Inside Coffee House ... in memory of the hours I have spent here with AAs the taxi moved down the Sealdah flyover, a strange feeling of trepidation mixed anticipation set in. All these roads were so familiar—I knew every turn, every narrow lane, every offshoot…I had traversed these roads for years, going to and from school…
I peered out of the taxi window and suddenly it struck me that this was the first time I was approaching College Street in a cab. I had always been in a tram or a bus or, at the most, a hand-drawn rickshaw—usually, I would walk. Watching the familiar roads whiz past from a cab window was a bizarre experience. It was as though I was watching a movie that had been put on fast forward, barely giving me time to register the scenes…
There was Chabighar… the same nameplate still gracing its front porch. The bright red of the lettering now faded to a vague shade between brown and grey—the sun and the rain having done their bit. There were no longer posters of Satyajit Ray movies that I used to come with Ma to see. During my teenage years, Chabhighar used to host only Bengali movies, mostly Satyajit Ray ones or those starring Uttam Kumar. Now, there were some bright, garishly colored posters sporting pictures of the latest Bollywood stars and starlets with their taut and lithe bodies bared to the advantage… some gangly schoolboys were standing in front of the hall, apparently gaping at the exposed navel of one reclining starlet with impossibly long legs and auburn hair.
I sighed and wondered what would College Street be like. I was going there after 15 years. I felt a strange fluttering in my lower abdomen—akin to the feeling I have when the roller coaster is descending, akin to the feeling I would have if I were going to meet my boyfriend after 15 years. Would I recognize him? Will I feel the same rush of breathlessness as I used to? Will he still see in me the same girl? All kinds of questions fleeted through my mind. Is College Street the way it used to be?
Didi, eshey gechi. Ebar, kon dikey jabo? Baa dikey jaben? I was startled out of my reverie. I didn’t know when I had ceased to see the scene outside of the cab window and had transposed it to my mind’s eye—seeing the same buildings, roads, shops, and alleys the way they were when I left. “Left mein chaliye,” I said falteringly, slipping back to my habitual Bombay cabbie direction mode. The cabbie looked a little surprised. “Ami bhablam apni Bangali, didi.” “Haan, haan, Bangali to. Asholey abhyesh…” I smiled, letting the smile take over the effort of framing sentences. I didn’t feel like talking just then.
“Ekhaney thamun. Koto holo.” I got off at the corner of the street, something stopping me from going right up to my home in a cab. I had never ever gone home in a cab or a car. And the only time I had left in a car was as a bride, not as Sahana De but as Sahana Chattopadhyay. But, today, I could not drive up in a cab. I got off.
I turned into the road, my eyes and mind registering everything familiar—past associations jumbling up my mind. “I used to buy my school books from here,” I thought, standing in front of International Book House. I crossed the Rupa & Co. building. Baba and I would come to pick up English books here for Katha-O- Kahini. The building also housed the famous Coffee House, a landmark of Kolkata featuring in all the ‘60s and ‘70s movies and songs. Authors met here; lovers met here; it was the haunt of Presidency students. I used to come with A during my 12th standard. We would eat soft chicken sandwiches made of finely sliced bread spread with butter and filled with lots of salt and pepper sprinkled shreds of boiled chicken. A introduced me to heavenly coffee. We discussed everything—our coming Joint Entrance exam, board exam, A’s fear of Bengali and my surety of failing in Chem, whether to join Presi or not, the laws of physics, the latest Feluda movie, the Rambo movies, whether Clark Gable was more handsome than Cary Grant… We would look at the Presi couples and snigger at the ones holding hands and looking into each other’s eyes, considering them mushy and stupid and, secretly, a little envious that we did not have the courage. A medley of thoughts rushed through my mind in a montage effect.
