Guest Blog : Why and Where

So just like all the famous people across the internet have a guest blogger, I have a guest blog today. It is a beautifully written expression of a place and what that word "place" mean. In all honesty this was written by one of my friends and not intended for publishing. But I begged and cajoled (not a lot... just a little) and asked this friend to chronicle it. The friend's reply was why don't you? Although I doubt if it was serious  I am still going to take it seriously.

Also I think I might ask people to contribute their ideas on some topics related to Kolkata here. The only problem being, I don't know many people. Uhh Well!!!!! Let me stop blabbering now and just post the piece. Here goes.

Why and Where

Relevance of a place, sometimes takes a life-time to discover. For some of us, some places we have stayed in hold relevance in terms of money and matter. For some, there strings a deep emotional tie. For some, there could be a bitter memory that stays, and for some it is just a mere place to lead their everyday life.

Ever since we take our first step, life goes into a running mode with a set sequence of events following one another. Learning, earning; doing something to make a mark, no matter how small. What we do forget in this race is the relevance of the places we pass through in this process. What would happen if these places did not exist? Logical answer would be that we would end up at some other place. The word PLACE thus, does hold relevance. Come to think of it, I myself had never thought in this regard as well till about a few days back.

My place of concern here is my birth place. The state capital of West Bengal, India. Kolkata (previously Calcutta). Ever since birth, I too fell into the daily running to learn and later earn. Though life has taken me to and through several places for varied reasons, now that I look back, had Kolkata not been there, would my life still be the same? Would I have ever learnt riding a bicycle had I not held my father’s forefinger and learnt balancing on two wheels in the lanes of Lansdowne (Sarat Bose Road). Would I learn to make friends like I do, had my baby steps not made their way to the group of children who I first made friends with? Would my childhood stories be the same as they are, had they not been in Kolkata? These are strange but relevant questions, for me at least, now that I retrospect.

What does leave marks about a place are the most relevant events that occur while being there. For me Kolkata, in that regard was a place of loss. Mostly, in terms of people close. What I did not look at is that the sense of loss came after I had learnt to love and adore selflessly. What I do now realize is that it is this city, which has again given me a chance to walk ahead in life.

I had hardly seen a Kolkata night, till about a few days back. Rather, I had seen it from eyes of a skeptic. All it took was the perspective of another set of eyes, which saw life even in hallows of hell. These eyes showed how beautiful this city can be, and what makes it so beautiful. These eyes had seen losses, some large, yet the city was still beautiful to them for many more reasons. They taught me to look up and look into those reasons. They showed me so much in such short time, that I had not seen in a life time. These eyes showed me what makes a place bad or beautiful is me myself. The eyes that were so lovely themselves, right there in my city. 

From – Devil Reloaded

Basantika

Today is Poila Boisakh. The auspicious beginning of new year and the end of Bosonto.

I am not sure why I am writing this down today as this incident happened atleast a couple of weeks back. It happened in the middle of Bosanto. But it stayed with me.

My cousin RJ is a singer. She was performing in Deshapriyo Park as part of an annual concert "Basantika" arranged by her school of music. This was just a week after Holi. The weather was perfect with a cool breeze flowing. I made myself commfortable on the carpet with my mother and my aunt. There were all these lovely young(at heart definitely) men and women from the age of  4 to 60 dressed in the colours of Spring sitting around me with bright coloured Abir smeared quite artistically on their cheeks. There were dance recitals and songs and poetry recitals. There were artists painting large canvases with the hues of yellow and orange and red and green. There was this ambiance and energy of creativity and appreciation and everyone was enthralled, engrossed and enamoured by it.

And there were this group of girls between the age of 4 to 6. All dressed up in saris and jewelleries with flowers in their hair. They were playing among themselves, throwing flowers at each other(something very Shantiniketan about it) and then suddenly I noticed two street kids among them. The younger one was about three and the older one, perhaps four. At first they sat at quite a distance and  looked at the group of girls playing rathar tentatively. Then the younger one took a handful of flowers and threw at the nearest girl. The girl  threw it back at the child and slowly but steadily the two kids became a part of the group. Playing with them, laughing with them and enjoying with them. Then came the food packets. I actually instinctively found myself concentrating more on the kids than on the concert from that moment on. The little girls actually even shared their food with them. Like buddies. Eating from the same packet. I must admit. In my adult mind I was cringing thinking perhaps this is not the most hygenic thing to do. The little girls did not care or bother. As far as they were concerned they had made two new friends and they were sharing. And then suddenly a group of slightly older girls around the age of 10 to 12 came with their food packets. The older girls dissaproved of the situation visibly. One of the older girls gave the two kids a packet and a bottle of water and showed them the way out. I am sure that this is what is considered an act of kindness. But there was also this sense of demarcation in that act of kindness. Like the girls were in some sort of a higher position to feel sorry or pity for the two kids. They could show kindness to them but not consider them at par. Perhaps not even consider them human. The  way those little girls were behaving was much more humane, much more real. They were fighting about who gets the piece of cake like they would with friends, with equals.

I wonder when this sense that we are better, that we are privileged creeps inside us ? When does it become them and us? When do they cease to become perhaps even people ?

With the sun setting, sitting in the middle of this beautiful, cultural ambiance, I could not shake away the melancholy from my soul. Because I have myself grown up. I can never do what those little girls did.