"A relatively large and permanent settlement" is how Wikipedia chooses to define a city. And a definition couldn't have been more incomplete. The rational mind will of course take offense to a statement like that. "Are you nuts? How else would one possibly define a city?" Well I don't know. But it's surely a lot more than a well organized cluster of high-rises and criss-crossing flyovers. It shapes the person you are and you hardly ever realize it.
I was born in Calcutta ( yes it hadn't been renamed then ) and for a significant amount of time the city meant nothing more to me than my house, my school and a bunch of other addresses which came in handy during letter-writing assignments. A typical day started at six in the morning and somehow making it to the bus stop by six twenty, with granny limping behind me with the lunch box, shoelaces running haywire, socks in hand and bag open with text books spilling out. Once in the bus, no time was spent before we grouped ourselves for a relentless, ruthless game of 'Stone, Paper, Scissors'. Heated discussions on who was in form, and who emerged as the undisputed champion for the third day in a row, went on well past the morning assembly. The rest of the day was majorly drowned in sleep. Be it History or Physics, I failed to notice any difference in the basic treatment of both the subjects and often wondered why our teachers were not professional lullaby singers and were languishing in some private school, frustrated and underpaid. Lunch breaks were more of a relief though and all that sleep surprisingly made one hungry. Before I barely managed to open my lunch box, the food just seemed to disappear amidst a flurry of foreign hands, making it almost impossible to answer Granny back home, whether the curry had less salt or not. School was mostly followed by a string of more soporific tuition classes, the ones I seemed to detest going to initially. I loved to sleep in the afternoon you see. But things changed once I started going to them on my own.When I was fifteen, Ma thought I had grown up enough to not get lost in the city, be able to read bus numbers correctly, and not pay the conductor extra before getting off. That's when I first got to explore the city and discovered how beautiful Calcutta really is. Tuitions ceased to be centres of study and ended up being non-virtual versions of present day social networking sites. Classes were always followed by an hour of random strolling on the streets, couples making excuses and leaving, eating croissants and pastries at Flurys', digging into chicken tikka rolls at Badshah and catching that random evening show at Priya. It was a carefree life I led back then, where all I had to worry about was to get back home in time so that Dad will spare me a volley of inconvenient questions and I could make it to the bus stop at six the next morning. The most stressful times were during term tests. They seemed to be life changing then and I always managed to be under-prepared for every exam no matter how much effort I put in before. To see your own brother emerging from the next room at dinner with not even the faintest sign of worry, exuding confidence about next day's paper, didn't exactly help. Ma was mostly baffled by the difference in our levels of preparation and resulting confidence. She kept telling me, "Can't you learn anything from your brother?" To be honest I really tried. But he seemed to be born with that Midas touch. He was good at whatever he tried his hands at. He aced exams, topped classes, sang well, played the guitar, won essay and table tennis competitions with equal ease. You try living upto that man! I did my bits in school too, but they always paled in comparison, and being taught by the same teachers and judged by the same set of parents and relatives wasn't particularly easy. So to say that my self-confidence was on the loftier side would be wrong. I had days of unmitigated self-doubt, when I couldn't see myself going anywhere and dreaded the prospect of my remaining the underachiever in the family. All I did at times like these, was to open the window and feel the soft spatter of rain on my face. It made me forget everything. The houses in the distance were just a haze. The air was filled with the muffled din of rain lashing against the asphalt. It lulled me to sleep.
I was happy.
Things changed when I moved to Delhi for college. Stephen's gave me a sense of pride and all that apprehension that once clouded my mind day and night seemed like a distant memory. I turned a new leaf. I distinctly remember the first day I spent in Residence. Ma had left for home a couple of hours before and I suddenly realized that I wouldn't see her for at least three months. My first time staying away from home and for so long. All on my own. No one knew me and I knew no one. I bolted myself in my room and tears rolled down my cheeks. I had never felt so abandoned and lonely in my life. I wanted to be left alone then. Just then there was a knock. I opened the door to an unfamilar face, six-foot tall and a booming voice. He asked me for my 'Intro' and then pointed to a pile of tin trunks, a mattress, pillows and a couple of huge bags which could hold nothing but stones, I thought. I was expected to carry his luggage to his room. A first year's initiation into the fold. I wiped my face and walked out. Walked out into the world and never looked back.
The next six years went by in a blur. All those countless hours I spent at Barista, ordering a single Cappuccino to escape ragging, tiptoeing back into my room after dinner, only to switch off the light and sit on my bed in the darkness silently, to give wandering seniors in the corridor the impression that I was asleep and not available for 'entertainment'; all those walks around the Vice Chancellor's lawns animatedly discussing a Scorsese movie; all those trips to Kamla Nagar to hog on momos, skipping inedible Saturday dinners in the mess; conversations with all those special people over 'Maggi' and a cup of 'badi chai' in the cafeteria; all those impossible Rahman songs we tried and messed up royally on stage; all those victories; all those heartbreaks; all those choices; all those surprises and all those unexpected disappointments. They all seem like a mashed up, hazy continuum to me now. But I was settled.
I was happy.
And just when I thought I could live like this for the rest of my life, snuggled up in my comfort zone, it was time for me to move again. And this time away from everything I ever knew. Amidst a myriad of freckled faces I'll keep looking for the ones I knew and grew to love, the words that kept me sane, the laughter that reassured me and made me feel lucky. I would have to get accustomed to sorting my problems out on my own. People might not have the time and patience to hear me complain, a lot of which I had almost taken for granted till now. A part of me says life is unfair. The other reminds me that it was a choice I made. I was born in Calcutta. I was reborn in Delhi. And what Seattle will be like, only time will tell. But I hope to finally grow up there.
