Those were the Best Days of My Life

IT WAS A lazy Saturday afternoon when I first stepped into the Jadavpur University campus. Board exams over, I had come to my pishi bari, when my cousin offered me a campus tour. ‘You will surely fall in love with it,’ he asserted confidently.

My cousin doesn’t really have the reputation of being a future-predictor, but that day miracles were bound to happen. As we strolled along pitch black asphalted lanes of the campus shaded with lush green trees (it had rained the previous night making the trees look paintinesque) whizzing past the lofty departmental buildings, Science More, AC Canteen, Central Library, Jheel paar, Engineering ground and Aurobindo Bhavan, I experienced the miracle. I was in love. With JU. Standing right there amidst the descending twilight I promised to myself, ‘I am gonna study at this university, no matter whatever happens.’

I did. I still can’t describe the happiness I felt when I got the news of my selection in JU. It was ethereal. Even at the risk of being labelled a ‘certified nut’ (I cancelled my admission from the prestigious Presidency College ignoring the constant glares from my parents) I enrolled in JU. And thus began the fairy tale. From that rain-soaked day of August when I walked into the Orientation room battling with my nervousness and excitement to that December morning when we strutted about the campus in our saffron robes waiting to be convocated — every single moment in these three years has been worth a lifetime.

However all those 1,095 days of ecstasy would have been completely meaningless had I not met ‘them’. It was on the second day that ‘we’ got introduced. At that moment I didn’t have the faintest idea that these five crazyheads — Ani, Pri, Ups, Mou and Drone — would for the coming three years make my JU experience something to boast about for my entire life. Unlike my schooldays, I didn’t skip a single college day during graduation. It was not because I loved attending the boring lectures, but because I hated missing the chitchat with my friends and the tomfoolery we used to do throughout the day. Drone didn’t accompany us beyond the classes, but the rest of us used to stick together like an inseparable quintet. Be it in classroom, canteen, library, photocopy centre or leisurely walk around the campus — ‘we’ were everywhere.

Adda spots in a college generally constitute the canteen or the common room. But JU provided myriad options. We mostly used to hang out in departmental classrooms during the lunch breaks. Milan da's canteen did not have much space to sit. So I would bring food — dalpuri-tarkari, alur chop, iced tea — from there and share it with the tiffin brought by Ups and Pri (they religiously used to carry tiffin boxes everyday stuffed with homemade goodies). Our other hang out zones (during off periods or class bunks) included the bench in the corridor near the front stairs of the department, the back staircases at the rear end of the corridor, the long wooden bench beside the window in the Film Studies department, Jheel paar and at times AC Canteen.

We had even discovered another weird adda spot — a small shop named ‘Mazumdar Xerox’ in a blind lane near Jadavpur 8B bus stand where we used to photocopy tons of pages everyday from various reference books. Quite naturally, we spent a great deal of time in the shop chatting away (that gave everyone the impression we have no work to do than idling our time sitting there) and munching on the nearby Monginis, Bawarchi and Hindustan Sweets delights. We had nicknamed the shop as Machhimara Xerox owing to the large number of flies parading from the opposite sweet workshop to give us company. The name became so popular that everyone from our class actually forgot the original name and started calling it by Machhimara (fortunately the owner wasn’t aware of this ‘name-calling’!).

The Film Studies department has a distinct charm of its own. We felt more cosy spending some lazy lamhe in that wooden bench of Film Studies than in any of our International Relations classrooms. The window right beside overlooked a considerable stretch of JU (the department being on the top floor of UG Science building), particularly the famous Hanging Bridge. Standing there and witnessing dusk setting in all over the campus was absolutely outworldly. I still get goosebumps imagining those moments.

Jheel paar — we called it Vrindavan at times — is basically the lovers’ den of JU frequented by couples of various ages (you might find a cautious First year couple sitting right beside a desperate Ph.D couple) and departments. We had no such purpose to visit there, except throwing comments on a few adventurous couple on the verge of ‘making’ love rather than ‘feeling’ it!

It’s been almost three years since I had hurriedly got down at Gate No. 4 from auto to attend the 10.20 morning class, stepped into the classroom, taken down notes of SC or PPB, eaten dalpuri at Milan da at 1.40, walked along the Jheel paar, rushed to CL to find a book that Partho da had declared wasn’t available in DL, waited at Machhimara for photocopies or chatted all the way from Jadavpur 8B to Garia in the auto with Pri and Ups. But surprisingly I remember all these as if it were yesterday. This, I suppose, is one of the many symptoms of you-can-leave-JU-but-JU-won’t-leave-you syndrome.

