There was no uncertainty in deciding where to do my internship as part of my Architectural degree for me. It was fate, my breath whispered while stepping down the aircraft ladder. Though I visited the city with my family years before, I would be staying here for 5 months alone.
The city did not seem new. It looked exactly the same, as I had imagined. From the books I’ve read from the carefully disorganized bookshelves to Robindra Shongeet and Satyajit Ray, the love my heart carefully minted for this city shined in its pride. The rickshaws, Kullad wali chais, yellow taxis outnumbered by Ubers, and the trees seemed to greet me in warmth.
It was not until my 2nd month I decided to go visit the city as I lived in a newly born area, Salt Lake City. I sought out my friend, who was impatiently waiting to be in his unofficial tour guide persona to accompany me. Through trams and buses and local trains, he took me to an older part of the town, I followed, oblivious that I was about to be transported to a different era.
“Pointed in the wrong direction, trapped outside their own history, and unable to retrace their steps because their footprints had been swept away.” I remembered how Arundhati Roy wrote in her The God of Small Things. We walked through the narrow lanes through the old part of the town, on the way to Shyambazar, the once entertainment center of the town. The streets were quiet, with very less number of people, but the spat out paan marks over the walls and footpaths glowed in pride for the people they saw.
The old houses, “badi” or “bari” stood tall facing each other, with their brick inlays peeping outside. I could imagine youngsters by the now dilapidated windows, glancing at their loved ones through them, mothers shouting at their kids running down the roads from the balconies. I couldn’t stop imagining how festive the streets must have been back in the days. The casual conversations, squabbles the curbs have seen. How could such a glorious past not carry itself to the present?
Even when most of the buildings were overpowered by nature’s hands, they seemed habitable for me. A few repair works, and they are fit. It was underwhelming to realize that a place with so much to tell is living in a state of despair. To me, they seemed to scream for help, but the pride overhauled to accept any little help. The street was stuck in an era, unmoved, untouched. What was it that the buildings were not preserved? Is it the place, the people or the pride they held onto their traditions and majestic history that they fail to see everything tarnishing?
