Down the memory lane, to Calcutta through Kolkata a travelogue of time travel V.

V. Krishnan Authors Note: Puchkas, of Eastern India, are the delicious little mini fried hollow flour bread called puri in India, filled with a slice of heaven a spicy filling of lentils and potato - a rich cousin of Pani-puri and GolGappa of Western and Northern India. Authors Preface: The Indian City of Joy, Kolkata, aka, Calcutta gets fierce loyalty from its present and former residents; it is a place where affection and courtesy exceed rationality; everyone, despite and irrespective of the social strata, is at home, relaxed, takes life as it comes and respect women. Hopefully, this globalization will not tear its basic fabric; that will then be sad. The Author spent his childhood days in Calcutta and returned to Kolkata after many years, to attend the centenary celebrations of the school where he studied. This is a short story is partly a travelogue - travel in time to the past from Kotkata to Calcutta. Ethnic Bengali words used: Jelebi, singara, nomkin, luchi dal, radha pollovi, alur dhum, chomchom, misti dhohi, Dakar parota, nolen guder sondesh, raj bhog, danadar, baigon baja and of course puchka are all sweets and snacks of Kolkata; yummy at that. Bader Chai is tea served in single-serve cups made of baked red mud .

The Puchka syndrome. Yes, that is what hit me at 9.30 in the early night; at that time normal people prepare their beds for a cosy sleep. Not when the Puchka Syndrome hits one; it matters little what time it is; whether one is full, tired, dressed, undressed or in other state - of body and mind. I need her, the Puchka Devi Goddess of Puchka; period. I start worrying - is it not late, will she be there; will she be fresh and waiting; or gone off with someone else. I start thinking which place is better to meet with her read as which place is hygienic. I am assaulted by a host of other rues and facts. It is like the pleasant splash on a rainy day, of freshly poured water - typical of Kolkata; by the tires of a passing yellow tank - that one passing off as taxi in Kolkata. Now you remember the best of places and corners; you remember the many near reverential puchka nuancesthe silhouettes of the puchka basket, the gamcha a thin cotton towel the plastic cover, the man himself, in all his glory in the twilight of the setting sun. All these places that come to my mind, unfortunately are either at a distance or are distant memories. Permit me to digress here. When you travel to your childhood places, like a time travel for instance like this trip to Kolkata you bump into a long-lost friend and he remembers so much about you; you say you married here itself, is it? He looks

near offended and says, ``dont you remember? You only got me the gas; what fun we had. I stand there, jaw agape. How can you have fun getting a gas connection and a cylinder? I must have been carrying it on my shoulders, the dumb sucker that I am since long. He must have made me run with a stick in his hand, having fun; we should have laughed together. You stand there trying to figure out who the hell is this guy; knows so much about you; shame then it hits you, with the hint of something you did together; clearer if it is with your childhood dream girls. Those girls, who like a Mad Magazine picture are always beautiful in your head. You remember his name, father, sister, dog, cat, the tube well in the front of his house and the puddle you have to jump over every time you need to ring the bell to his home; so very well, suddenly. Now back to my PuchkaSame way - you cannot figure out the best street corner to cohort with Puchka Devi and then it hits you that Puchka-wala, within two hundred feet from where you stay, so much recommended by your niece from old time Calcutta. This girl is a walking Wikipedia for puchka-lovers! You rush and you are happy the man is there, you go about feeding your lust; like any lust, it feels good and nice; in this case nostalgic imprints in your neurons getting the exact message of accord. Good, too good, but you are old and you are full, so you cannot eat more than four; your lust is over before you began. This is when you are charitable; your save the world personality, hidden somewhere within you, pushes forward. You look at the small boy standing nearby and tell our Puchka-wala, give the rest to him. Poor boy, I want to do the boy a favour. The Puchka man says it is my son sahib, eat, there are only two more. And eat you do. What stays for two minutes in your mouth, stays stubbornly inside your body for 20 years, someone said. But then such wisdom does not apply to Puchka Devi, Devi is wisdom. You stuff the last two wholesome, fragile, unbroken, edible wonders, filled with succulent mixture of miracle spices, greedily into your mouth. You eat these, with the greedy but carefree mind of a child - but with a tummy of a sixty year old. One thing good with your digestive system, tomorrow is another day!! Why am I in Kolkata after some thirty five years? Why am I roaming around the streets of Ballugunge like a loony? Why am I searching for original slightly burnt jelebis early morning? Firstly, I am not in Kolkata. I am in Calcutta. I am somewhere between my memories and the real world. I feel happy when some of my memories are encashed. I feel sad with change even if the change is for the good. Feeling happy when seeing a neat road; feeling integrated when the road is neat but with the famous Calcutta puddles of unknown composure, at corners.

