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.