Story of a Transplanted Organ

It was a distinctly normal Sunday morning, when a very weary Rajdhani express, was arriving at the Sealdah Station. Red dressed coolies, were jumping into the tired train, as all coolies normally do. Anxious passengers were standing in the corridor, hoping to jump out of the train as soon as it stopped, as all anxious passengers normally do. Enthusiastic relatives and well wishers were peeping into the train in the hope of disobeying the laws of physics and watching their loved ones through the polarizing windows, as all enthusiastic relatives normally do. Everything was normal around me. Only I was not normal. Flames of apprehension were roaring inside me. The journey from college was taking too long. It had been four months since I came to my city. Four months since I stepped on its soil. Four months since I saw its roads, since I touched its air, since I inhaled its atmosphere. The very moment I stepped down from the train, I knew that I was home. I knew where the taxi stand was. I knew there was a small pothole just outside the taxi lane and all taxis would recreationally bump on it. As I relaxed through the traffic jam, I noticed that the traffic lights in Shyambazar had not been changed. I observed that, the painting of Swami Vivekananda on the Tala Bridge had been changed. The Taxi rolled into Dunlop, and I was greeted by a new flyover. A huge gathering in front of the Agarpara Jute Mills, meant something had gone sour between the owner and the labours. The taxi took a right turn and the each one of the very familiar shops along the road leading to our house welcomed me. As I approached my house, I remembered my house had been painted. I grew a bit uneasy. Would I recognise it? Could I still recall how the flower pots were arranged on our terrace? Was the 'madhhobi-lata' tree that winded up the eastern flanks of our balcony still there? Had my home changed, now that she had been decorated. With the final left turn a beautiful blue building gestured me. Instinctually I knew who she was. I leapt out of the taxi and banged the calling bell. As the door creaked open I fanatically dived on my mother. I was back. Back to my city. I was born in Kolkata, eighteen years from today. Like any normal person, I abode the law of juvenile amnesia, and what I remember is very less compared to what I saw. Nonetheless, I shall attempt to recollect it. My home is in the suburbs of Kolkata, in an unknown remote place called Agarpara. It is so remote that, some of my friends thought they could go there from our school in just two minutes, while others thought that they would need a few hours. I used to study in Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan, in a place called Salt Lake, which is popularly accepted to be in the proper Kolkata. Every morning I

made an one hour ride in various forms of transportation to reach my school. I used to travel in shuttles (a fancy name for share taxis), taxis, buses, autos, rickshaws, trains, vans and even in my friends' cars. Thanks to my adventurous rides every morning, I was a favourite of my vice principal, because I was a relentless late comer. My vice principal thought I was a disgrace to time. No doubt my feelings for her were not very affectionate. However there were some delightful perks that came with my morning ceremony. The most delightful of them all was that, I met new people every day. This gave me a glorious advantage. Buses in Kolkata are unique beasts driven by strange people. Generally buses carry one lakh prisoners but when the next bus is far away the conductor will promptly jump down at every stoppage and gleefully declare that the bus is empty, much to the displeasure of the prisoners. The cons really don't like the sweltering heat of their chariot, and the fear of the wardens at their office, just put salt on their wounds. The conductor would meet his own share of greetings from the savage inmates, and even the bus suffers significant damage as the convicts hammer the walls in a desperate attempt to break away. Well, when one lucky detainee gets a chance to flee, he meets severe resistance from others, and heated words flow freely. Every day I used to volunteer to be one of these prisoners, and every day I was heated up. But fortunately, I knew I would not meet my adversaries again. So, a few angry words really did not make a difference. What does it matter, whose legs I squashed or, whose ribs I jabbed, whom I pushed or whose space I blocked. I really didn't have to make a good impression on my cellmates. After all, I wasn't going to marry their daughter. The prisoner concept was more or less valid in every form of public transport. But in luckier days, I could concentrate more on the people. I am proud to say, we Kolkatians (Bengalis actually) can have really entertaining conversations. It was a rare occasion when I talked or heard a fellow citizen and was not enthralled by the exchange. We can talk about anything, because we know everything. Our cosmic knowledge tends to infinity. We know everything material and more than anything immaterial. We know, the secrets of Osama Bin Laden's shoelaces and also the best cure to carcinomas. So, naturally our conversations are really worth prying into. Once upon a time I had a nice incident in a train. I was returning from school when, a man who had bought a pair of rabbits, boarded the train. The man, new to the art of animal breeding, innocently asked a fellow passenger "Sir, when do they lay eggs?" The knowledgeable Samaritan confidently replied "After two weeks." A few stupid people rose up against him, and heat flowed again. In spite of our world conquering knowledge, conversations in Bengal primarily revolves around one topic, politics. A Bengali lives it, thinks it, breathes it, eats it, drinks it, wears it and loves it. Any random Bengali will surely know more politics than Roosevelt. Kolkata is spearheaded by a group of extremely efficient politicians, some of them so efficient that they kept on being re-elected until