I was born in Calcutta ( yes it hadn't been renamed then ) and for a significant amount of time the city meant nothing more to me than my house, my school and a bunch of other addresses which came in handy during letter-writing assignments. A typical day started at six in the morning and somehow making it to the bus stop by six twenty, with granny limping behind me with the lunch box, shoelaces running haywire, socks in hand and bag open with text books spilling out. Once in the bus, no time was spent before we grouped ourselves for a relentless, ruthless game of 'Stone, Paper, Scissors'. Heated discussions on who was in form, and who emerged as the undisputed champion for the third day in a row, went on well past the morning assembly. The rest of the day was majorly drowned in sleep. Be it History or Physics, I failed to notice any difference in the basic treatment of both the subjects and often wondered why our teachers were not professional lullaby singers and were languishing in some private school, frustrated and underpaid. Lunch breaks were more of a relief though and all that sleep surprisingly made one hungry. Before I barely managed to open my lunch box, the food just seemed to disappear amidst a flurry of foreign hands, making it almost impossible to answer Granny back home, whether the curry had less salt or not. School was mostly followed by a string of more soporific tuition classes, the ones I seemed to detest going to initially. I loved to sleep in the afternoon you see. But things changed once I started going to them on my own.When I was fifteen, Ma thought I had grown up enough to not get lost in the city, be able to read bus numbers correctly, and not pay the conductor extra before getting off. That's when I first got to explore the city and discovered how beautiful Calcutta really is. Tuitions ceased to be centres of study and ended up being non-virtual versions of present day social networking sites. Classes were always followed by an hour of random strolling on the streets, couples making excuses and leaving, eating croissants and pastries at Flurys', digging into chicken tikka rolls at Badshah and catching that random evening show at Priya. It was a carefree life I led back then, where all I had to worry about was to get back home in time so that Dad will spare me a volley of inconvenient questions and I could make it to the bus stop at six the next morning. The most stressful times were during term tests. They seemed to be life changing then and I always managed to be under-prepared for every exam no matter how much effort I put in before. To see your own brother emerging from the next room at dinner with not even the faintest sign of worry, exuding confidence about next day's paper, didn't exactly help. Ma was mostly baffled by the difference in our levels of preparation and resulting confidence. She kept telling me, "Can't you learn anything from your brother?" To be honest I really tried. But he seemed to be born with that Midas touch. He was good at whatever he tried his hands at. He aced exams, topped classes, sang well, played the guitar, won essay and table tennis competitions with equal ease. You try living upto that man! I did my bits in school too, but they always paled in comparison, and being taught by the same teachers and judged by the same set of parents and relatives wasn't particularly easy. So to say that my self-confidence was on the loftier side would be wrong. I had days of unmitigated self-doubt, when I couldn't see myself going anywhere and dreaded the prospect of my remaining the underachiever in the family. All I did at times like these, was to open the window and feel the soft spatter of rain on my face. It made me forget everything. The houses in the distance were just a haze. The air was filled with the muffled din of rain lashing against the asphalt. It lulled me to sleep.
I was happy.
Things changed when I moved to Delhi for college. Stephen's gave me a sense of pride and all that apprehension that once clouded my mind day and night seemed like a distant memory. I turned a new leaf. I distinctly remember the first day I spent in Residence. Ma had left for home a couple of hours before and I suddenly realized that I wouldn't see her for at least three months. My first time staying away from home and for so long. All on my own. No one knew me and I knew no one. I bolted myself in my room and tears rolled down my cheeks. I had never felt so abandoned and lonely in my life. I wanted to be left alone then. Just then there was a knock. I opened the door to an unfamilar face, six-foot tall and a booming voice. He asked me for my 'Intro' and then pointed to a pile of tin trunks, a mattress, pillows and a couple of huge bags which could hold nothing but stones, I thought. I was expected to carry his luggage to his room. A first year's initiation into the fold. I wiped my face and walked out. Walked out into the world and never looked back.
The next six years went by in a blur. All those countless hours I spent at Barista, ordering a single Cappuccino to escape ragging, tiptoeing back into my room after dinner, only to switch off the light and sit on my bed in the darkness silently, to give wandering seniors in the corridor the impression that I was asleep and not available for 'entertainment'; all those walks around the Vice Chancellor's lawns animatedly discussing a Scorsese movie; all those trips to Kamla Nagar to hog on momos, skipping inedible Saturday dinners in the mess; conversations with all those special people over 'Maggi' and a cup of 'badi chai' in the cafeteria; all those impossible Rahman songs we tried and messed up royally on stage; all those victories; all those heartbreaks; all those choices; all those surprises and all those unexpected disappointments. They all seem like a mashed up, hazy continuum to me now. But I was settled.
I was happy.
And just when I thought I could live like this for the rest of my life, snuggled up in my comfort zone, it was time for me to move again. And this time away from everything I ever knew. Amidst a myriad of freckled faces I'll keep looking for the ones I knew and grew to love, the words that kept me sane, the laughter that reassured me and made me feel lucky. I would have to get accustomed to sorting my problems out on my own. People might not have the time and patience to hear me complain, a lot of which I had almost taken for granted till now. A part of me says life is unfair. The other reminds me that it was a choice I made. I was born in Calcutta. I was reborn in Delhi. And what Seattle will be like, only time will tell. But I hope to finally grow up there.