It seems like a long time ago that my city was alive and well. Blue buses were plying on the busy roads, and children in uniforms were running down the pavements with bags on their backs. Trees stood tall, and tridents decorated the streets. The office "para" smelled of freshly made tea, cigarettes and momos and the malls were frequented by groups of Aunties, shopping for some festivities. Kumartuli, the artists' paradise of idols. The food courts were filled with the laughter of friends and families meeting over the weekend evenings. The parks witnessed couples in love and quarrels; restaurants buzzed with activities and the aroma of delicacies waiting to be served. Jorasako and Netaji Bhavan stand witness to a glorious past. The traffic snarled, and Park Street was frequented by food lovers.
Often on weekends, friends reunite over coffee and drinks to vent out their week-long work pressure. The street markets and hawkers' calls attracted the passerby's attention. The fresh air by the Princep Ghat prompted many to sit staring at the sunset for a long time. Every celebration, big or small, made us crave for some Ledikeni or Chomchom, and the Phuchka kaku smiled at our frequent visits for a free one after a competition of street snacks. My city was always hosting film festivals, fairs and shows, and people discussed politics in between the sips of coffee at the Indian Coffee House. Victoria and Rabindra Sarovar were lovers' paradise, and in some corner of North Kolkata, people adjusted their camera lenses to capture the idea of Kolkata in people's minds to show to the world. Not a very long time ago, my city was alive.
In a corner of the silent library behind stacks of books, I would sit for hours, without my phone and often stare outside at the large Royal Ponchiana filled with red blooms. The smell of old books brought a sense of calm to my heart.
Yet today this seems like a distant dream. A hope to get back to. Today, as I walk through the empty roads, all I see are scared faces carefully maintaining distances, masks covering faces, not a bus in sight, and the city is doomed in silence. The storm shook the city to its roots, and trees and poles are still lying around discarded by the sides of the road. All major crowd-pulling attractions wear an expected deserted look and stand like ghostly shadows of their past glory. I feel like a piece of the soul of my city is gone. A piece of me seems to be lost with it. The piece that could enjoy a sunset and feel the breeze. The piece that could frequent cafes with a book in hand. The piece that counted days for Durga Pujo. And the piece that knew that the world, even in between all the mess, wasn't a bad place after all.
I don't know that anymore. I don't recognise this place anymore. You know when someone you thought you knew all along becomes a stranger in a moment, and you feel like you never knew them? My city has become that way for me in the past few months.
There is fear, uncertainty and helplessness in the air. It seems to suffocate our minds and souls. And my city of "joy" is drowning in its silence. Every single day.
~ Suranya