To Calcutta with love
The onset of monsoons in the city these days is invariably linked with homecoming. Bhalo ilish uthechhe*, come soon! The weather is still bhyapsha*, but better than the relentless sun of May-June. The room is cleaned, bookshelves are dusted, a new bed-sheet is spread, the goodnight machine refilled to fight the fresh mosquitoes.
There is a change in the air. Even the fish seller, Dhanu, notices it. There is a spring in the step and a glow in the face that beats the gloominess of the monsoons. ‘Bhetki fillet for today, jumbo prawns for Wednesday and hilsa on Thursday’.
Ar mongolbar bujhi khashir mangsho?*
The stories are narrated — the recent deaths among the old relatives, the jobs that the cousins took up and were preparing to leave, the new councillors, the blood donation camps, the non-existent Left, how the sisters from the missionaries of charity were called up to rescue the old and ailing abandoned by their family members right across the street.
The flurry of activity goes on for a week or so. The city haggles less with Dhanu, replaces oats with luchi-aloo for breakfast, takes an extra spoon of sugar with tea, postpones the tuitions to a week later.
Before long, the calendar reminds for an early web check-in and ‘the 45 minutes before the gates close’ bullshit. Once the children take their early morning flights back to IoT and machine-learning, the city seeks refuge in the conspiracies leading to Bose’s disappearance, revisiting the several suicide letters of Kadambari Devi. The decay becomes more visible, the damps and molds come out in resplendent glory. The rains submerge the city, there is no respite after all.
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*Bhalo ilish uthechhe: There is a good supply of hilsa fish in the local market
*bhyapsha: humid
*Ar mongolbar bujhi khashir mangsho?: And Tuesday reserved for mutton curry?
