Skip to main content

Mom and didu

I wanted to write this post earlier when I returned from Kolkata after a short trip in August. I had gone to celebrate my mum’s 75th birthday. I got busy once back and the story went into cold storage. In fact I have hardly written here in recent weeks. 

I was back in Kolkata a few days back. I met my mom and grandmom once again before I returned the last night. This time it happened to be the 102nd birth anniversary of my late grandfather. I took a cake to the celebrate the occasion with them. K was with me. Though working, she managed to come home to have dinner with my mom one night.

Something that struck me during my last trip and which had made me want to write then, struck me this time too. I did not want to let it fester again. So here I am, hoping I can pen this down in the next half an hour before hunger takes over. (I did. Subbing it after lunch.)

Kolkata Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose terminus main apka swagath hain


This was when our flight was about to touch down at the Kolkata airport (which insists on retaining filthy toilets despite many other upgrades to the terminal). I looked out of the window as the tyres came down, hit the tarmac, speeded and then slowed down. I could see the stretches of green which signalled that one had reached Kolkata.

I was strangely emotionless at this point. As I would be if I was landing at Delhi, Bangalore, Lucknow etc. 

This was very different from my early years in Mumbai. I had joined PQR IMRB and was posted here. Flying back home during holidays then was unthinkable. Hell, getting leave was impossible in that sweat shop! When I did go back, it would be on the Bombay Howrah Mail or the Gitanjali Express.

I occasionally went by air to Kolkata on work to conduct focus groups. I would stay at home and not in a hotel. These trips were very, very rare compared to those of my peers who were from cities such as Delhi or Chennai, where fieldwork happened very frequently.

There was a sense of elation when I landed in Kolkata back then. It was as if I could not wait to get my strolley from the overhead locker and jump out to book a pre-paid cab, surly as the men at the counter were. 

I was home. For a short break from the rigours of my PG (paying guest) life. A few days of being in my own room without having to share it with anyone. Sleeping on my own bed. Using a bathroom with a western loo and a working shower, unlike in my PG which had neither. Having chicken curry, alu posto, pulao, fried rice and chilli chicken and macched mudo diye dal made by my mum. A welcome relief from my PG which was veg. Meeting family. My dadu and didu. My friends from school, college and the building. Hanging out at New Market and Park Street. Eating biryani, rolls and fish a la Diana. Lemon tarts and mishti doi. 

My Lunch today sums up my current identity. Malvani pomfret curry.
Kancha moong dal. Gobindobhag bhaat. Alu dhyarosh. Gujarati keri
pickle.

I got married to a Mumbai girl 4 years later. A Parsi. One who had never been to Kolkata till then. Hardly knew any Bengalis before she met me. Had never had any Bengali food before I came into her life.

Luckily K took to Kolkata, the food, the shopping and to my family pretty well. We made annual trips back and stayed at home. For her each trip was one of discovery.

Things changed a bit for me too. Most of my friends had moved out. Which meant that I had no-one to hang with when I came alone. When with K, family visits took precedence and we wanted some alone time too.

I felt impassive when flying back to Mumbai from anywhere. I’d wait when the plane landed while everyone would jump to get their bags and run out. 

I was married, living and working here. Yet it did not feel like home. I was a Bengali in Bombay. Not a Bengali from Bombay. 

This changed one day. A day when I landed in Mumbai and felt as if I was back home. I have written about this day earlier but here goes. It was a rohu fish head which lay at the heart of it! I found it at Munna’s shop at Pali Market the weekend before. Made macched mudo diye dal (dal with fish head) with it. It turned out pretty well. This was the only dish from my mother’s kitchen which I loved but had no access to in Mumbai. That day I made it my own. I finally made Bombay my own. 

I was now a Mumbaikar. A former Kolkatan.

Dinner at home in Mumbai

I kept going back to Kolkata. Annual family trips at first. Then short trips. Multiple trips in a year (barring the pandemic years). I go there for one prime reason. To visit family. My grandmom. And when she is in town, my mom. When I can manage it, my mashi and mesho. 