Yes it is composure and not composition. These puddles have a character and depth; These are calm fellows and do not bother you. These chaps are happy in their humility; never complain and these take the shape of the distortions in the road. These never overflow, these know the limits; these are neat in their dirty pool. You avoid these and these do not complain. You co-exist; without these, you do not feel at home and you do not get your exercise. Then there were so many roads very clean; so many new ways and well tarred routes. I sometimes felt I am not home. I sulked petulantly. One nice thing about Kolkata, the roads have withstood the onslaught and have an uniformity; the quality of the paving is evident. Pot holes seem like a thing of the past. Imagine, to achieve this, the other cities go to multi-nationals and Indian giants. Not here. I came to Kolkata, thinking of Calcutta, to attend a celebration; of my school; alma mater. My old school seems almost as old as Calcutta in age; it hit its hundredth year. We all went berserk. Saying I became emotional is simplifying it; it does not do justice to my emotions. A few good souls spent huge amount of time digging and un-facing Facebook, and ogling hopefully at Google, to find us all. They dug us out and made us come; our batch, an old batch like a Calcutta tram, we all came together. As I wrote to a friend, on the previous morning our batch - or whoever can walk, is alive, is not yet a loony, can see, hear, does not have a catheter, will all come. They all came and we spent time; hugging, recalling, talking, having true fun; thanks to those committed good souls, not that they were freer than me. Something about these old school reunions it is a philosophy; it is not a reunion. All of us have gone through so much in life; so many different routes we took, so much to think back on. But somehow, success or failure did not matter, more success or less success did not matter; it is all the same, no jealousy, no looking up, down, ducking or sucking; all are back to same old days, where no one knew what lay ahead; now we know and it hardly matters. All of us lived for the day, re-living past to the hilt, re-playing cricket, football or danda gilli or kattaal or goli or I spy or whatever. Just be, was that days experience. Wonderful, travelling together from Kolkata to Calcutta. We bathed in the wonderful past, as if time has somehow stood still and somehow our harried figures, contoured by our antiquity, did not matter. What is chronology or chromo-meter? All are after all man-made: we existed in timelessness.

So back to the future, here I am roaming the streets in the past; Pompas Road for example or Panditya, pronounced Ponditiiya; nothing mattered, except being there. If I had informed my tummy, I intend putting jelebi, singara, nomkin, luchi dal, radha pollovi (why drag her for a simple poori?), alur dhum, chomchom, Dakar parota, and of course puchka into it - in serious succession like a belly dancers behind - my tummy would have walked off. Of course now it will be dragged off. I went like a sadhu in serious pursuit of knowledge to have bader chai and baigon baja. I hated it when the original jelebi hid itself and the man offered me the Gandhi constituency instead. My memories failed me; I wondered why he is asking me about Amethi. He was not keen on my joke early morning; he gave me lovely Amerthi, those round jangri with taste of jelebi. No match for my jebelis, though. This is when I saw that frail old lady first. On the second floor veranda. I was after my nolen guder sondesh - sandesh made of new seasons first jaggery - when I saw something familiar about the street; something familiar about the Mistana Bandar old traditional sweet shop - and its shelves. Can I, at this age have nolen guder sondesh, followed by a raj bhog and danadhar? Then of course regret not having mishti dhohi? I did, but please dont tell my Doc fellow. He is always after my blood (pun intended!!). So it is evening when I came for my misti dhohi and I felt again familiar about the basket holding the hot singaras. Cane baskets last for thirty years and more, only in my Calcutta. This old lady again; in her white sari, with the fully grey hair why would we call pure white hair as grey is beyond me though - on both sides of her head long and flowing; she was really frail and standing erect. There was youth in her posture; something familiar about her; about her shout; her shouting for attention to a group of girls below; something right. Well, I was in Calcutta and I was having my singaras; have you stood by the side of those baskets holding the morning fresh fried singaras? These can smell you into submission, if you know what I mean. Once you start digging into a singara - the gentle fragrance and completely agreeable, non-jarring spice mix the sudden passion you get, when you spot a single peanut that is well done and is hiding under the potatoes - you forget the world. That was the time to feel good, by comparing those heavenly singaras, with the Punjabi-Tamil samosas made in Chennai. Who cares now about an old lady on the second floor? Forget the old lady - who cares about life itself, when you are in eternity? After the singaras I had these jelebis and then misti dhohi. I settled on the bench of the next tea shop for my bader chai; those fragile mud cups, with readymade tea - from a kettle thirty years old at least. I must have taken tea from the same kettle in my student days. My

mother, this kettle is, in some weird way. I was looking at all those men sipping chai and biting on biscuits; saddling in benches as old as them. All these men were around my age; sixty. They were loudly fighting over Bengals big sister and red colour, in ferocious tones. I was amused. This is my Calcutta, no Kolkata here. In recent times this padar adda the traditional street corner group chats had completely stopped. These youngsters of Kolkata went to New York and Chicago and Infosys and Calif. Now these oldies youngsters of my years are back; retired now, to resume the adda. Fascinating, felt as if no time had passed.

