Trust me to believe that living in Kolkata is much different from living in Mumbai. Away from the economic glitter and the material lure, Kolkata has a heart of gold. But the houses are equally expensive. Our house-hunting expeditions have now taken us to different parts of Kolkata and a couple of those incidents are worth a mention.

A couple of days ago, we set out with an office colleague who wanted to rent out his own flat in the Jadhavpur - Santoshpur area. We left office in a taxi to his residence in Salimpur. The customary tea and ‘Sandesh’ later, we set out in a rickshaw. The first encounter with the rickshaws shatters any myths pertaining to traffic safety being applicable to them. There are six people in a normal rickshaw including the driver. Two of them sit on either side of the driver – like the fourth seat in a Mumbai local. The concept of share auto means more the merrier. Women find it least bothersome to sit right next to the driver – half inside, half outside. The fares are cheap and a distance of around two kilometres costs around two rupees. I would not be surprised, if the six-seater ‘Tam-Tam’ of Pune doubles up as a ten-seater mini –tempo in Kolkata.

The house under scrutiny, was a 2 BHK (to borrow from Mumbai’s terminology). It appealed decently. A ‘small’ flat – only 600 sq. ft. in size – no fans, no lights, no furniture, no gas, no refrigerator and no television. The paint was new, and we were cautioned to take care of the paint. This unfurnished bare flat would have cost us Rs. 3000/- in rent excluding electricity. Around the house, our colleague showed us the nearby shops – mostly chemists or sweet-marts. He was very particular in showing the chemists – wonder if he needed too many medicines himself! We searched for hotels and managed to see only one, compared to which even Ganesh Hotel of Vile-Parle was a better option. We had, if we lived here, no option but to cook, and travelling around two kilometres to buy vegetables.

Travel to and from office was not going to be easy and if we were late – as we were told we would be quite often, it would be quite expensive. I did not really like the idea of living out there, but since we had not seen anything else, I kept my reservations.

The return journey was by a mini-bus – a smaller one, and more expensive than the normal bus. It's something like the Pushpak of Bangalore. The bus, initially less crowded, went on getting packed and took us through a lot of unknown areas. It was a first insight into the interiors of Kolkata and my prejudices of poverty were confirmed. By the time, we alighted, I almost felt like getting down from the Virar local at Andheri.

In that crowd, a college couple was returning. They got down at the same stop as ours. The plight of the girl brought back memories of Dadar. However, it was quite heartening to see that men were really 'gentlemen'. They paved the way for the girl; the conductor held back the incoming crowd and the honking cars, while the lady got down. Not once did I observe anybody taking undue advantage of the crowd and no wonder, she got down, unruffled, least upset and walked away calmly.

Felt good!

Today morning being a national holiday, a trip to Lake Town was on cards. It was relatively far and we had called up the person, a certain Mr. K. K. Choudhary (forgive my spellings, since in Kolkata there seems to be no consistency in the spellings. There are supposedly thirteen different Chakravarty’s ranging from Chakkerbattis to Chakraborty’s and Alipur is synonymous with Alipore.) He was an advocate and he refused to divulge anything on the phone and we had to come over for negotiations.

Lake Town is like Khar (W) – well planned, immaculate and well developed. A speciality of Kolkata is the wide footpaths on the roads which have some green shrubs planted alongside, with well-defined and decently adhered zebra crossings, making walking a pleasure. Quite so, in Lake Town.

I have noticed that Kolkata hardly boasts of any society names on the address. There are plots and sectors. Our office is at 21, Camac Street, the guesthouse is 24, Shakespeare Sarani. Salt Lake on the other hand is full of all possible double-lettered combinations of A to J followed by a number. Sometimes there are sectors. So ‘AJ267 Salt Lake” is the common syntax here. These addresses feel strange sometimes, lending nameless existence to homes, like a jail or the Peths in Pune.

The owner was an advocate. Out of years of service (as his balding head and shivering hands suggested) in his profession, he spoke a lot. He told us how he was also a tax advocate and how he helped young men to file their tax returns and how he would help us in the same. He told how the area was good and how food was available just around the corner and how there were people who supplied tiffins.

Finally, I could not take it any longer. “Can we see the house?” He took us downstairs, still blabbering that he had a small house and that he had recently painted it. The small flat was 1400 sq. ft. in area with three bedrooms, a kitchen, a drawing room and a bathroom cum toilet. Again a bare flat – no fans, no lights, no tube-fixtures even, no gas, no furniture. When asked about the tube fixtures, he said that generally people come here for a period of 4-5 years and bring along their fixtures. They feel ‘offended’ if he provides with the tube fixtures.

