By Rituparna Chatterjee

Bombay Central was at its best that evening – a miniature kumbh mela like crowd of waiting passengers thronging every empty square foot possible. Aromas of vada pav (a mini burger with a potato patty, spicy green chilli, mint and coriander chutney and sweet tamarind chutney, mingled with those wafting out of the Mc Donald outlet. Blending with them were fragrant hakka noodles straight out of a gigantic kadhai (an Indian wok) and other Indianised Chinese fare. Jostling for space in this concoction, much like the passengers themselves, were stale samosas (deep fried potato dumplings) and jalebis (yellow deep-fried sweet batter swirls). Eventually the fragrances merged in along with the hot humidity, making the final product a very very heady perfume.

Despite the entrancing Bombayness of my home city, my thoughts were with the city of my birth – Calcutta. Call it betrayal if you may, but a premonitory feeling about Howrah station filled me. That this excursion was going to be different overwhelmed me as I presented my ticket to the multiple ticket collectors, most of whom were disappointed at losing a business opportunity thanks to the ticket’s reserved status. It surrounded me like an aura throughout my journey on Geetanjali and when I finally stepped on Bengali soil two days later.

I set foot on Bengali soil after half a decade on 25th March 2003 at 6:35 am. I breathed in the morning air, fresh as only Calcutta air can be. And that is when the first of the many unforgettable episodes began to unravel. My uncle came to receive me at Howrah railway station just when I was bidding my four co-travelers goodbye.

In order to avoid the serpentine queue for prepaid taxis, we chose to hire a Sardarji's taxi among the half a dozen taxi drivers who chased us from the outskirts of Howrah station till we reached the safe proximity of Amar Singhji's taxi. Nobody seemed to be in a hurry, neither my uncle nor Amar Singhji and least of all me. After tucking away my heavy VIP in the safe dikki of the yellow Ambassador, he seated us in the spacious car. Suddenly he asked my uncle in his accented Bengali, "Saab, cha khabe?" (Sir, would you care for some tea?)

The peculiarity of the question jolted me out of my daydreams. He repeated the question to break the stunned silence that had suddenly filled the passenger seat of the taxi. My uncle politely refused. "Pi lo Saab. Yahan ka cha…khoob bhalo", (Why don’t you try some Sir? The tea here is excellent!) he cajoled. After another minute or two of coaxing my uncle, who alike most Bengalis is an ardent lover of the brown beverage, my uncle finally gave in. When Singhji asked me for tea – "chhoto mein cha?" (Little daughter, some tea for you?) - I refused as politely as I could, explaining that I did not drink tea.

After a nanosecond of thought, his face lit up -"Jol Khabe…" (Some water?) — he left his sentence unfinished as his eyes fell on the half empty Bisleri bottle on my lap. With a sigh the middle-aged man turned right and walked leisurely towards the tea stall on the pavement, a horizontal five feet away. He soon returned with a 10-year-old lad who gingerly balanced a tray holding two clay glasses of freshly brewed tea and a clean plate bearing two huge round Khasta biscuits.

As the name suggests these biscuits are the specialities of tea stalls in Kolkata. However, they are found in every tea stall that exists in the variegated state of West Bengal. The expression on the taxi driver's face informed me that they were for me. Since I did not want to offend the good man, I accepted the biscuits with a smile and a "Thank you Uncle", although I have never been fond of them. Tea and jhalmuri (a mix of puffed rice, mustard oil, spicy sauces, peanuts and several other ingredients tossed by hand and served in newspaper cones) are official Bengali summonses for aada –discussions on anything and everything under the sun. It was surprisingly cool for a summer morning. Consequently the
cups of tea disappeared in a few minutes cutting the political discussion, about the poor governance of the ruling CPM party, between the two tea drinkers short.

When my uncle removed his wallet to pay, a highly offended Amar Singhji informed him that he had already paid for the "cha-biskut" (tea and biscuits). Once again we were stunned into inactivity. Suspicion at this unusual hospitality raised its ugly head once more. My uncle's attempts to pay Singhji the money were futile. The man only grew more offended.

After a few seconds of silence he informed us that he treated his first customer to tea or gave him a discount on the fare. It was his way of thanking God for giving him his first crucial customer for the day. "OK Saabji?" (Alright Sir?)-with that he got into the driver's seat and started the engine.

The engine purred into life. "What a strange world we live in where hospitality is met with suspicion", I wondered. The big yellow Ambassador slowly crossed the parking lot and entered the road. Subconsciously I pulled myself out of my thoughts and entered the present. Before I knew it we were on Howrah Bridge. The legendary Howrah Bridge was built by German architects to combat the massive Hugli River. The humble bridge holds some special memory for almost every Bengali. Being on it has always held me spellbound, probably because it is the only bridge I had known since childhood to be without pillars. Even the pompous Golden Gate has managed to leave that impression untouched.

I found myself submerging in memories of having crossed the bridge innumerable times as a child. Five years had not eroded the thrill of simply being on the bridge. Below us, fishermen cruised the Hugli in their boats. Children living on the banks of the river dived into its seemingly placid waters for the twin purposes of having a morning swim and a refreshing bath. Their mothers washed clothes and utensils on the banks. We crossed Howrah Bridge and entered The City of Joy.

Although the city seemed cleaner, nothing about it seemed joyful. An expanse of half a decade must have rendered the Municipality dutiful. Poverty too seemed to have declined with fewer naked children begging for alms. Semi-clothed bare-footed rickshaw (three-wheeled cycles used as public transport) drivers were cleaning their rickshaws. A few buses scampered towards their destinations. Shopkeepers opened their shops to perform pujas, seeking the blessings of their various Gods for the day's business transactions.

One and a half hours flew by in scrutinizing the waking city. I recognized the familiar lanes that led to our house. New unfamiliar buildings crowded the familiar lanes. My scrutiny continued till we reached our renovated house. Elated faces greeted me. I was smothered with hugs. "Look at you!" "My God! Our little girl has grown." "Gosh! How thin you've become." "What do you eat in Bombay, air?" "Carbon Monoxide", I chuckled.

I waved goodbye to the sweetest cab driver in the world and entered home.

Contributor's Profile: Rituparna Chatterjee is an independent writer and photographer.