City of Joy.
City of Palaces.
Calcutta. Kolkata.
The city has many
names. But if you want to keep it simple, ‘Mahanagar’ is enough.
Not a city. But a
Megacity.
Not just any megacity.
The megacity.
For this is where it
all began – Imperialism, days of the Raj, woes of partition, communism, Mohun
Bagan, Eden Gardens, poets, rebels, filmmakers - the problem with Calcutta has always
been where to start, leave alone the end.
It is a city with many
dimensions – a well-cut sparkling diamond to the intellectually rich – those who
start with Nandan, Max Mueller Bhavan, Boi Mela and Writers’ building – to the
proletariat who see in the City’s veins the rebellious spirit that alone can redeem
the motherland.
For many, Mahanagar is
an emotion – that which cannot be seen through our mortal vision but needs a
layered experience to gather over time. These are the Mirnal Sens and the Sarat
Boses of everyday life, who see in the city a kaleidoscope that transcends past
and future, rich and poor, art deco and patachitra.
Somewhere perhaps, this
is the closest to the shadow of the truth that is Calcutta. To perceive this – seeing
it is impossible – one has to walk the many lanes and bylanes of North Calcutta,
just as she has to zoom through the asphalt of EM Bypass. One has to taste the shorshe
Ilish at the Park, just as she has to eat the kati rolls of Park Street and the
Jhal muri of Victoria. One has to flip through coffee table books at Oxford
just as she to smell the used books at College Street and Golpark.
That emotion will lie
at the convergence of ancient cathedrals and Armenian churches with the memoni mosques
and Jain temples, at the merger of Kolkata’s aloo biryani and Mocambo’s finest
continental, at the confluence of Kaji Najrul’s Shyama-sangeet with the latest
in Bengali rock. And of course, it won’t be enough.
The current anthology
is a dedication to these emotional dreamscapes of the city.
Mahanagar has not just
been home to me, it has been an intellectual oasis, a philosophical sanctuary,
a literary refuge to rejuvenate the artist in me every time I have lost my way.
The one geographic constant to stabilise the vacillations of a wandering mind.
I – like countless
many – have received a lot, knowingly or unknowingly from this city of love. It
is my turn to give back a sliver, a humble attempt to keep enriching the intellectual
pride of a city that stays forever beautiful no matter her age.
This is my memoir that
I have attempted something to remind me of a Rathin Mitra artwork or a poem in
Geetabitan.
These are my recollections
of a fascinating city, that refuses to be contained in memory…
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