City of much joy

Walking through the congested bylanes of Calcutta, wearing my dispassionate attitude towards the city, I seldom paid attention to the inherent charm of the place and its people. Unexplainable indifference! The city I came from had no text-book history stuff to boast off, and I was every bit starved of cultural diversity, it was an opportunity to stomach the seamless splendor. It was indeed my first chance at a life outside my own backyard.

With gradual changes in the torn calendar, hanging lifelessly on my bedroom wall, I took to the city, albeit in small steps. The towering existence of history and heritage across the city took me back in time.

Cal, is an unusual city in many ways one of them being its unique capability of bringing to life long-forgotten heroes. No where else will one feel close to Rabindra Nath Tagore, Rabindra sangeet resonates with fervor through the streets, as much as one does in Cal. The city bears testimony to the now-so-distant freedom struggle and the stalwarts of the struggle. Much of this can be attributed to the zealous Calcuttans for whom preservation of the old is a way of life.

It was the same flock of characteristic Calcuttans who stood up to save the tram network from extinction. Trams were a delight to see on the road, better still a ride on one of them. A twirling ride through a great part of the city at Rs. 3, sitting in the 1st class compartment, often took more than 2 hours but enthralled the senses of its admirers. Then there is the Calcutta metro a relatively modern invention but still a much loved affair for the ordinary Calcuttan. Trains originate from Dumdum and Tollygunje, they standout for their efficiency in a city better known for its laid back lifestyle. But perhaps the transportation that is reminiscent of olden Calcutta will always be the hand- pulled rickshaw. No painting exhibition on Calcutta will ever be complete without the hand-pulled rickshaw taking a suitable place.

Calcutta’s localities are personalities in themselves. In times when cities are structured and termed more simply and logically, like sectors and phases, Cal is still a happy exception along with Delhi. Park street, Fort William, Gariahat, Bhavanipur, Dumdum some of the famous localities of Cal. Each one speaks for its vibrancy.

Smells of the wonderful cuisines of Calcutta still stimulate my senses. And force me into comparison ad infinitum. In my short stint at Calcutta I learnt the nuances of the city and why Calcuttans anywhere will always fondly look back to the City of ‘much’ Joy.

One of my friends not-so-famously said, ‘Calcutta is every inch a museum, a place where you’ll never be short of wonderment.’ Gospel!

Whither my days?

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief youth,
Stolen on his wing my three and twentieth year

Lines from the eternal poem ‘On his having arrived at the age of twenty three’ by John Milton. Reading the poem as a careless teenager never did I ponder enough over what the Miltonic language tried to convey. It was a stage far away, and the excitement of the imminent youth blinded the poet’s subtle mourning. Soon the years, of youth, were to come and the words of Milton were lost in memory. The years seemed never-ending.


Days would begin with the usual monotone expected from a father to his ‘useless’ son about the benefits, which were to dodge me for many years, of being an early-riser. Dressed as a typical urban middle class boy, garlanded with a fancy bag, it didn’t have anything of consequence in it, I set out. Not before my smiling mother unfailingly waved goodbye to me. And then it was me and my love, my cruiser bike. Driving on the streets of the city of my dreams, Chandigarh, much like Rabbi Shergill in the now much-praised song, Dilli. I sang as if the roads were all to me. My destination was at a distance of 3 songs.

Through my 5 years of college life one thing that I was uncannily consistent at was missing the first class. Most part of the day was spent in the corridor (Besides the other classes). Barring the occasional talk about the fast approaching professional life, and the baggage it would bring along (which I suspect Milton refers to as manhood), I was mostly gleeful.
With this setting, life went on at it’s usual pace. And as it happens in true proverbial sense Time flew, leaving just a whiff of the yesteryears.

Waqt rehta nahin kahin tick kar
Iski aadat bhi aadmi see hai

At 25, the words of Milton are back and more meaningful than ever before. For I seem to be lost in a muddle. The spirit of the ol’ days flutters, though, infrequently, rendering a semblance to the old me in my mind. Must admit that I lead a reasonably happy and satisfied life, but still the yearning of going back rules the heart. Going back to a phase which was symbolized by the free wheeling spirit, bursts of untamed laughter, and the unflagging enthusiasm. All of which seem limited today in many senses.

‘That I too manhood am arrived so near’

The fear of impending manhood perhaps worried Milton more than the loss of youth. Manhood holds back everything that youth stands for and therein lies the reason for ‘harking back’. As I look ahead, I see ambitions, dreams, achievements and much more. But in the same breath I see the growing irrelevance and the eventual fading away of all this. Perhaps, that’s because in the course of our grown-up lives we forget living the life of the heart.

Success means living the life of the heart
- Francis Ford Coppola

The quest of life ought to be found out while living life of the heart, else it ain’t worth it.

In life there are five balls, health, spirit, family, friends and work
Work is a rubber ball if it falls, it will keep coming up…..
While the other 4 balls are made of glass, if they fall you lose them

My thwarted and sometimes successful attempts at rekindling the spirit of the days gone by leave me with a hope. A hope that ferries me from dawn to midnight. A hope that promises the long walk back home.

A hope that promises my old self……

A beginning

Taking to writing after a long long time. Sure I regret not being a regular at writing and missing out on so many years of literary joy. Perhaps a long inning awaits. So I hope. I am faced with an empty quagmire of deciding on the slant of my work-to-be. Topics close to the heart aplenty but none too much. To brush aside my lack of immediate clarity, on my initial writing efforts, let me say as I saunter with time my writings should ultimately turn towards my Lakshya (what I seek in life)
Lakshya, a possession that I lack in life and each day desperately look forward to embracing. Though, at first look, to most of us, it seems a rather well-known and studied utterance yet a deeper dissection reveals the complete oblivion of the essence of the word Lakshya. Lakshya to me is far away from the archetypical set of needs and desires that changes frequently with time.
It is like a line going through the chronicles of a man’s life. A common factor through all the endeavors in one’s life.

I seek not this at the end of the tunnel, but whilst there is dark.

With this thought I inaugurate my blog, titled ‘Seeking life…’