The idyllic view from the ITC Sonar hotel that we so love

I look forward to eating in the city, meeting some of the new friends I have made through blogging. If there is any time left from the long distance rides that is. I stay in hotels now. Easier for all concerned from a practical point of view. Primes me to get my energy back in between visits. Does not put undue pressure on the elders. I try to meet my folks home everyday. No longer on the day I reach or the day I fly out though, unlike my practise before. We are all growing older. The travel leaves me too weary to then go out and explore the city. I have been a nostalgia chaser earlier and have lovingly written about the city and its food. It is not for me a priority now. I now go back as a family man. A son. A grandson. Not as a food writer.

A day after dadu’s 102nd. With ma and didu.

The sense of detachment when I fly in bothers me.  Have I abandoned my values, my roots, my hometown, I wonder at such moments?

Logic suggests otherwise. Kolkata is not the city of my birth. I was born in the UK. It took me a few years after I moved to learn my mother tongue. And many, many years after that before I began to appreciate the food. After I moved to Mumbai to be precise. 

Baby Loaf is a Breach Candy boy by disposition, jokes K,
though we found him here.

Kolkata is not the land of my forefathers. My parents were born in what is modern day Bangladesh. My dad grew up and studied in Kolkata before he moved to the UK for further studies. he did return to Calcutta when he wanted to come home after 14 years. My mom grew up in Delhi and moved to the UK when she got married. We both began our lives in Kolkata at the same time. She was 35. My brother was born soon after. The only one in the family, apart from my sister in law, to be born in the city. My niece was born in Gurugram. K in Mumbai, though that is not moot.

This means that unless one takes Kolkata as the representative of Bengaliness in India, there is no logical tie between the city and me. I felt like an outsider in the initial years in Kolkata. Felt proud of the city for the first time when in high school. Thanks to the stand of our principal at St James’, John Mason, against the book, the City of Joy. It showed the city in the poor light he said and yet had locals raving about it. Ironically, Mason was Anglo and not Bengali. That is when we realised how the positioning of Kolkata outside had been all about what one calls ‘poverty porn.’ My pride in the city was at its zenith when I studied Sociology in Presidency College. We were very proud of our college and everything to do with it. I came across the earlier generation of Kolkatans who lived in Bowbazar and Shyambazar and wished that they were in London instead. A sentiment I did not identify with even though I was actually born in England

When I moved to Mumbai, I was like any Kolkata expat who had their feet here but had left their hearts behind. We were jingoistic about ‘our’ biryani, phuchka, Chinese food and the rolls of Kolkata versus their equivalents here. Firmly believed that be it in the case of culture, quality of education, creativity… Kolkata trumped Mumbai. Thankfully the locals were too work focused to rap us our knuckles for our obnoxiousness. We were tolerated just as one would a cranky, ageing relative. And unlike when I moved to Kolkata, I felt at home in Mumbai and specifically Bandra, where I have lived though my stay in Mumbai, right from the start. Was made to feel at home too. It was not so when I moved into Calcutta as a chubby 8 year old with an accent.

Little Nimki is Bandra born

I had lived in Kolkata for 17 years before I moved out. It’s been 25 years for me in Mumbai since then. I never thought this would be home. Yet it is. 

This is where I found my wife and through her extended the boundaries of my family. Found my calling too. Discovered faith. Found our two cats. Where we have our apartment in a peaceful lane in Bandra. I have my parar Durga Puja here. I love the food of Mumbai and have told its stories to the world. I have found friends and neighbours here who have showered me with love. I have never have been made to feel like an outsider here. The converse, if at all.

If Mumbai is home, Kolkata is a fond memory. One I love to revisit. I feel like a tourist when in Kolkata to be honest. A guest. A very welcome one.

Should I feel guilty about this? My therapist did not think so, when I once raised the issue.  Buddhism says that where one is Buddha land. Where one’s mission lies.

What do you feel? Have you gone through something similar?

Have you found your hometown?

No Comments

  • Pritam Roy says:

    Very well written. As expected from you. I couldn't have summed it up better. I feel like a tourist as well, when I'm in Kolkata. Obviously, nostalgia is something that grows only stronger with time. But, it's also something one can't hold on to, for long as you may have actually forgotten the reality and the memories may not be true representative of those days.

Leave a Reply