Kolkata. A city. An entity. A culture. A song. A romance. A graveyard.
Being my mother's home, Kolkata was the fairytale city of my childhood. Even though I never had the typical Bengali Kolkata-prem, my destiny has always sent me spiralling into the chaos of this city. Be it the choice of St. Xavier's or my PhD life, Kolkata unfortunately will bear the stamp of my gain and loss, more loss than gain.
A school friend once said, "Kolkata kills ambition!" How vehemently I had disagreed with him at that time! I must say this guy was well ahead of his time. Kolkata slow poisons its prisoners and does so beautifully. It gives you hope, provides you with a ladder, even allows you to throw the dice but it never shows the snakes on the board! You can be this close to victory and yet so far.
The funny part is that you cannot blame anything else but yourself.
This is the city that gave me freedom and snatched it away . I find it amusing how Kolkata lets you breathe, yet chokes you at its will. This city gave me a friend for life only to slowly reveal chinks in the friendship armour!
At times, when I've felt defeated, this is the city that took me in her shelter and gave me new hopes! Yes, Kolkata has shown me life like nothing else. She has been a mirror, reflecting the inner turmoil as well as the light that lies buried inside. For all my disturbances, she has always drenched me with the western wind. She has shown me the Sun breaking the veils of darkness and she has led me to darkness when I had wanted time to stop.
I have lived in her glory, smiled with her when change set sails on her banks. I feel helpless today as the wind reverses its direction. I want to stand right up against the wind and claim her for me. But she never was mine to protect. She belongs to the history books. Writers will load College Street with stories of her desires, lovers will pack shelves with collections of her pictures. She doesn't need to pose, my Tilottoma. At least, in my world of words, do I get to call her mine. If I were the phoenix, she would be my fire and my hopes, the ashes.
I am just another admirer, like thousands before and after me. I wish I were one of those blessed ones who actually had something to give to this city.
Someday, my dear safe house, I hope you know there lived a guy who loved you.
Being my mother's home, Kolkata was the fairytale city of my childhood. Even though I never had the typical Bengali Kolkata-prem, my destiny has always sent me spiralling into the chaos of this city. Be it the choice of St. Xavier's or my PhD life, Kolkata unfortunately will bear the stamp of my gain and loss, more loss than gain.
A school friend once said, "Kolkata kills ambition!" How vehemently I had disagreed with him at that time! I must say this guy was well ahead of his time. Kolkata slow poisons its prisoners and does so beautifully. It gives you hope, provides you with a ladder, even allows you to throw the dice but it never shows the snakes on the board! You can be this close to victory and yet so far.
The funny part is that you cannot blame anything else but yourself.
This is the city that gave me freedom and snatched it away . I find it amusing how Kolkata lets you breathe, yet chokes you at its will. This city gave me a friend for life only to slowly reveal chinks in the friendship armour!
At times, when I've felt defeated, this is the city that took me in her shelter and gave me new hopes! Yes, Kolkata has shown me life like nothing else. She has been a mirror, reflecting the inner turmoil as well as the light that lies buried inside. For all my disturbances, she has always drenched me with the western wind. She has shown me the Sun breaking the veils of darkness and she has led me to darkness when I had wanted time to stop.
I have lived in her glory, smiled with her when change set sails on her banks. I feel helpless today as the wind reverses its direction. I want to stand right up against the wind and claim her for me. But she never was mine to protect. She belongs to the history books. Writers will load College Street with stories of her desires, lovers will pack shelves with collections of her pictures. She doesn't need to pose, my Tilottoma. At least, in my world of words, do I get to call her mine. If I were the phoenix, she would be my fire and my hopes, the ashes.
I am just another admirer, like thousands before and after me. I wish I were one of those blessed ones who actually had something to give to this city.
Someday, my dear safe house, I hope you know there lived a guy who loved you.
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