Let us talk business. Out he came with his 50,000/- deposit, 6,500/- rent 5,000/- electricity safety deposit and then added that we have to pay the electricity bill too! I almost fell like strangling him for making us come this far, spending a hundred rupees just to see a marriage hall!

I wanted desperately to get going since hunger pangs reminded me of not having had a breakfast. But being an old man, a Bengali and an advocate, he again started playing his oft-repeated cassette. We could negotiate was what he said. Neither of us was interested and we got out with a “We’ll get back to you”.

I was interested in that fast food ‘just around the corner’. At all the corners in the vicinity, there were only pan shops and sweet shops – K. C. Das being prominent among them. But except for ‘roshogulla’, we could find nothing.

Finally, we found a forsaken confectionery shop and had a pattice each. We also ordered for a burger, but as it came out of the oven, a cockroach sat on it, merrily sharing the burger before we could even offer it. Suddenly, I felt my stomach full!

In an adventurous mood, we boarded the regular bigger bus. These buses have a strange structure with seats lined against the four walls of the bus, instead of being perpendicular to it. Everybody sits with their backs along the walls and there are a couple of seats in the middle that are perpendicular. These are perhaps to mark the territories of each of the two conductors. The conductors and the driver have no official uniform, neither are the tickets of the same size or shape. They are made from used paper with the other side having a stamp of the fare. There is no punching of tickets – just tearing them from a bundle held together by a rubber band.

As we got into the bus, we made ourselves comfortable in the vacant seats. People looked at us strangely and I looked at them even more strangely, since everybody was standing when there were some vacant seats. At the next stop, I got a rude shock, as I was made to get up by the conductor to allow a lady to sit. Men are forced to be chivalrous! At the next stop, again as a seat got vacant, I volunteered to stand asking an old man to sit. He asked me to go ahead. Next stop, I had to get up as a lady with a boy and a girl and a husband got in. The lady made herself comfortable with the daughter beside her, while the boy and the man stood as a seat lay vacant next to the lady. I was confused!

And then I saw the “Ladies” board on the seats. I was quite embarrassed and I felt everybody laughing at me. I was to observe that the vacant seats lay vacant, as the men keep on standing and never sit on the seats meant for ladies.

Yesterday’s lady sitting next to the auto driver, a girl treated decently in a crowded bus and no man supposed to sit on seats meant for ladies in a crowded bus.

Three different episodes, three different equalities!

The bus conductor was a jovial fellow and used his voice very effectively in conjunction with the horn and the side banging on the metal body of the bus. Bells are meant as a showpiece with his voice modulations and the banging being more in vogue. At each stop, he used to shout the whole route and ask people standing to board the bus – like the private bus conductors outside Pune bus depot or Dada Asiad Depot. All conductors seem to have an artistic way of tucking folded ten rupee notes between their four fingers and swishing this ‘expensive’ fan to catch attention. At stops where women or children boarded or alighted, he used to shout “Ladies, Children” and the driver stopped the bus a bit longer. The voice assumed a very different tone as he chatted with the passengers. He inquired about everybody and was especially careful while talking to women. When the boy (whom I mentioned got along with the lady) refused to sit on the vacant seat, he even remarked to the bemused mother and beaming father, something in Bengali that translated would have been “He’s grown older, now he won’t sit on ladies seat.”

He was found caressing a passenger’s overgrown stomach as if it was his own, and encouraging roadside urchins to play cricket properly. It was so warm! And he used his voice so effectively – harsher than the bus horns to scare you out of the grave and softer than Ganguram’s yoghurt when it came to passengers, especially women!

There was a Chotisi baat happening in the bus. A young woman was sitting in one corner, dressed in a sari having used cosmetics quite liberally. Then there was a young man sitting on the seat opposite to her. The man was continuously watching her, as men of his age generally do. The girl was quite aware of the man watching her, as she blushed in between her attempts to look outside and glancing at the man - checking that he was still looking at her. Oh! Those slanting glances! Whenever she used to glance at the man, he used to be embarrassed and suddenly look away as if it was a fleeting glance that he threw at her. But from the corner of his eyes, he used to wait till she looked away from him, and then start observing her again. This continued for quite some time. I do not know what was the outcome of this romance, as I had to get down at Minto Park.

Though I felt relieved getting down; the depiction of poverty on the roads, the strange gender ‘equality’ and the conductor remains imbibed on my heart for a long time, making this memoir worth savouring; though it did not yield us any fruits in terms of our house hunting expedition.

(To be contd..)