Yes, yes, I am predictable. I am writing about the city that I have written about so many times in the past. I don’t know when I will go back again. I don’t feel that connection after my parents’ death but the city still has a stronghold in my heart. Except, I have learned to love it from afar.

I recently watched a reel about Kolkata (the name of this blog is borrowed from there), the city that taught me how to feel (the reel said). It showed the streets of the city, the book stores, the rickshaws, the Kolkatans engaged in serious conversation as they sip their tea. People have a habit of doing that; they solve all the problems in the world while sipping a cup of tea and talking over each other. I thought about me growing up in such a congested, dirty, irritating, noisy, absolutely wonderful, bookish city. My friends who live there still go to see plays all night. They go to Nandan to watch cinema, peruse books in the roadside book stalls to buy a treasure (yes, you may find a first edition there hidden in plain sight) because new books are expensive. They show me photos of long lines in front of publication houses in Kolkata Book Fair. They share pictures of themselves with other old friends, breaking bread in iconic restaurants like Peter Cat or Flurry’s. I am so in tune with that city, that I can almost feel myself being there with them. Last few times I visited, after ma and baba, I walked the streets of Kolkata by myself. A lot. Aimlessly. I took everything in because I didn’t know when I will go back again. The beautiful architecture, somewhat unkempt due to the moisture in the city, the rippling waters of Dhakuria lake, the little shrines dedicated to the deities along the road, the neem trees that provide much needed shade to unhoused people calling the streets their home, the tail wagging street dogs hungry for food and affection – I packed them all in along with the essence of ma, baba, and my memories of growing up.

Sometimes I think of the sunrise I watched every morning (almost) from the roof top of our Kolkata flat and the sunsets from our back window while sipping on tea and sitting in companionable silence with my parents. The view of the rooftops and some palm trees from our fifth floor window was one of my favorite. I could see far into the skyline of Kolkata as I went up to the roof, slightly hazy due to pollution but so familiar. “Ei shohor jaane amar prothom shob kichu/ Palate chai joto she ashe amar pichu pichu” (This city knows all my firsts/ I try to escape as it comes behind me). I sang these lines sung by Kabir Suman on the steps of the lobby of my university once upon a time. I listened to the song in a loop as I got ready for college and then work. Never did I imagine this song will become a symbol of my wistfulness for a place. Kolkata knows all my firsts. I am angry with the city. And I am in love with the city as well. I want to escape the memories sometimes, but it has embedded its essence deep within me. I joke about taking the girl out of Kolkata but not being able to take Kolkata out of the girl, that is not really a joke.

I am not even sure where I am going with this. I saw the reel and I felt an intense tug in my heart for home. The home that I left behind and the people in that home who are there no more.