Bader chai was interacting with me and then again I saw this lady. Something
bothered me. I was looking around; I saw the road, full of vendors. Wasted road is a cruel word, when you see so much of fresh vegetables. I wandered with lust again what has lust to do with it? Ask any old Calcuttan (sic intended), returning to Calcutta after a long time and looking at the fresh stuff on streets. I bought some nine items of the fresh veggie genre, edible directly. Nowhere else have I seen so many numbers of fresh stuff, those that do not fall in the category of fruits - are vegetables, but not to be cooked. I remembered my presently bed-ridden mom; those days walking all the way from Lake Market to Panditiya, about 4 kms; carrying two bags full of such stuff poor lady. We grab the bags more to eat straight, not to relieve her of her burden for sure. Who cared to even wash the stuff those days? Our filtered water was the Ganges Water from the hand pump, with a simple cotton towel the all pervading Gamcha as a filter. You do not trust me on the veggies, you want names, here goes some, sweet berries, sour berries, meeta alu, panipal, those juicy stuff I cannot recall the name. I peeked into the bazaar for fish and I am vegetarian, but was happy for fish eaters. So much. This lady was bothering me. Again. The distractions of Calcutta were not enough. But then again I got lost in Calcutta. Phool Khobi for 7 rupees, you kidding? I thought of a vegetable war, leave alone an oil war or a water war; these Pallava Kings from down south will invade this place sometime. I crossed the next road and there was this Saraswati Puja pandal, spelt Soroswati Pujo; there was this boy shaking his maracas, not as if, but as his life depended on it; the clarinet man was shrieking away and the traditional drums were beating your ear drums off; all in the centre of the half road, other half taken over by a serene Goddess Sarawati. They were going to town, literally, with no one caring and the street busy with its activities.

Phool khobis were sold and bought; tomatoes were bargained for; long snake

gourds were dancing to the rhythm of maracas, peeping long out of the small bag so traditional with Bengali vegetable shoppers each morning.

This Pandal was familiar, these vendors too. I crossed the road and went hunting for the next Bandar those old sweets shops - on the same stretch. Then it hit me, there was this old school, the huge metal door shut and the little door-in-door, the small door cut in the huge door - open. The darwan gate keeper, very protective of the children always - peeking out, neither here nor there, with his body out of the small door and the feet inside the compound; complete king of the compound that way. This school I know. I know this school. I was shaking my head, engaged in a feverish attempt to draw from the cache of storage in my cranium. I know this area. I turned back to see the old lady standing erect on the side of the balcony, facing my side. She was looking, but generally - not at my handsome face. This I know, my mind was wailing. This scene, these vendors, this Mistana Bhandar, this pada, this building, this school, I know. I went on to the footpath, as one of those yellow tanks passed me. You notice many things in Kolkata, which are but leftovers from Calcutta. These yellow tanks actually move, turn and stop. Turn in an angle alright. Talking of stopping, many times I waited on the red light, after it was my right of way to cross. I could not understand why these chaps are standing well before the white line, when the red light come on! Never happens in the sister cities, not in Chennai nor in Mumbai or Bangalore. You call Kolkata undisciplined? These service chaps in Kolkata will never build their homes, poor chaps. There is a clean share auto, which drops you - and the driver asks you to pay seven rupees. For the same distance, in Chennai I take my cheque book, along or my house documents and my balance sheet. Twenty five rupees for Gods Sake again, is the minimum fare in Taxi, the yellow tanks; and they are serious about it! I was sipping my bader chai again, when small drops of memory started coming back Then it all flooded back like a tsunami. This is Amolikas pada. Amolika. I got it! I got those days from my old diary. I came here, walked here, through here; how can I forget! I did that for two full years. I came here, stood by the gate of this school, waiting for my friend to come back with his kid sister. I came but not for him. I waited not for his kid sister. It was but pretence. While waiting, I looked at Amolika and nothing else. This same balcony - we were almost living together with our eyes. We locked our eyes, we had fun. She called out to her friends below; if she wanted me to know she was there. She called her own name out to her friends, ami Amolika dhakchi, upore dekho I am Amolika calling, see up here. I knew her name and I knew her. I never met her outside. We lived our `separate lives `together - in my walks and her smiles. She plaited her long hair in detail, strand by strand, I watched fascinated. She could have taken me up to her, on those strands, in a fairly tale. But in reality, I was a South boy afraid of Padar dhada. Each area is a pada and each pada has a ruler, a Bengali boy.