The past few months have been a real roller coaster. I left Kolkata, came to Noida, got enrolled in a film school, started staying alone and a series of things happening all at the same time. And still I went to the first class hoping it would be a déjà vu of the JU orientation. Everytime I chat with my friends over here, I can’t help but miss my university all the more. I miss TC’s blatant dictation of Gandhism notes, the cold looks of SS, KS’s awful diction and our sudden laughter imagining his face with that of a pig, DC’s perfect lullaby tone in her sleepathon classes, Ani’s rendering of boka boka, his ceaseless bickering with Drone on Bangal-Ghoti, Pri’s mimicry, her obsession with Shahid Afridi to the extent of declaring Karachi as her sasurbari, Ups’s repitition of other’s words in a way as if she’s saying it for the first time, Mou’s grandmotherly attitude and our constant comparison of her with gomata.

I miss the Friday film screenings at Film Studies, Mainak Sir’s Indian cinema classes, the evening Spanish classes with Tarun and Mahijit, Abhijit Gupta’s swinging ponytail, English department balcony, the mashi-pishi book store at UG Arts, xerox mall, chicken chowmein at Mani da’s, dhoper chop at Milan da’s, coffee at AC Canteen, running at a marathon speed to the department from almost anywhere after knowing that the result is out, waiting in a long queue at Aurobindo Bhavan for paying fees, the hanging bridge, the phuchka seller outside Gate No. 2, OAT, Fests, Freshers’ Welcome that stopped midway due to announcing of mid-sem results, university elections, Holi celebrations, our late night study sessions before mid-sem or end-sem, my innumerable phone conversations with Pri before exam discussing how many topics to skip.

I visited JU once before shifting to Noida. It was kinda relive-the-good-ol’-days exercise. I took a walk round the campus, visited the places we used to spent hours at. Everything was the same, but inside I could feel the difference. The pitch black lanes criss-crossing the campus remained the same, only I had moved ahead. I’m no longer a part of the buildings, classrooms, roads, canteens or the jheel. I know I can still come back and experience it, but the feeling wouldn’t just be the same.

Last night after finishing the article, I called up Pri and narrated a portion of it to her. ‘Why are you making it so personal? Those who haven’t studied in JU — or more specifically IR department — won’t be able to comprehend your write-up. Make it more fluid. Let the non-JUites too get a feeling of what the place is like,’ she said. But how can you not be personal when you’re writing about your love affair? Whenever I think of my university now, all I see is a collage of images that I’ve attempted to pen down as accurately as possible. And that, I suppose, quite explains the significance of the title. This is what I say if someone asks me about my college days. Those were the best days of my life. Period.


Image courtesy: Jayita Sarkar

Blame it on the Name Anyway

HOW DO YOU spell 'Kolkata'? Or pronounce it?

No, this isn't a test of your English spelling and pronunciation skills (and nor have I gone crazy). It's actually one of those just-like-that random questions, having an amazing ability to freak people out. Sounds bullshit? Well, throw this question at anyone you like (or dislike), and you're sure to get back a lot of zany answers.

I did just that. Over the past few days I did what Desmond Morris often does — people watching (stop bulging your eyes silly!). I noticed the way people say 'Kolkata'. or write it. And boy, the results were mind-boggling! I never knew this city had such a great degree of flexibility of its name.

You might argue, what's the big deal in the name Kolkata? Why make an issue out of it? It's as simply spelt as K-o-l-k-a-t-a, and pronounced as Coal-kata. Right?

Wrong. One the contrary, the name gets distorted so often that I doubt whether there's really a consensus on what should be the actual spelling or pronunciation of it. The most common spelling of Kolkata is Kolkatta — embellished(!) with an extra 'T'. I recently saw a TV channel using that spelling in one of their telecasted shows. I even found the same spelling on the admission form of an educational institution. But why overburden the word with unnecessary alphabets? Is it a result of colonial hangover (of making Kolkatta sound almost a namesake of Calcutta), or an overdose of Ekta Kapoor soap operas? If latter is the case, then someday the city might end up as Kkolkatta! And coming to verbal expression, sample these — Call-kata, Call-kota, Call-katta, Kal-kata. Phew!

Do I sound Raj Thackeray-ish? Well, that's the last thing I would intend to, because the name gets messed up by everyone — Bengalis and non-Bengalis alike. No hard feelings for that. Kolkata, being essentially a Bengali word, it's difficult for those who don't know the language to get the right accent (after all, how many of us say Pa-ri instead of Paris?). So it's not out of anger or vengeance that I'm writing this post (did you think.... urghh!). It's actually quite amusing to find so many renditions of my city's name. And then, most importantly, pissing people off by mindless questions has a charm of its own! Like I said, it's one of those freaky just-like-that random questions.

So, how do you pronounce Kolkata? Or spell it?

Shaktirupena Sansthita

THE COUNTDOWN HAS begun. The wait is in its final lap. The end of pitripaksha has ushered a new dawn — the dawn of devipaksha. With preparations almost over, there’s hardly a few days left. One more year, and its time again for homecoming — for Durga, as well as for millions of Bengalis, for whom the festival isn’t just another religious ceremony. It’s much more than that. So everywhere you go now, there’s just one emotion — aha ki anando akashe batashe. After all, Maa aschhe!