Suddenly, I found myself in front of Katha-O-Kahini. I looked up. Overhanging the store is the balcony of my parent’s bedroom—the balcony where I spent hours sitting with Cat, chatting with Ma, waiting for A to come so that we could solve the Math paper or the Chem questions… The balcony was there. It was now surrounded by a beige and maroon waist high wall with some fancy grills on the top. I stood on the opposite footpath and gazed upward, oblivious of the strange looks from passersby…
The balcony used to have lovely, filigreed iron railings through which even a one-year old could look down onto the life below… The railings were topped by a wide wooden border polished to a seductive smoothness. I remember this wooden border in the most tactile manner because I used to love sliding my palms along its surface, and feel the sun warmed smoothness of the old wood… I kept sliding in and out of the past. I saw Cat running over this railing, almost slipping on the smooth surface, and scrambling awkwardly to keep her hold…That was how it used to be…this is how it is now…It is no longer home. It is just an old building. I felt a touch of coldness on my cheeks. I touched my cheeks with my finger tips. Tears! I felt faintly surprised. I didn’t know I was crying. The wind blowing had cooled the tears on my cheeks…
I forcibly shook myself out of the strange lethargy creeping over me. I looked around. I was standing at the Sanskrit College gate. The college looked the same. It was a government building and had undergone regular painting and cleaning—at least the façade was the same; inside…who knows…I gradually woke to the book stores on the footpath, to the ones next to Katha-O-Kahini…They were unchanged. Not a single name was new. Not a single store had been replaced. No new swanky Crosswords or Starmarks here. A rush of gladness swept over me. I looked attentively, trying to match my memory with the present. No, they were not the same. My superficial glance had played me false.
The stores were no longer smartly painted, brightly lit, eagerly waiting for customers. The lights inside were dim, the boards sporting the names were layered in dust, weather beaten, tired. Some were hanging lopsided, too exhausted to stand upright. I went up to the one next to Katha-O-Kahini, deliberately averting my eyes from K. I went inside Signet Press—designed by Satyajit Ray, it was one of the most aesthetically set-up stores I could remember. The peeling paint, empty and glassless shelves, a chipped sunmica table, all told a sordid tale of a tired, uncared for, disinterested old age. I looked at the man sitting behind this table. I knew him! He was Bikash Kaku—tall, smart, always dressed in crisply starched, snow white Kurta and pyjamas. Now old and wrinkled, he gazed at me myopically, his resigned eyes telling me that he knew I would not buy a book—probably no one had bought a book here in a long time. The young, book reading college crowd preferred to go to Oxford or to the now ubiquitous Crossword. The college crowd that had once filled Katha-O-Kahini, Signet, Usha Publications… now went to Park Street to buy the latest Amitabh Ghosh from Oxford. “Bikash Kaku, can you recognize me? I am Kalyan babu’s daughter.” “Oh, come closer. I can’t see too well these days…Kalyan babu from K, right?” “Yes, yes! You remember?” I suddenly felt eager. “Yes, those days are gone. No one reads anymore.” His voice was listless, cantankerous, self-pitying. “We can’t afford to stock up. Who will buy these books?” “Do you still have the philosophy set by Debiprasad Chattopadhyay?” I asked tentatively, hoping to divert him. “Yes, see that set. It has been lying there for three years now.” A tired smile played on his lips. “If we could have A/C, sliding glass doors, sold music CDs and movies and stationery and all those electronic things, people would come. No one comes only for books. They all want an entertainment spot.” I suddenly felt immensely guilty. Didn’t I do the same?
I came out. I finally saw and accepted the College Street of the present. It was old, aged, worn-out, still trying to maintain a semblance of the bustle and activity that had characterized its youth but the sham was evident. I suddenly, desperately wished that I had not come. The image of the College Street I had held on to was now forever overlaid with this image of uncared for, neglected, derelict old age. I will never see the College Street of my childhood anymore. It was lost forever, truly lost to me now.
