Calcutta busJust came back to New York from India. Had another incredibly rewarding time. I am posting here my experiences from the city I grew up in. I hope you read and reflect. Comments much welcome.
This is my first blog post of 2016. Hope you return, and be in touch.
Partha Banerjee
Brooklyn, New York
Calcutta Diary 2016. — Page 1.
Life’s routine items that have lost their meanings in the midst of an indifferent, diverse crowd, where society is so overly present that nobody thinks about it twice, an exiled Bengali finds them as precious as a pearl in a plastic shop.
We the exiled collect those experiences the way a doomed prisoner writes letters to his daughter he will never see again. It’s the ordinary pictures on a daily, urban landscape: a mother walking her son to elementary school, rehearsing possible questions to appear on the class test.
Or, it is somewhat out of the ordinary: like last night, when we just arrived at a dinner invitation, urgent call came from home that my father is seriously sick again and that we needed to rush back home.
When we return to our new home in America, we will carry these stories with us, and reminisce them over and over again, because that’s what is left with us, contrary to those we leave back here who will be immersed in many more such stories on a daily basis.
Their pearl necklace is thus one of the several to choose from, to adorn life. To us the exiled and the immigrant, however, one small gemstone is all we have. We don’t have their abundance. We only have savored preciousness.
Thus begins a new year, unfolding like a mist-covered, mysterious tulip.
Singara rosogolla