The weather out in Kolkata has been great today morning. Cloudy skies mist covered horizons and a cool breeze sending shivers down the body. It reminds me continuously of winter evenings spent sitting at Nariman Point staring at the sea. It has now become a custom to get down from the company bus and have a leisurely cup of tea before getting into the daily rigmarole of professional lives. During the day too I frequent the shanty in front of the office for a cup of tea quite too often.

Today as we were entering office, a slight drizzle had started. A couple of hours later, as I came down the slight drizzle had washed the earth clean. The smell of the soil was invigorating. The sun refused to come out and bother us. It was as if we were on a hill station. I was reminded of my rendezvous with the rain on my numerous hiking expeditions in the Sahyadris during the monsoons. And of my solitary ramblings in Ooty when pre-seasonal rain in the month of May had caught me unawares with a single set of clothes already drenched in water. I had to spend the night sleepless; shivering naked inside the couple of blankets which proved too meagre. Rains always send enthusiasm riding through each cell and I was quite impatient to get away from here to some secluded place where I could feel the air. But alas! Sri felt it an ideal moment to have his wife along with it. I was amused as I could imagine the romantic couples, roaming around hand in hand singing “Ek akeli chatri main jo aadhe aadhe bheeg rahe the”. The man trying to shield the woman as much as possible from the rain in that solitary umbrella, while himself getting drenched in an attempt towards chivalry. The unavoidable worries that accompany such a liaison just not allowing him to enjoy the rain. “A man can be married or happy” as Shaw rightly remarks. Post lunch, there was no need for us to stay back in office as there was no work and so our regular house-hunting excuse saw us in a taxi rushing towards the guesthouse at two in the afternoon. The drive back was marvellous, what with it being a state holiday - Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose’s Anniversary; the traffic being sparse.

We returned to the guesthouse for a steaming cup of tea and then I settled with a blanket and a book quite improper for the weather outside. Through the window, I could see trees in the distance, bathed and fresh swaying to the afternoon breeze. The ripples were distorting their reflections on the water of otherwise peaceful serene composure of the lake. I shut the book. It was useless sitting in here like a couch potato. And I decided to go out for a stroll. Sri chose to continue with the idiot box and I had all the freedom in the world to chose my own roads. The road names in Kolkata are reminiscent of the Raj. The lane where we live is called Hungerford Street, while the one opposite is Wood Street. Then there is Loudon street, Theatre road, Camac street, Park Street, Lansdowne Road and a whole other list of English names which are slowly moving over to more politically inclined names. Calling Theatre road as Shakespeare Sarani, or calling Camac Street as Abanindranath Tagore Sarani sounds absurd and loses out its romance. Park Street, the place, which hosts the maximum number of beer bars and dance bars and where prostitution is quite well established, is going to be named as Mother Teresa Sarani. Poor Mother Teresa! I doubt in Bengalis would ever call Camac Street as Abanindranath Tagore Sarani. After all back in Mumbai, lakhs commute daily by Cadell Road, which is politically renamed to Veer Savarkar Marg.

I walked along Theatre road and reached the Chowringhee junction. As I stood there I could see that it bore no resemblance to what my imagination of it, cradled by “36, Chowringhee Street”. Today Chowringhee is the commercial hub of Kolkata, what Wall Street is to New York. There is a huge Tata Centre Building here, that hosts most of the eastern regional centres of Tata offices, though it is predominated by Tata Steel and the glittering words shine atop the thousands of square lit thousands of windows. Kolkata must have been truly important for Jamshetji Tata when he set up his Tata Nagar steel refinery. The Kidderpore docks, providing the best and cheapest means of transportation in those days. Just on the other side of where I stood, is Cathedral Road. The Birla planetarium, St. Paul’s Cathedral, The Academy of Fine Arts, Rabindra Sadan and Nandan are lined on this road which is the cultural epicentre of Kolkata.

The dome of Birla Planetarium, the largest in Asia, reminds one of the Sanchi stupa. St. Paul’s Cathedral is the oldest Episcopal Church of the orient, one of the oldest churches and also one of the first important churches built in India. Twice the earthquakes of 1897 and 1934 destroyed its high towers, and today’s tower was built in 1938 as a replica of the Bell Harry Tower of the Canterbury cathedral. There is a small meditation spot in here, set up in collaboration with Shanti Niketan and it has aroused my curiosity. The Academy of Fine arts holds exhibitions in its four galleries - The Miniature Gallery, the Textile Gallery, The Rabindra Gallery and a Carpet gallery. However, what I really look forward to is Rabindra Sadan and more importantly Nandan. The Sadan is the cultural landmark of Kolkata, a theatre cum concert hall built in the memory of Rabindranath Tagore. And that’s just one part of it. It hosts a lot of exhibitions, open-air concerts and at the same time, an informal para where anybody can come and present his skills. The informality was evident as people used to come and go as and when they wished, while enthusiastic young men took hold of the mike to make a speech or sing a song. It was a different experience. Perhaps that is the reason this place is overcrowded with people. It must be giving quite a kick for people to move around in traditional kurtas, overgrown beards with the Shanti Niketani jhola with cigarettes and tea, being considered among the intellectuals of Bengal - the “aatil samaj” or the “bhadralok” of Kolkata. The freedom and the confidence that these sessions imbibe should have serves the Bengalis a long way, especially for management enthusiasts! Just that they should take the pain to get out of their lethargy and addiction towards food.

