Some trips are banal, some interesting, some plain dull. The trip I made recently was none of these-it was very special-it was a trip down memory lane.
A cousin’s wedding in a remote part of the country necessitated travel in that direction. Coming from a family with strong bonds as we do, all four of us, siblings, decided to attend, a bonus of the trip being we would drive through the place which was paradise for us: Maithon Dam, a tiny place nestling amidst hills and abundant greenery, the river Barakar meandering lazily through it and lending an indefinable air of serenity, a picturesque beauty, was situated strategically between two states-Bihar and Bengal and had a fine blend of both cultures, the latter predominating. The name came from a famous Durga temple-Mai Sthan, which gradually gave way to the more practical Maithon-but its claim to fame was that it housed Asia’s first underground hydel power station, apart from being home to the country’s first thermal power project-the DVC. Our father had been transferred there when the littlest sibling was a few months short of three and had stayed on for two decades; this had ensured that Maithon was synonym for home and signified all that was happy and idyllic. It was our heaven and our haven from the big, bad world-pristine in its beauty, untouched and unspoilt.
But I’m digressing. This post is not about Maithon at all, but about the intentions of going there-which remained just that: an intent. Finally, instead of all of us, just the older sibling and I managed this circuitous feat of attending the marriage and though we couldn’t visit Maithon, we did the next best thing: spent a morning of sheer nostalgia gallivanting on the roads of Calcutta.
Now, if Maithon was home, Calcutta was second home to us, as trips to Bengal's capital were fairly frequent, even in that era when traveling had not really caught up. For one, Papa kept going on tour and we would accompany him whenever possible, for another, almost all major exam centres were at Cal, so a couple of trips happened with this objective alone. And the umbilical cord with Calcutta never got severed because both the brothers worked there at one point of time or another-the younger one for years, literally. So we graduated from the guest house on Camac street to the one on Gurusaday road and then spent a fun-filled holiday at 3 B Little Russel street where Bhaiya’s fully furnished (chef-included) chummery was located. Oh those were the days-as we spent a lovely week, visiting all the fun places that were unknown quantities in good ole Maithon-video game and ice cream parlours, A.C markets, the Cookie Jar, Sub Zero and many other dearly loved haunts. Then came young Manoj’s turn and centrally located as his posh J.Thomas apartment was, we had a whale of a time, moving around the well-loved streets. Ballygunge market, Tolly Club, Chinese meals at Tangra, rides in the Metro, which had come by then, and generally chilling were the k constants of these visits.
And then the move to Delhi happened. For us as well as Manoj. (Bhaiya, in any case, had moved to amchi Mumbai years before) so Calcutta was forsaken. But only from the active mind. It occupied a very special place in some corner of the heart where memories lingered. And so it transpired one February morning, as Bhaiya, Bhabhi and I were in this city, we decided to put our time to best use. We made a recce of all the places we had frequented and tried eating all the delicacies that this gourmet’s paradise has provided through the decades.
We started with dropping in at Golden Spoon, somewhere on Middleton Row and passed Peter Cat en route. The former, legendary for its delicious rolls was just stirring to the demands of the new day and, very apologetically, its polite proprietor asked us to return after an hour. Our next stop was at Lowden street-the famed Cookie Jar which has justifiably- so as not to compromise on its sublime quality-restricted itself to just 4 branches, and bought an assorted variety of tarts and pastries. The ones to die for were the lemon tarts: oh the mouth-melting quality of those tarts, no words can do justice to them! Mutton patties and chicken rolls were picked up in a vain attempt to fill the void created by Golden Spoon’s missing rolls. Most of the stuff was packed with an eye on the journey later in the day, as lunch was slated to be taken at another favourite haunt. This time, the car wove its way through the lanes and by lanes-on the way stopping by at the aforementioned 3 B and actually looking at the Metal Box chummery, going to Kusum apartments and taking a look at the building that had housed the DVC guest house and finally finding our way in Ho Chi Minh sarani, till we zeroed in on Jyoti Vihar, a small joint that was famous for the excellent south-Indian food that it churned out. Nothing had changed-from the unassuming exterior (one could have missed it if one wasn’t so focused) to the superb menu. The idlis were as soft as ever, the butter paper masala dosas as crisp and the filling as tasty as before and the vadas and coffee that Bhaiya had did credit to the establishment, as in the days of yore. Apart from the gastronomical delights offered, there was ample food for thought (and the soul too) -the heartening realisation that some things have remained constant in this world of flux and change, was really reassuring.
The drive to the station meant a panoramic view of Eden gardens-India's biggest stadium that can seat about 7 lakh people- that every true Calcuttan swears by and the magnificent Victoria Memorial which can give the Taj a run for its money (have I over-done it this time?) Not to forget the two beautiful buildings almost opposite each other-the red grandeur of the Calcutta High court vying for attention with the impressive design of Government House on Netaji Subhash road. The GPO was another imposing structure we crossed, the style and colour definitely reminiscent of colonial-style architecture and further ahead, Writer’s building, another impressive monument in the City of joy. Grindlay's Bank, up ahead, caught Bhaiya's attention as he had done a summer internship there many summers earlier. (It had a different name but who cared? And what's in a name anyway??) Till finally, the Howrah bridge loomed majestically into sight and we knew we had reached destination point.
Just as the Metro is a reminder of how some changes have happened, despite the general feeling that Calcutta hasn’t developed quite as much as it should have (true largely in the conspicuous absence of industries) but there are still some positives seen when you’re driving in from the airport. Science city, Nicco Park, Nalban…all catch one's attention but what really strikes one is the impressive IT hub, with its modern, glass-finish buildings and their sprawling campuses. The South City mall or the one at Salt Lake also get noticed as one drives past, making a mark that Calcutta has changed: and not in name alone.
The 20 hour stay at Cal ended all too soon but not before providing me with sufficient ammo-memories to see me through a few more decades.
