Park Street

I am walking on Park Street (Calcutta) just after having had lunch at an iconic restaurant. The fact that it is iconic will reveal itself to me much later. Everything I see reminds me of something. The tattered bookshop reminds me of Nai Sadak, the bookseller reminds me of Chomsky. The girls dressed in fancy clothes, wearing oversized goggles, waiting outside high-end restaurants with cigarettes in their hands, remind me of South Bombay. It’s as if they unanimously decided to dress like their own stereotype. But unlike the girls from South Bombay, they talk to each other in fluent Bengali. They are not ashamed, not that one should ever be, but they talk like it’s English, like they are proud of being able to converse in it. Loudly. Almost flaunting. Beautiful. I wonder if any other language, except English, commands such pride. The cool breeze reminds me of Bangalore. “Bangalore used to have the same weather until I decided to leave the city”, I’d casually remark while passing the hundredth cigarette shop. These cigarette shops, strangely enough, also kept condoms. I assume it’s because Bengalis can crave cigarettes and sex anywhere. And I don’t blame them, the weather is just fine for both of these acts. However, in Goa, a week later, I got to know from a friend that the weather in Bangalore isn’t ‘nice’ anymore, and much like the North Indians, the North Indian winter too has started settling in there.

At the end of the street, I spot Trincas. If I had come here 60 years ago, I’d have spotted Trincas then too. Maybe then a young Usha Uthup would have walked past me, having no clue that the restaurant would forever change her life. Or maybe we both would’ve bumped into each other and today I would’ve been teaching arts to the students who wanted to take science. But let’s leave the fantasy world to the dreamers. I quickly google if Usha Uthup is alive or not before moving on.

I take the famous Yellow Taxi and sit inside it like a giddy tourist. I wish I could communicate in Bengali with the driver. As I am thinking this, the driver opens his mouth and spits out a thick Bhojpuri accent. Now I am pissed at the driver for not knowing Bengali. I am not tipping him for sure. The radio in the car is playing a Hindi song and the words paint the background with emotions. I remember standing outside Sarai Rohilla Railway Station in Delhi and asking my father how come the four of us and all of our luggage will fit in an auto. He says it will. I believe him. Today it strikes me that he could’ve taken a taxi also, but he didn’t. Maybe because an auto is cheaper. Surely, that was the case. And here I am, a few years later, taking a taxi without any luggage. Just for the experience. The audacity. It’s almost like I have forgotten my roots. Uncultured. I decide to tip the driver. 

The next day is supposed to be proper tourist-y. I visit Victoria Memorial, which by the way is closed. “So, why is it so crowded?”, I ask my friend. Because people have come to visit the garden outside the Victoria Memorial. I say what the fuck in sheer disbelief and then buy two tickets for the garden outside the Victoria Memorial. I imagine Queen Victoria hated old people because the whole path is paved with small, loose pebbles and it is quite a task just to walk around the memorial. I need a spa. The tourist in me is shamelessly out now. In between clicking pics of this memorial, and calling the rear side of the monument the bra strap of Victoria Memorial, I open Twitter. “More farmers from Punjab join the protest” “These Sikh farmers are anti-nationals” “Who put mar in farmer”. Just a regular day then. We decide to leave the memorial, which, by the way, we didn’t even enter in the first place. Outside, a huge procession led by Sikhs is passing on account of some festival. The roads have been vacated, and the traffic and pedestrians stopped, to accommodate them. Some people are watching them go by, while some, like me, are making Instagram stories. I want to tweet “What a beautiful bunch of anti-nationals” as a joke. I stop myself. Jokes can put you in jail nowadays. How did we end up here? I call for an Uber and go back to my hotel. 

Pyaasa was based in Calcutta. I remembered this trivia on my flight back to Mumbai. I wonder if more Vijays are lurking around the city. I wonder if they will be allowed to write poems now. I wonder what they will write. I wonder if they will publish them on Instagram. I wonder if they will still write the same thing that Vijay wrote years ago. I wonder if they feel ye duniya agar mil bhi jaaye toh kya hai. I didn’t end up going to Shanti Niketan. I planned to but I didn’t. Some other day maybe, when the world will be a better place for the artists. Till then let’s live some more. Because agar- isko hi jeena kehte hai toh yunhi ji lenge, uff na karenge, lab si lenge, aansu pi lenge.

Next time, I will go to Trincas as well.