"Dabangg was such a let down!"...Yes, my paara friends refused to believe that such a movie could be made just for the sake of trippiness; to trip on the nonsense the 90s had produced. They still have no idea that people are beyond that phase, and poke fun at it. Quite simply because they aren't. They have not moved on; nor has their city, my city, the city of joy and of palaces.
Calcutta (and we still unanimously refuse to call it Kolkata, or as outsiders would pronounce, Call-kataa) is stuck, in the 70s, the 60s, perhaps even further, in the 50s. It is difficult though to fathom whether the city is stuck in that era, or simply reminisces the beauty that it possessed back then. Be that as it may. That era, where it saw the intelligentsia. The dhuti wearing babu, moving with those patented black rimmed glasses, with a bag tucked under his underarm, and a pen decked in his half-shirt. Or the poet, baatik kurta clad, sporting a beard, sitting alone, sipping coffee at the Indian Coffee House on College Street, and writing down wonderful pieces, with no hopes of succeeding at getting them published. Or the bekaar fellow, chatting away in incessant, non-constructive adda sessions, with fellow accompanists.
The thought of the loser poet urges me to make the observation that there is still a white board at the coffee house called the 'voice of the mass' or some such thing, and where you can write any random thing, ANYTHING. It is just that the mass have become conscious enough not to dirty the city; even the board remains clean.
But people still refer to Mother Teresa Sarani as Park Street, and Shakespeare Sarani as Theatre Road. Bongs are proud Anglophiles. Breakfast tables at Flurys still thrive with Anglos, and the SS Hogg market is still the New Market; my grandfather was in his childhood taught to refer to the market by that name. There still exists the Golbari where the mutton kasha tastes exactly the same it did forty years back; the entrepreneurs have made it a point to pass on the legacy. Big cinema halls still run at profits, despite mushrooming multiplexes.
The scent of Pujas still brings people of all communities close; we don't give a fuck about fundamentalism. Much as we give a damn to work, labour and the fruits of it; Bandhs are still relished, no matter whoever calls it.
You can still wear polka dotted shirts and pink shades, and I bet you won't get the attention that you are seeking. People are that cool with the 70s.
There still exists the middle class.
Not to say that LPG has not touched the city; just that it has not eaten into the nostalgic aura. Everything here remains, well, happily primitive if you will. The city of nostalgia remains happily embedded in its state, wishing luck to metropolises which compete for flaunting modernity.
Calcutta (and we still unanimously refuse to call it Kolkata, or as outsiders would pronounce, Call-kataa) is stuck, in the 70s, the 60s, perhaps even further, in the 50s. It is difficult though to fathom whether the city is stuck in that era, or simply reminisces the beauty that it possessed back then. Be that as it may. That era, where it saw the intelligentsia. The dhuti wearing babu, moving with those patented black rimmed glasses, with a bag tucked under his underarm, and a pen decked in his half-shirt. Or the poet, baatik kurta clad, sporting a beard, sitting alone, sipping coffee at the Indian Coffee House on College Street, and writing down wonderful pieces, with no hopes of succeeding at getting them published. Or the bekaar fellow, chatting away in incessant, non-constructive adda sessions, with fellow accompanists.
The thought of the loser poet urges me to make the observation that there is still a white board at the coffee house called the 'voice of the mass' or some such thing, and where you can write any random thing, ANYTHING. It is just that the mass have become conscious enough not to dirty the city; even the board remains clean.
But people still refer to Mother Teresa Sarani as Park Street, and Shakespeare Sarani as Theatre Road. Bongs are proud Anglophiles. Breakfast tables at Flurys still thrive with Anglos, and the SS Hogg market is still the New Market; my grandfather was in his childhood taught to refer to the market by that name. There still exists the Golbari where the mutton kasha tastes exactly the same it did forty years back; the entrepreneurs have made it a point to pass on the legacy. Big cinema halls still run at profits, despite mushrooming multiplexes.
The scent of Pujas still brings people of all communities close; we don't give a fuck about fundamentalism. Much as we give a damn to work, labour and the fruits of it; Bandhs are still relished, no matter whoever calls it.
You can still wear polka dotted shirts and pink shades, and I bet you won't get the attention that you are seeking. People are that cool with the 70s.
There still exists the middle class.
Not to say that LPG has not touched the city; just that it has not eaten into the nostalgic aura. Everything here remains, well, happily primitive if you will. The city of nostalgia remains happily embedded in its state, wishing luck to metropolises which compete for flaunting modernity.
i am in love.
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