they died. A few of them are immortal. Parties in Bengal exist only for their names. It is always the same politician who gets elected but under different colours. In these fields we can beat even the crafty chameleon. Politics is the single biggest employment generating sector of Bengal, the largest revenue collector, and the spiciest topic of a conversation closely followed by cricket. The camp of cricket has two classes of supporters. The die-hard "Dada" (Sourav Ganguly) fans, and the die-hard KKR (Kolkata Knight Riders) fans. To anyone remotely familiar with cricket, these two schools of thought, need no introduction. These two classes of die-hard fans, frequently tempt the other into arguments and then, well they die hard. A description of Kolkata really does not end, unless one describes its buildings. Kolkata was India's first colonial capital, so undoubtedly it houses some of the best examples of British architecture. We are proud owners of "The Dalohousie Square", "The Monument", "The Victoria Memorial", "The Howrah Station" and many many many more. The tradition of these buildings have lived on 200 years after the British left India, and sometimes new buildings are added a brick red colour to give a colonial touch. Our generous English rulers gave us many things. They made ours the first Indian city to have an underground railway system. After the English went away other evil Indian cities made much better metro railway systems and have continued to ensure that ours remains the worst in the country. Kolkata also provides shelter to Spaniards, French, Portuguese, Chinese and lots of other races and faces. These people had once brought a significant chunk of their culture along with them into Kolkata, but eventually got smudged into the crowd. The only times we remember their names are when a heritage building is declared dangerous or when their houses are on fire. Kolkata houses one of the world's best botanical gardens. It is the home for a 1000 year old banyan tree. This tree is extremely peculiar, because it does not have any main trunk. Indeed, its prop roots support the immense scaffold of branches and leaves. The garden has a type of aquatic Lily flower, on whose leaves a child can stand and not drown. A public recreational spot, Botanical Garden remains open for all. The garden is a favourite for morning walkers. So much, so that when one day the gate was locked to prevent them, the deprived walkers enthusiastically vandalized the gate. The authorities must have been really silly to think that the morning walkers harm the plants and do not follow rules. Surely, walking in a spell bounding garden is a right of every citizen. The authorities themselves got into trouble once, when it was discovered that exotic trees had been smuggled from the garden. But, such a minor glitch was soon repaired and things became green again. This leads me to talk about the law and order system of Kolkata. We have lots of laws, but rarely any order. Kolkata is run under the strictest principles of Calcutta Police. The police are connoisseurs in their jobs. They are extremely regular in collecting bribes and loosing files. They prefer to stay aloof from

media coverage until suddenly, a thief catches them and asks for ransom. In the rare, converse occasion the police promptly declare their success in facebook. In the middle of this colourful Christmas party, lives a handful of people. People who can think. Less fortunate people, who know less, but think more. These people dream of a "better". These people are the intellectuals. Hated by the police, politicians alike these people dare to dream. For years they had been forced to live under the false colours of imagination and the illusion of life. These people have dared to get shot in their chest, rather than wait to be shot at their backs. Years of mindless orgies by the rulers and the ruled of Kolkata has brought it down to a status of medieval community. Basic human rights are being threatened. Not a single hospital or health centre functions properly. The expensive nursing homes are no better. 84 patients died when a private nursing home caught fire. Aged, sick, wounded, people had to be carried out through the windows. The guarantee of cure too, is a figment of our imagination. One of my close relatives died from a fungal infection because the doctors could not figure out what the disease was until too late, and even after biological death they wanted to perform a dialysis and carry on the ventilation. They probably considered her immortal. Everything about our society is crumbling. Our culture is dying. We have proclaimed, Rabindranath Tagore, the great Bengali poet as the supremum of cultural excellence, and have been contented to live on ever since, never wondering whether we can do something for ourselves. Every annual function, or cultural meet serves Rabindrasangeet as the major entertainment. I will boldly state, that there is not a single cultural evening, where anything new, anything creative is staged. We have chosen to live within the shadows of our past. And, are we really justified in exploiting the great man as entertainment every time? I do not think so, especially after we tagged his Nobel Prize as the only Nobel Prize to be ever stolen. There is decadence and sorrow everywhere in my city. A snake is strangling her throat, choking her to death. But, even in her deathbed she smiles. Fortified by the courage of a handful of her children, she smiles. She smiles and caress us all lovingly. Her breath is losing its moisture, but her voice has not lost its melody. The glass is yet half full, and the dawn is not that hopelessly dark either. Kolkata too gets her share of love and care. If there is one thing of Kolkata, that I really miss,it is the "Durga Puja". It is the only time when my city is decorated like a queen. The female goddess durga is worshipped with as much pomp as the city herself. Thousands of citizens get together in a collective effort to bring the best out of our city. The superlative time of the pujas is not the puja itself. It's in the few weeks before the actual date, the real fun lies. The air, thick with hidden excitement and suppressed emotions, can be almost cut by a needle. Anyone, who has experienced one puja, can easily smell a change in the behaviour of everyone of us. Even private firms start forgiving employees for coming late. The NRKs (Non residential Kolkatians) are more addicted to the puja, than the

residents. They even go to the extent of hiring Brahmins for a online video chat ritual. The craze of the festival, resonates in the hearts of every single one of us, and the further we go, the stronger the vibrations become. The more we feel an unbearable urge to return to where we belong. We want to break free of our lives, just to indulge in those few days of excitement, fun, devotion, care and love. Our mother's lap beckons us like the hymn of the Pied Piper. To refuse it is like ripping your body apart ten times ten. Staying away from the Puja is agonizingly heart wrenching. To be away from the city is to realise, that the city is like oxygen. Necessary for life, but scarcely noticed until taken away at one stroke. Our city nourishes us, feeds us, sustains us. Encourages us to grow up. To be strong enough to wield a knife, and cut her loose. To be the true child of a proud mother. I want to be such a child. I want to give something to my loved ones, to my city, to my country, to the entire humanity. I would hate to spend my life just as a passing stone in the path of human history. I want to be a milestone. But, even after I may accomplish such a feat, I want to return to my city. Because my city did not know me for what I did, it will not know me for what I will do. A mother need not be introduced to her child by his deeds. I am as expensive to my city as is the greatest man who ever lived here. I belong here, and here only. Me and my fellow citizens were born as siblings. Conceived in the womb of the same mother, we are all related to each other like a mighty super organism. Then why should I wish to be a transplanted organ, doing my time in someone else's body?

Name - Atreya Dey SR No. - 09908 Topic - My City