the nonsensical adda

"Cholbi?" "Chalo tahole :)"..wanna go? lets go then.. :)
I cudnt resist... not when there was the prospect of a kickass adda session, I had time, and sufficient money in the bank to nail a quart. Dad had filled in money today. So no sooner was I asked by this senior of mine, whether I was up to an adda session, with milds, anjan dutta and bp accompanying us did I jump into a Yes. It being a Saturday, the project submission on Monday seemed a distant prospect.
To non-Bengalis, an adda in the crudest explainable definition is the bongish romanticized rendezvous... in fact, you actually need to be in Cal to know how it actually is romanticized...Bangalore was a consolation... but Bangaalis have this ability to make any place seem enjoyable so long as there is cigarette, alcohol, music, and the familiar Bangaliana.
And what could have been the lawskulite's dream cheap alcoholic den but Surya? The place which is an institution in its own right, howbeit alcoholic.
But a Saturday evening meant Kannadiga crowds... nah, not the place today. The place we chose next was, rightly or wrongly, called Mangalore Paradise (perhaps Haven would have been a better name.. anyways).
And so it started. Discussions. And just like a river, an adda flows, ignorant of the paths it's gonna traverse. It just needs a trigger, perhaps a 'cheers' serves just as well. So then we had discussions, rambling about law school for no more than thirty seconds. And then it was a unanimous subconscious decision to bunk it; we had more important nonsense to talk about. IPL (no Sourav, an adda is seldom on beaten tracks), alcohol, addas in Calcutta, Calcutta rains, Communism and 'Trinamoolism', schools, teachers, badmaashis we missed, fests we flirted in et cetera. Then came literature, Tagore. And that was it. The river was now calm, settled on Tagore. The man, his life, his works, his views, his philosophy; what he wrote in 80 years could be enough material for a century-long discussion perhaps. Tagore is, at least to Bengalis till today, a figure larger than life, a philosopher who had experienced and expressed life in every form. And his music became his short hand for emoting things words perhaps can never attempt. I have always lamented my inability at not being able to read Bong really well. But nonetheless, I love the discussion when it happens, contributing whatever little I can.
It could have gone on. But the silly waiter was taking tooo long to get the 3rd quart. The cigarette was finishing.
And if Tagore could be subjected to so much dissection, another illustrious Bengali could not be left out. Satyajit Ray - a man of as high stature as his height. And his films. And the beauty. And the inevitable comparisons with Ritwik Ghatak and Mrinal Sen. Again, not having seen as many bong films as i ought to have, I devoured the discourse given by my senior. The talk on films took a general turn, and then we were talking about Roshomon and Viridiana, Deewaar and Hey Ram. Any film that had discussion material would have done.
Somewhere in the midst of the adda session I realised that this was one of those so very infrequent situations which did not necessitate bitching and sliming to pass time. Time was passing , without your getting to know how.
Then there was a topic closer, much closer, to heart - music. In its various forms, classical, both eastern and western, country, the Beatles, rock and roll, trance, Mohd. Rafi -Kishore Kumar and Lata-Asha dichotomies..and Bangla jobonmukhi gaan. Rabindrasangeet definitely had to peep in.
And finally, the waiter signalled it was time to go. The extension of 'fifteen more minutes', which had run to another half an hour had also run out. The paradise was getting pissed. We paid, and left; a little high, and wanting a little more of everything, cigarettes, whisky, time, adda. Whisky there was not to be found, even the illegal dens were inaccessible now. 12:20; no chance.
Never mind inscrutable Bong blood! Cigarette is just as fine. All these adda accompanists are pretexts.
So up on the Cauvery roof again, screaming songs to the heart's content, high but still not sleepy...and then, the inevitable. Cigarettes got over. Shit. Agreed that these accompanying guys are pretexts, but you need them, just like you need a fucking pretext for almost every other thing you do. Adda was over for the night. There was this promise that since this adda remained incomplete (like every other adda), we would meet tomorrow. More cigarettes; no more alcohol, the pocket wouldn't allow. But then, promises made during an adda are forgotten, no sooner than it ends that day. We guys knew this characteristic as well. And yet, 'yes yes, we must meet tomorrow... no work, give me a call, i won't be sleeping or sick or anything'... The better things in life aren't really repeated; I mean it's great if they are, but we shouldn't hope in such impractical directions.