There is an imposing, almost intimidating full length statue of Rabindranath overlooking the entrance like a strict Principal with hands tied behind his back, the long flowing robes and his long flowing stresses of hair, adding to that fear and awe. But somehow there is a benevolent glint in his eyes, eyes that speak of pain and of suffering, eyes that speak of creative abilities.

Nandan is the brainchild of the late Satyajit Ray. It’s a film centre and plays choicest few of good movies. This is something that I would need to frequent a bit too often!

Kolkata is where a lot of yellow-top Ambys would be visible. This is the home of Hindusthan Motors, a local railway station also being named as Hind Motors. The Amby is the most popular vehicle out here. All the taxis are ambassadors and if you see a fiat, you would be surprised - from where did this ‘foreigner’ come?

My walk took me to Victoria Memorial, standing majestically amidst its lush green lawns, small shrubbery, interspersed with water ponds. Everything was so well maintained - spotlessly clean that one would think twice before sitting on the lawn or walking upon it. This Victoria Memorial was built when the Queen visited Bengal and at the same time the road was also constructed for her to be brought from the docks to the Memorial. The way along which the Queen passed is called the Queen’s Way - still so! Lord Curzon tried to replicate the Taj, but it proved to be a disaster in that context. However, the Memorial itself is a masterpiece of constructions, resplendent in its pure white marble and imposing porticoes and domes rising high above like a Kalsubai amidst its punier friends in the Sahyadris.

The sprawling ‘Maidan’ opposite the Memorial is the best gift of the Raj to Kolkata. The moment you stand near the Maidan, you can see garish musical fountains (that are as synchronised as Sourabhda’s dancing) on one side, the lights of the Eden Gardens at another corner, the Second Hooghly bridge amidst the two in its bluish light looking like a dream and the tall sky scrapers of the Chowringhee on the other side. Amidst Eden Gardens and these skyscrapers, you can see a lone Octerlony Memorial standing with its yellow lights that appears as if like a light lit in a temple. Octerlony memorial was constructed to commemorate some General Octerlony who died for the Britishers in a war, but today it has been named as Shahid Minar.

The Maidan has a humbling effect. I felt myself so puny when I stood there, cars whizzing on its four sides people strolling in between, the din of vehicles outside being completely switched off at its centre. Perhaps it is the Maidan that has led to an expansiveness and tolerance in the attitudes of Bengalis - a resilience to change and an acceptance as puppets in the hands of Destiny. I retraced my steps stopping at a bhelpuri stall. “Bhel Khabe?”, I nodded. “Jhaal Khabe?” I again nodded. The bhel that came into my hands brought tears to my eyes. Thus the first word that I ‘experienced’ in Bengali was “jhaal” which I should have understood to be quite near to “jahal”, the extremists of the Congress party - the “Lal Bal Pal” of Indian freedom struggle. A point noted!

My understanding of “jhaal” is something that has roots in the extreme nature of the Bengalis. They eat too spicy a food or too many sweets. They are the most amicable and well-mannered people to talk to; until they take to the roads. Then they are said to be uncontrollable. But roadside brawls still start with “Dada, ki korbe?” and not the usual expletives that are common in other parts of India.

As I passed along Cathedral Road, a handloom exhibition was going on near the Memorial. Barely audible tunes of a familiar song were coming wafting through the air. I strained my ears and caught the tune - “Mendichya panavar man ajoon jhulatai ga” (My heart still meanders on the leaves of henna)

So beautiful! So apt!

My heart too was simultaneously trying to search for my Mumbai in this city. But somehow that attempt was a lame one. The comparisons unjustifiable. There is no such thing as Mumbai and there is no such thing as Kolkata. Mumbai allures me for different reasons; Kolkata endears me for different reasons.

The Memorial was slowly being illuminated for the light and sound show with lights placed at strategic positions, lending it an eerie grandeur - like a lonely temple amidst the barren land. Cruising along the roads, were Ambys, some Marutis and a few disciplined Santros and Indicas lending Chowringhee a different light. The hustle bustle of the commercial day was over, and now the neon lights were ignored.

Science, Religion and Art were taking centre-stage.

The nightlife in Kolkata had begun.

I felt at home.