Durga puja — the grandest of all Bengali celebration. This is one occasion every Bengali — be in Kolkata or Kolhapur, New Delhi or New York ­— look forward to throughout the year. As soon as we get the year calendar, the first thing we notice is the schedule for Durga Puja, undoubtedly!

Recently I went to my para pandal to get a glimpse of the puja preparations. What I saw over there was amusing. The entire area looked like a scene of frenetic activity. Be it the panic-stricken club officials pacing up and down the field restlessly or the poker-faced labourers busy giving finishing touch to the pandal — I seemed to be amidst a whirlpool of frenzied activity. If this is how a puja pandal looks like, what would be the situation in the potters’ colony, I wondered. Curious to get a first hand experience, I visited Kumortuli a few days back (for toddlers, Kumortuli is the potters’ den of Kolkata — the place where the clay Durga idols are made). Well, Kumortuli wasn’t any different either. It’s the same hysteric hullabaloo, resembling the backstage minutes before the start of a fashion-show.

Nevertheless I got some snaps there that, when developed, turned out to be quite interesting. A slice of life at Kumortuli, these pictures give you a sneak peek inside the factory of idol-making. Though unfinished, these Durga idols appeared far more appealing to me than the ones in pandals. So as they say, pictures speak a thousand words than written alphabets, its time for me to shut up! Let the images do the rest of the talk. And hey, while checking out the pictures don’t forget to hum the best anthem of Durga puja ever made — Bajlo tomar aalor benu...

Here comes the Devi...

...And the city awakens

Waiting for the finishing touch

Durgatinashini

The goddesses' battalion

The journey begins... again

Tamaso maa jyotirgamaya

It's his puja too

An Afternoon with Aila

THERE I WAS — dripping wet and stranded in the middle of a rain-drenched C R Avenue desperately looking for a cab, clutching the soggy office bag and a wind-ravaged umbrella in my hands. But as luck would have it, the hunt for one of those yellow cars was increasingly proving elusive. Finding no other option, I started walking towards the metro station. The rain, bucketing down incessantly since morning, showed no signs of retreat. In fact, with every passing second it poured with renewed vigour. Along with the shower came strong gusty wind, shaking the roots of the city. The sky, masked in thick grey clouds added even more to the doomsday feeling. The mighty skyscrapers suddenly seemed so weak and frail, petrified of the approaching disaster. The rain-bathed streets too looked unusually deserted.

Nevertheless I walked along, ignoring the rain and the wind. The metro station was a ten-minute walk from there and I was barely twenty paces away. That was the moment ‘it’ happened! The rain stopped falling, clouds forgot to rumble, the streets gasped in astonishment, cars didn’t move, people stopped walking — everything came to a standstill. That was the moment I saw her. I saw Aila!

May 25, 2009 — a day every Kolkatan will remember for a long time to come. It was the day our vocabulary got enriched by a new word. It was the day we understood how it feels like being struck by catastrophe... It was the day Aila happened. A relatively unknown cyclone originating from the Bay of Bengal stormed our city and left it completely ravaged. The consequence: Kolkata was AILAshed (another new word, thanks to TOI). And I, like many other Kolkatans, was a spectator to the devastation.

The moment I ‘saw’ Aila — or to be precise, the moment I felt the intensity of the cyclone — was a to-hell-and-back experience for me, literally. Although the downpour coupled with chaotic wind continued throughout the day, there were times when the wind seemed to vent its centuries-old fury on the city. I, unfortunately, was caught in such a moment. As I was approaching the metro station, a gust of wind came and blew almost everything off the ground. So monstrous was its strength that I stood there absolutely motionless, not being able to move forward. I teetered, my legs started trembling. Unable to resist the thrust of the storm, I almost fell down on the road (had I been a little leaner, I would surely have blown over by the wind!). I held the umbrella as a shield, but that poor little thing was no match against the might of the wind. Seconds later, my umbrella was reduced to a mesh of black cloth and entangled metal rods. The trees in front of me swayed vehemently like a possessed soul. It was as if someone was shaking them violently in a fit of rage. The advertisement billboards that adorned the skyline could nowhere be seen. Only the iron frames remained, crushed into folds. The huge vinyl sheets, now tattered and uprooted from the frames, rolled in the streets.

My heart began to pound. I panicked! And strangely enough, for the first time in my life, I felt the strongest urge to get back to the place where I’ll be the safest person in the world — my home.

Three weeks have passed. Aila is now history. But the Kolkata I had seen on that day was a nightmare. The images of uprooted trees, mashed tin roof of shops, snapped electric wires embracing the fallen trees, shredded billboards and crashed cars will remain etched on my memory forever. The way my beloved city was rampaged, I pray we never have to relive those moments again. However today when I look back, the Aila-experience doesn’t send shivers down my spine. Instead, it appears to be quite thrilling a journey — fighting my way through the storm! But then that’s how life is. With time, the horror of even the worst disaster gradually fades away. What remains is the resonance.

Don’t believe me? Well, the very next day after Aila as I tuned in the radio, an FM station was playing a special Aila-song for its listeners:

Aila re, ladki mast mast tu, Aila re...