The Bioscope

Gazing at the Kolkata skyline on a dusky winter’s evening is a psychedelic experience. Images, sounds and smells related to moments in the city pop up and move, as in a bioscope- black and white.

My bedroom window overlooks a railway station. Every day, I see hundreds of people moving from here to there, or from there to here. Some leave, some return, some run away. There is always a swirling sea of humanity outside my window. They are accompanied by the noise- the shrieks, the screams, the honks, and the loud Hindi music. I am secretly thankful for the bustle and the noise. The pulse of life is infectious.

Strangely, I also love silence. Whenever I feel conflict within myself, I search for peace in the Maidan. The silence of the trees has a healing touch, and the gnarled roots are storehouses of wisdom. The liberating effect of the skies broadens up the mind in more ways than one. While lying flat on the Maidan and looking upwards, I have often empathized with Gilmour, who sang

“Can't keep my eyes from the circling skies

Tongue-tied and twisted, just an earth-bound misfit, I”.

So I walk. The streets of Kolkata have a personality of their own, and a very colorful one at that. Bahurupis, literally meaning those with many forms, walk the city in the attire of gods and animals for pure entertainment. They are homes and beds to an unmatched number of people, and the playgrounds of thousands of “street children”.

My favorite part of the city is old Kolkata. Almost all the crumbling, colonial houses have freedom fighters and martyrs to boast of. The days of the babu culture, of endless entertainment and cultural efflorescence have long gone. However, the houses still haven’t lost their charm and dignity. I am lucky to belong to one such family and I have spent a lot of time in the old Kolkata house. The house is dark and damp and in the dusk of its life. But if you look closely, you will find tiny plants growing out of the walls. The house nurtures life.

The same is true of Kolkata. It lives, breathes and nurtures. The city is a melting pot of cultures. It has representatives from every Indian community, as well as those who have their roots elsewhere, but have made the city their home. As the cultural and intellectual capital of India, there hangs “a something” in the air, which makes one think, reflect and analyze. The hundreds of people who live, work and die here leave bits of them on the streets, in the air and in the sacred waters of the river Ganges. As someone who has bonded with the city, I have absorbed this ensemble of influences and became a bit of Kolkata myself. The city taught me to be sensitive, welcoming, reckless, liberal, dignified. And as the City of Joy, it reminds me to have the right to my orgasm.