" Living in Paris had its benefits because Paris never forgets to return a favor".
- Ernest Hemingway
Today I was taking a leisurely stroll in my roof, when suddenly, I was struck by the cupid with firm attachments for my city. Although i have known myself to be much of a pygmy from time immemorial, hopping from one hostel to the other. Ever the detached soul, i always faced a dilemma while filling up the 'permanent address' and 'local address' in any forms of applications. Given the person I am, emotional grounding should have struck me as the last man living. But still it did, leaving me enthralled, embarrassed even.
Though I may sound as a mystic or someone stoned as hell, I found layers of curtains rising in front of me, and scenes unfurling. Collages a bit... those of 60's and 70's... renaissance and riots.. prophets rising and men being stabbed, burnt to ashes, beheaded. I saw both the turbulent Calcutta in the riot the revolting Calcutta which knows 'the philosophy pf the bomb', the rising Calcutta through the poet, the orator, the reformer and the searcher of god.
I saw despondent Calcutta begging. Not for alms but for spent lye. Content on having even fermented vegetables, i saw Calcutta lying on a bed of corpse and skulls. I saw pen being mightier than the sword, literally, when theatres being staged i the city instilled fear in a particular omnipotent power. I saw the gates of science being opened. I saw Calcutta changing the world in the laboratory of medical college.
I saw the most qualified and logical skeptic ever to be produced by the east treading its path. i saw. I saw glitters.
Yet, Calcutta seemed unfazed by turmoils and glory.
Like the great river conspicuously flowing by its side, Calcutta doesn't know to cross boundaries. Just a mute observer of the fleeting moments of emotions surfaced by its inhabitants, Calcutta remains. young and full of vanity.
Thats when i realized that the city does not love us, nor does it hate us... it just is. like the smoke of a burnt charcoal.
- Ernest Hemingway
Today I was taking a leisurely stroll in my roof, when suddenly, I was struck by the cupid with firm attachments for my city. Although i have known myself to be much of a pygmy from time immemorial, hopping from one hostel to the other. Ever the detached soul, i always faced a dilemma while filling up the 'permanent address' and 'local address' in any forms of applications. Given the person I am, emotional grounding should have struck me as the last man living. But still it did, leaving me enthralled, embarrassed even.
Though I may sound as a mystic or someone stoned as hell, I found layers of curtains rising in front of me, and scenes unfurling. Collages a bit... those of 60's and 70's... renaissance and riots.. prophets rising and men being stabbed, burnt to ashes, beheaded. I saw both the turbulent Calcutta in the riot the revolting Calcutta which knows 'the philosophy pf the bomb', the rising Calcutta through the poet, the orator, the reformer and the searcher of god.
I saw despondent Calcutta begging. Not for alms but for spent lye. Content on having even fermented vegetables, i saw Calcutta lying on a bed of corpse and skulls. I saw pen being mightier than the sword, literally, when theatres being staged i the city instilled fear in a particular omnipotent power. I saw the gates of science being opened. I saw Calcutta changing the world in the laboratory of medical college.
I saw the most qualified and logical skeptic ever to be produced by the east treading its path. i saw. I saw glitters.
Yet, Calcutta seemed unfazed by turmoils and glory.
Like the great river conspicuously flowing by its side, Calcutta doesn't know to cross boundaries. Just a mute observer of the fleeting moments of emotions surfaced by its inhabitants, Calcutta remains. young and full of vanity.
Thats when i realized that the city does not love us, nor does it hate us... it just is. like the smoke of a burnt charcoal.
