Kolkata, the City of Joy, Revisited – concluding part

“Oh God, see how the house I lived in till marriage has been converted into four-storeyed building. Now I know.  It is for this reason that the landlord asked us to vacate, not for self-occupation,” Aunty cribbed as we passed through Deshapriya Park road. “The famous Kancheepuram silk saree shop, the landmark for our house, too is missing. Thankfully, Tara Mahal hotel, the one on right, from where Dad used to bring us snacks every Saturday afternoon on return from Office, seems upgraded to three-star level - if exterior is anything to go by. Transformation thy name. She was excited.

Like Malleswaram and Jaya Nagar in Bangalore, or Karol Bagh and Connaught Place in Delhi, Gariahat in Kolkata is Aunty’s favourite haunt to make a clean sweep of my pocket. And she did with gay abandon. The only exception was that she could not find a Kolkata-famous kangan (filled with lacquer or wax?) similar to the one that one of her sisters or their daughters-in-law was wearing at a recent family wedding. In passing she bought me a couple of kurtas and pyjamas, saying: “you also have some.”

“Akka, how about renewing contact with Gupta Brothers’ shop,” asked my sister in law, as we passed through Rash Behari Avenue. “I would love it,” Aunty was quick to respond. “Remember we used to sneak once in a while, without Amma’s knowledge, for a bite?” We enjoyed chole-bhature, papri-chat, samosa for lunch. The other place where we had lunch in the real sense of the term was at Bhojohori Manna, named after a mythical chef. It was a traditional, authentic Bengali vegetarian fare - and my foray into full-fledged Bengali food.

“Oh, there is a tram coming,” Aunty jumped with joy like a little girl as she spotted a pre-historic tram crawling its way. “It was in one such ladies-tram that I used to commute to office. Shall we take a ride,” she asked hesitantly. “Next time,” I replied. “Thanks for the assurance that we will make it here again,” she recorded it mentally.

We were booked to go to Shantiniketan for an overnight stay. But a friend reminded my co-brother in law that it was polling day, and only the adventurous would dare a picnic. On hindsight I felt glad we cancelled the trip.

If this was dropped by us, there was another trip that was cancelled by the organizers – a cruise to Tarakeswar temple (one of the Jyothir lingas(?)). They couldn’t muster the minimum number of passengers. Our loss, we couldn’t add to our tally of visits to Jyothir linga temples.

But we did make it to Swami Vivekananda’s Belur Mutt one day. The atmosphere was serene and provided the right setting for meditation. So we decided to meditate for a while. It worked well for the two ladies; in my case it turned a power nap.

We also visited Dakshineswar, the abode of Shri Rama Krishna Paramahamsa. A serpentine queue awaited us at Dakshineswar. But my sister-in-law, clever that she is, directed us just to walk behind her with supreme confidence. She walked past the sidelines of the queue, giving others the impression that she was escorting an elderly couple ‘with connection’ to the shrine. “Now I know what a confidence trickster means,” I said to myself.

Come the next morning and it was time to depart. We had made friends with the front-desk chaps in the hotel– one a Bengali gentleman, and the other, Mr Nair, from Palakkad, my place.

As we boarded the taxi to the airport, we thanked Mr Nair who was on duty. “Do you think by any chance we will get rooms during Durga Puja festival?” asked Aunty a little unsure. “Certainly, I will ensure you a room for you two,” he said and gave me his personal mobile number. Aunty exchanged a victorious side-glance at me, for having converted my slip of the tongue, ‘next time,’ to a firm commitment for Durga Puja. No big deal, I felt, considering that back in 1972 I converted a chance visit to her house to a permanent bonding.

“OTP please,” reminded the cab driver, unable to hold his patience any longer.

Kolkata, the City of Joy, Revisited – Part 1 of 2

You must have heard of this before. Two passengers sitting in a train began a chat. “Where are you going?” “To Bombay,” replied the other. “Me too.” “And where in Bombay?” “Chembur”. “My God, me too.” “Where in Chembur?” “In 14^th Road.” “Strange; me too.” “Which building?” “Sujata”. “What a surprise; me too.” “And which floor in Sujata?” “Seventh.” Really, me too.” By this time the passenger sitting next felt irritated and said, “You are both on the same floor, and you don’t know each other?” “Yes, we do. We are father and son. We are just trying to pass the time.”

Now the real one. Aunty and I boarded the plane to Kolkata last Friday.

She went about solving Suduku, and I tried to look for a suitable article from the airlines’ in-house magazine when the third passenger squeezed in to occupy the window seat. Soon he opened the middle of his 600-odd page book and went about updating himself. All I could make out was the title began with, “Financial…” Not my cup of tea.

We ate the snacks we had carried, and he ordered something from the airlines. The aroma was wafting from out of the cover, so I asked him if the food was good. It was, and thus began a chat. He was going to IIM-C to be part of a week-long course. “In our complex we have two visiting professors at IIM. One is Prof. Manikutty, and the other Mr Panduranga Bhatt,”I said. He jumped out of the seat but was prevented by the buckled seatbelt. “And where do you stay, sir,” “In Kanakapura Road.” “Where in Kanakapura Road?” he quipped. “In Sobha Forestview.” “Well, I too live in SFV.” “Where in SFV,” I asked him. “In Maple.” “Strange, we too stay in Maple” “And where in Maple,” I continued, “3135.” ‘My God, we are in 3195, just six floors above you.” Yes, that was Dr Rajesh Kumar. On a closer look I admitted I had met him in lift and at morning walks. On his part, he traced instances from my writings of 2016 to carry authenticity that he did read my pieces. As we parted, he asked us to wait for a while and, with all passengers in full view, he touched our feet in reverence. “Indian culture is still not fully extinct,” Aunty and I admired, as we wished him all the best in life.

We got into an Uber. Aunty tried to explain to him the location of our hotel. The driver assured us that he not only knew the place well, but could also share its antecedents - that it was earlier known by the name…, and in his younger days he was a regular visitor for Dosa. The forty-five minute cab-drive was filled with his version of the election prospects, the progress that the city has made, and the long way it still has to go to catch up with other metropolitan cities. In between, Aunty would interrupt to say, “Oh my God, this Salt Lake city was not there when I was in Kolkata.” “Yes, Madam, it is a recent origin,” clarified the driver from Faridkot, Punjab, where he goes once a year to collect money for the few acres of cultivable land he has given on lease.

At hotel, Aunty’s sister and brother in law waited for us eagerly – more out of hunger. They had landed from Bangalore in the morning. It was already half past two afternoon, so we had lunch. Back in the room, they opened the Rosogulla and Mishti Doi from the earthern pots, bought from Balaram Mullicks. A good start, said Aunty.

In the evening, we went to Hanuman temple where the priest surprised both the ladies by asking the welfare of each of their sisters by name. As planned, we visited Kali temple after 8 pm when it would be less crowded, though it was not so exactly. Both the sisters had bought sarees to adorn Kali Mata with. And, with the skills that my sister-in-law had mastered from her mother, she managed to have both the sarees put on separately on the deity for quite a while despite the crowd, and stay in front of the deity for ten seconds more than the pushing time.

To be continued…Part 2