Two full years and then it was all gone. I went my way. I did nothing. I just faded off and never thought of Amolika; like thoughts of the burnt jelebis, Till you come back to those, those are forgotten, but when you do come back, it haunts you. Like my Amolika Suddenly, my puchka syndrome came all over back to me. It is a syndrome after all. I have to find out about Amolika. Was there a girl at all like that, where is she now, what does she do, is she a doctor, an engineer, a software woman in USA? May be a wife of a rich builder, want to find out. This is one more thing that happens when you go back, you seek memories which are only your thoughts; these are not in sync with memories of others. Like the old classmate who is all agog about you or you about one of them - and there is no trace of recall from the other. Hurt he is or you are, uselessly. I slowly walked back, with a heavy heart and the leg feeling the heart beautifully. Team work they call it. I walked past the old lady still standing there, below her veranda and on to the old stair case. I walked slowly up. I was not afraid. I should have been, if it was a different time and the same place - when my vertebra was young. I went all the way up to the second floor. There were two doors on the floor, one on the left and one on the right. The one on the left should be the old home of my thoughts. The bell was typical of Calcutta. It sits in, around a blob of metal of intriguing finish; with a nice inviting white middle. When pressed, it gives a continuous unpretentious ring; does not shake you or perturb you. It just does its job modestly. Like Kolkatans. Ashchi I am coming. The door slowly opened. Those heavy doors are heavy not only because of the wood, but made heavy also by that mild green paint, applied again and again, over so many years. Ashoon, kake chaan? Come, whom do you want? Ami, ami. Me, Me. I stood like a frog, eyes bulging, feeling completely out of place and getting air out instead of words Bhollun Talk man. She urged me, somehow she did not push me, the same old lady from the veranda. She had her hair on both her sides, white in its grey; and completely frail

wasted body, clad in white. She was neat alright, but was forlorn - may be for want of a better word. Needs help of her son surely. Eidhike Amolika HereAmolika. Han, ki chaan? Yes, what do you want? I understood her asking, what do you want with Amiloka? A girl from my home? Then she stood there, looking at me; seriously, keenly, sharply, looking you can see a kaleidoscope only in a human face. Slow but steady changes, first puzzle, fear, concern, blank, then changes, slight flashes of something, then shrinking of the eyes, the keenness and then that something to show oh. Oh She said. Eidhike Amolika bhole ekte may chele chilo, amar bondhu. Onek dhin ag-e There was this girl called Amolika; my friend; used to stay here; long while ago. Thumi? You? I did not understand her. She was near something to crying, some turmoil. Confused may be. Old age. Then determination of experience came to the fore. Etho daer kore? After so long? You came so late? Both are in there in those words, in that beautiful language Bengali. Oh my God, oh my God, this cannot be true. Amolika. My memory green as ever, those beautiful flowing dark hair, those jolly sparkling eyes and those sharp nose giving an uppity look, when she combs her hair; Amolika; she is Amolika. She is, but so old. I could do nothing but stare. My memory came face to face with my reality. She asked abruptly. Amolika mane jano? Do you know the meaning of Amolika? Na No. I looked at her well. Traces of old or is it young? Amolika. Yes, it is her. Amolika mane precious Amolika means precious.

My time froze. She was murmuring. Thumi ki jaanbe, paliye gale jo How and what will you know, you ran off after all. Then she looked at me hard. Looked. Slowly she shook her head. She closed the door, very slowly on me. Thumar jonno?!!? For you? In those two words, there were lots of words; it is the way she murmured it. It said a lot. I did not see my Amolika in her, she did not see her me, in me. She never knew my name. If she is Amolika, I am may be Anamkia for her. I walked back. I looked at myself and my sixty plus body, shrunk, old and trapped. My clothes were old, till then I was in my memories and a padar chele, a young man of the locality. I walked back, mulling this meeting in my mind. I do not only get old, Amolika and all others do. I stay young in my memories and in Amolikas memories. It struck me like a thunder bolt and suddenly I understood what she meant when she said Thumar Jonno for you?? With disgust, with a striking of some truth what was that, for you?? It struck me again and stuck me down. Is it possible that she was waiting all these years, in the same balcony, in the same post, in the same posture, waiting for me? I was awe- struck. What happens inside a mind can be known only to the owner. Is it possible? All her years wasted in memories and hope? I was passing below the veranda. I walked past, some ten steps and then looked up. Amolika was not there. She went in finally, I said to myself. Is this possible at all? Or is it my super ego? V. Krishnan Ph: 09894518737 Email: krish1951@gmail.com B 1, Sankalp Ceebros Apts, Seethamaal Road, Alwarpet, Chennai 600018.