the treacherous tears sprang up unexpectedly while I traveled on the familiar roads….ghost bike rode parallel to dad’s car & I looked in disbelief at myself sitting behind Him on his Pulsar….Misty eyes clouded by saline waters was watching the past unfurl…like an old movie being replayed…
I turned away my face & concentrated on the bamboo sticks & tents being put up in street corners as pandals for the impending Durga Puja…tube lights & bulbs of different shapes & sizes were being arranged in amazingly beautiful ways…some resembled the silhouette of Saurav Ganguli, the most loved ‘son’ of Calcutta…some resembled the Titanic…some resembled Charlie Chaplin & suddenly I caught a glimpse of a girl clad in a mermaid skirt teamed with a peasant top & a guy in a Red kurta teamed with jeans walking on the pavement, she hit him playfully with her thick book & He snatched it away…she stopped walking & stamped her feet like a spoilt kid & demanded the book being returned, her lips pouting alluringly ….wait, this scene felt familiar…was it bcoz they were dressed in an uncanny same way as Us…or was it the way ….a closer look at the guy made my heart skip a beat, in desperation I looked at the new girl & felt I was looking at a mirror…realization dawned….i was hallucinating.
Quickly blinked back the traitors & realized that I shoudn’t have come back to a city that didnot spare a minute in taunting me with His presence…
And for heaven’s sake, He’d quit this city long back….then why did I see Him standing under the 13 No. Tank landmark patiently near his bike….why did I see Him walk out of that plush shopping mall….why did I see Him step out of the Inox movie hall…why did I see Him step into the Oxford Bookstore…

I was not prepared for such an onslaught…..never realized He would ruin my own city for me, the city that I am so fond of inspite of the highhandedness of the Left govt , trade unions, Marxism & incessant strikes. The city that opened up its bounty of a treasure chest full of rich literature & famous writers ….the city that made me fall in love with books that became a part of my existence…the city whose culture ingrained itself in me.... the city that acknowledged the writer in me…and yet ….