Flashback from a vibrant past

With changes sweeping through the city, Sreemoyee Piu Kundu recalls fond memories of her favourite road dotted with lovers, locals and friendly street dogs

There is a lake facing my study. A lake that is shrouded by a thin mist at dusk, its transparent circumference infested with lovers who make their place on worn, discoloured cement bridges, their elbows awkwardly twisted, their faces lost to sunlight, their lips, sometimes, lightly pressed on each other’s. Half melted busts of idols rest at their feet, where the frayed steps of the lake meet the moss green water. Some of their garments missing… most of their ornaments stolen. Sometimes, you can spot a swan. At best, sparrows. The lake is ordinary, like my neighbourhood, in the city of my birth, Kolkata. Though these days I hear the word ‘posh,’ a lot. High rises having replaced the ancestral, brick and mortar buildings with convoluted balconies with weathered grills and clocks that stopped working a long time ago. Cycle rickshaws dot the entry to Jodhpur Park, their incessant honking a common sound, like the sight of buxom Bengali housewives, commonly referred to as ‘boudi,’ in these parts, haggling with the wiry rickshaw-pullers who smoke irreverently on a cheap bidi, or heading with a flimsy cloth bag to the nearby fish market. Their vermilion smudged, their arms laden with the traditional shaka pola — the customary red and white shell bangles that symbolise a woman is betrothed. That she is someone else’s.

In the early mornings, especially as the heady autumn breeze melts into the crisp, sunburnt air of winters, the roads are infested with morning walkers of all shapes and sizes. In their monkey caps and warm mufflers. Their breath rushed. All making a beeline for the lake. To probably light up. Lech at a neighbouring housewife — who after shedding weight, now dons tights, and a maxi over it. Her hips abundant. The swing in them arresting to the eye, after nights of staying up. Of battling loadshedding — what a power cut is called in the local lingo. Or, watch as a bunch of cherubic children ride their tricycles near the lakes, manned by overbearing nannies, chattering amongst themselves, being eyed by a bunch of moustached drivers in loose-fitted sweaters. A sweeper who sings a Bihari song out of tune gently sweeps the roads, his face contorted, his fingernails dirt laden. His broom makes a swishing sound, scooping up fallen flowers and shrivelled leaves. Picking up pieces of last night.

Not too many cars make it inside this lane, earmarked as ‘residential.’ Chottu, the fair, scrawny boy who stole my heart as an adolescent flies kites during Vishwakarma puja, a faraway look in his eyes. Our tenant, Mr Choudhury’s oldest son, Munna dada plays cricket with his band of boys. Screaming. Leaping up mid air. Falling on the street. Their shorts laden with dirt and dust. Young girls and shy, nubile housewives line the balconies and keep score, clapping and stealing glances, as if this were a real cricket match. The street dogs like umpires — refereeing the contest, howling when someone is out.

There is always a scarcity of water in the peak of summer, and so, a crooked line of

bhari s (men carrying water) surreptitiously balance a crooked wooden pane on their shoulders, on the opposite ends of which are precariously balanced two stainless steel buckets, filled to the brim, from a nearby tubewell. They stop, at points, whispering to a man who works under a thatched shed, pressing clothes, his muscles rippling, his son, the same age as Chottu nervously pointing up ahead.

The sun is setting. The rains have receded. The breeze is sullen, a slow caress. The lovers are strangely quiet.

It’s the close of another day. An ordinary day in the heart of an ordinary city in the midst of an ordinary country.

Except, it’s all just a lie. The way a childhood memory is faded, dull, in parts.

The way a stinking vat today overpowers the air around here. The smell of plastic burning and men peeing in full public view. Trees with their branches chopped off. The lake sans ripples. Benches without lovers…

My study too is now gone. We promoted the house three years ago. My iron-grilled window now stares onto a sprawling high rise, built alongside a posh mall.

The clouds mocking time. Drift asunder.

Sreemoyee Piu Kundu is a bestselling writer and a columnist on sexuality and gender.