I went back to the guesthouse at Rajarhat, unable to articulate my thoughts. I remember that four of us went out for dinner somewhere that day. I can’t recall a single piece of the conversation we had over dinner; I have no memory of what I ate, or if I ate at all.
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I peered out of the taxi window and suddenly it struck me that this was the first time I was approaching College Street in a cab. I had always been in a tram or a bus or, at the most, a hand-drawn rickshaw—usually, I would walk. Watching the familiar roads whiz past from a cab window was a bizarre experience. It was as though I was watching a movie that had been put on fast forward, barely giving me time to register the scenes…
There was Chabighar… the same nameplate still gracing its front porch. The bright red of the lettering now faded to a vague shade between brown and grey—the sun and the rain having done their bit. There were no longer posters of Satyajit Ray movies that I used to come with Ma to see. During my teenage years, Chabhighar used to host only Bengali movies, mostly Satyajit Ray ones or those starring Uttam Kumar. Now, there were some bright, garishly colored posters sporting pictures of the latest Bollywood stars and starlets with their taut and lithe bodies bared to the advantage… some gangly schoolboys were standing in front of the hall, apparently gaping at the exposed navel of one reclining starlet with impossibly long legs and auburn hair.
I sighed and wondered what would College Street be like. I was going there after 15 years. I felt a strange fluttering in my lower abdomen—akin to the feeling I have when the roller coaster is descending, akin to the feeling I would have if I were going to meet my boyfriend after 15 years. Would I recognize him? Will I feel the same rush of breathlessness as I used to? Will he still see in me the same girl? All kinds of questions fleeted through my mind. Is College Street the way it used to be?
Didi, eshey gechi. Ebar, kon dikey jabo? Baa dikey jaben? I was startled out of my reverie. I didn’t know when I had ceased to see the scene outside of the cab window and had transposed it to my mind’s eye—seeing the same buildings, roads, shops, and alleys the way they were when I left. “Left mein chaliye,” I said falteringly, slipping back to my habitual Bombay cabbie direction mode. The cabbie looked a little surprised. “Ami bhablam apni Bangali, didi.” “Haan, haan, Bangali to. Asholey abhyesh…” I smiled, letting the smile take over the effort of framing sentences. I didn’t feel like talking just then.
“Ekhaney thamun. Koto holo.” I got off at the corner of the street, something stopping me from going right up to my home in a cab. I had never ever gone home in a cab or a car. And the only time I had left in a car was as a bride, not as Sahana De but as Sahana Chattopadhyay. But, today, I could not drive up in a cab. I got off.
I turned into the road, my eyes and mind registering everything familiar—past associations jumbling up my mind. “I used to buy my school books from here,” I thought, standing in front of International Book House. I crossed the Rupa & Co. building. Baba and I would come to pick up English books here for Katha-O- Kahini. The building also housed the famous Coffee House, a landmark of Kolkata featuring in all the ‘60s and ‘70s movies and songs. Authors met here; lovers met here; it was the haunt of Presidency students. I used to come with A during my 12th standard. We would eat soft chicken sandwiches made of finely sliced bread spread with butter and filled with lots of salt and pepper sprinkled shreds of boiled chicken. A introduced me to heavenly coffee. We discussed everything—our coming Joint Entrance exam, board exam, A’s fear of Bengali and my surety of failing in Chem, whether to join Presi or not, the laws of physics, the latest Feluda movie, the Rambo movies, whether Clark Gable was more handsome than Cary Grant… We would look at the Presi couples and snigger at the ones holding hands and looking into each other’s eyes, considering them mushy and stupid and, secretly, a little envious that we did not have the courage. A medley of thoughts rushed through my mind in a montage effect.
