Ashes to ashes

A barbecue in the open,

Sizzling on it are

Meagre, brown, one-side burnt

People. Charred raw flesh, smoke

Billowing out of the prison

Like grills, hissing noises

Muffled, distant, unheard.

In a heal-hell zone.



Licking the legs, the waist.

From toenail to hairtip

Flames. Orange-blue,

Welling up, lunging

Through the broken windows, felled walls

Enveloping the earth-child Sita,

Concealing the hell-bourne invisible

Devil, sucking souls

With its clouded black agents,

Killing lives. Killing the city.



Was the city hurld headlong flaming

Accursed with unquenchable fire

To blaze into ashes the living hopes,

Or in a bid to purify

The putrid, squalid 'city of joy'

An annual arson?



My city is singed, yet seething alive.

Home is where heart is

I was born on the coldest day of the decade. The city was caught unawares with an 8.8 degree Celsius on the records. From that unusual day of my first frozen breathe on a hospital in a busy part of the city, till this typical drizzly, rainy day; I have grown up, and the city has grown into me. Into my nerves.



I do not remember my first meeting with the city. Probably, it was a staggering attempt to grasp the window railing and stand up on unsure feet to catch a wide-eyed glimpse of the enormous world. Perhaps it was the security of my mother’s lap or the firm grip of my father’s little finger on my first venture into the unknown. Whatever it may be, it wasn’t unpleasant at all. That, and these 21 years of life here, interspersed with the departure to some ‘guest’ places, consists of my relation with this place.



It was not until late that I came to know the city has a name. A name that, like all of our identities, is uncertain in its origins. A name that traced its history. A name that became so familiar that I grew to love it without giving it any thought. A name that changed, but couldn’t change its past. Neither could it alter my feelings.



As I grew up, I gradually encountered all aspects of this curious city. At one point I found it beautifully photogenic in its most natural form, on the other hand, I was exposed to its seamy underbelly. I witnessed and observed its different moods, the smoke, the fresh, the cough, the deep-breath, the stench, the fragrance, the green, the brown, the tradition, the trend, the culture, the ‘un’culture, the fashion, the bare necessity. But like a person who is loved despite his or her flaws and inconsistencies, purely out of familiarity and knowledge of the heart within, I fell in love with him/her. I term it a male due to its childishness, predictability, its hullabaloo, its chaos, disorder, tendency to feel superior. Also for its untarnished cheerfulness and love, devoid of malice, of its pride in itself and of its untainted helpfulness, I believe it’s a ‘he’. I call it a female because of its opulence, its abundance, its pristine nature, its sacrifice, its depth. Also for its sentimentality, its conservatism, its sluggishness and its tendency of putting the blame on others, I feel it’s a ‘she’. A city that embraces the qualities of both the genders. My city.



On the eve of my departure, the city seems to smile at me with all its decadence and its new found glory. A wan smile it seems, or perhaps a calm, blissful one. Perhaps it mocks me for leaving it. Perhaps it is disappointed with me for going away. Perhaps it blesses me, just as a parent would his/her child when she leaves him/her, heart full of pain, but pain subsiding for the child’s betterment. No, Kolkata. A flower may bloom in a forest to be taken away to a garden, but does it ever forget its happy forest days?



This is for my beloved old city and for all those who endow it with life.