Suddenly, I found myself in front of Katha-O-Kahini. I looked up. Overhanging the store is the balcony of my parent’s bedroom—the balcony where I spent hours sitting with Cat, chatting with Ma, waiting for A to come so that we could solve the Math paper or the Chem questions… The balcony was there. It was now surrounded by a beige and maroon waist high wall with some fancy grills on the top. I stood on the opposite footpath and gazed upward, oblivious of the strange looks from passersby…
The balcony used to have lovely, filigreed iron railings through which even a one-year old could look down onto the life below… The railings were topped by a wide wooden border polished to a seductive smoothness. I remember this wooden border in the most tactile manner because I used to love sliding my palms along its surface, and feel the sun warmed smoothness of the old wood… I kept sliding in and out of the past. I saw Cat running over this railing, almost slipping on the smooth surface, and scrambling awkwardly to keep her hold…That was how it used to be…this is how it is now…It is no longer home. It is just an old building. I felt a touch of coldness on my cheeks. I touched my cheeks with my finger tips. Tears! I felt faintly surprised. I didn’t know I was crying. The wind blowing had cooled the tears on my cheeks…
I forcibly shook myself out of the strange lethargy creeping over me. I looked around. I was standing at the Sanskrit College gate. The college looked the same. It was a government building and had undergone regular painting and cleaning—at least the façade was the same; inside…who knows…I gradually woke to the book stores on the footpath, to the ones next to Katha-O-Kahini…They were unchanged. Not a single name was new. Not a single store had been replaced. No new swanky Crosswords or Starmarks here. A rush of gladness swept over me. I looked attentively, trying to match my memory with the present. No, they were not the same. My superficial glance had played me false.
The stores were no longer smartly painted, brightly lit, eagerly waiting for customers. The lights inside were dim, the boards sporting the names were layered in dust, weather beaten, tired. Some were hanging lopsided, too exhausted to stand upright. I went up to the one next to Katha-O-Kahini, deliberately averting my eyes from K. I went inside Signet Press—designed by Satyajit Ray, it was one of the most aesthetically set-up stores I could remember. The peeling paint, empty and glassless shelves, a chipped sunmica table, all told a sordid tale of a tired, uncared for, disinterested old age. I looked at the man sitting behind this table. I knew him! He was Bikash Kaku—tall, smart, always dressed in crisply starched, snow white Kurta and pyjamas. Now old and wrinkled, he gazed at me myopically, his resigned eyes telling me that he knew I would not buy a book—probably no one had bought a book here in a long time. The young, book reading college crowd preferred to go to Oxford or to the now ubiquitous Crossword. The college crowd that had once filled Katha-O-Kahini, Signet, Usha Publications… now went to Park Street to buy the latest Amitabh Ghosh from Oxford. “Bikash Kaku, can you recognize me? I am Kalyan babu’s daughter.” “Oh, come closer. I can’t see too well these days…Kalyan babu from K, right?” “Yes, yes! You remember?” I suddenly felt eager. “Yes, those days are gone. No one reads anymore.” His voice was listless, cantankerous, self-pitying. “We can’t afford to stock up. Who will buy these books?” “Do you still have the philosophy set by Debiprasad Chattopadhyay?” I asked tentatively, hoping to divert him. “Yes, see that set. It has been lying there for three years now.” A tired smile played on his lips. “If we could have A/C, sliding glass doors, sold music CDs and movies and stationery and all those electronic things, people would come. No one comes only for books. They all want an entertainment spot.” I suddenly felt immensely guilty. Didn’t I do the same?
I came out. I finally saw and accepted the College Street of the present. It was old, aged, worn-out, still trying to maintain a semblance of the bustle and activity that had characterized its youth but the sham was evident. I suddenly, desperately wished that I had not come. The image of the College Street I had held on to was now forever overlaid with this image of uncared for, neglected, derelict old age. I will never see the College Street of my childhood anymore. It was lost forever, truly lost to me now.
I went back to the guesthouse at Rajarhat, unable to articulate my thoughts. I remember that four of us went out for dinner somewhere that day. I can’t recall a single piece of the conversation we had over dinner; I have no memory of what I ate, or if I ate at all.
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