When I was in my late teens, I wished to walk down the streets of my city.
The city of joy, Kolkata or maybe Calcutta. Apparently, it remained a wish, which did not get a chance to turn to reality. Although, Kolkata is a reality to others. But for me it is surreal. A place, away from my daily business. Even though, I belong here. Roamed to and fro from where I did my master's. Kolkata never called me. It never asked my hands for a stroll, and that is unfortunate to me. Unseen remained as it is. Being mysteriously aloof at this point in life. Made me pen this write-up without a purpose in mind. Pardon my purposelessness. But I assure you, that this will nonetheless confront your relationship with your city.
Does Kolkata unfailingly have to throw at us a purpose? If yes, then why? Why can't we walk on its heart without a reason? Either Sun or rain always punctures my plans and urge. Especially, Mr. Rain. It caused me what not. Or is it me the reason behind not pushing myself to explore it? Kolkata overpowers me, just like that. Every time I attempted to put forth my words against it. It. For. Countless times. Put me down. Writing my fate with its owned pencil. That, "this girl will have no company for her life, to explore me". And I too being an eraser. Affirmed that I shall not leave without walking on it. This might have sounded like a violation. Howbeit, it is not what it sounded like.
Kolkata known me since I was of thirteen months. Then too it could not allow me a walk. I see the trams as they pass by, slow and bell-toned like a nostalgia that refuses to leave. They wear their rust with pride. These long-spined serpents of the old city, rolling on steel nerves that remember times I was not a part of. But somehow always feel deeply attached to. Trams remind me that Kolkata is not only made of roads and buildings, but of longing, like mine, suspended in a fog of history. I have dreamed of the streets of North Kolkata, entwined in wires and stories, the smell of old books mingling with the sharp fragrance of freshly fried fritters, the telebhaja, and the slow untying of afternoons soaked in chai served in earthen bhaar. I have imagined brushing my fingers on the brittle pages of second-hand books at College Street, as if they would whisper to me secrets of revolution, poetry, and fleeting love affairs once exchanged in those very corners. But still, I have not walked there. Not truly. Not freely. Not as one with the city.
Every time I have tried to plan my walk, Kolkata becomes an illusion, like a mirage in the middle of my emotional desert. Perhaps that's why I never made it to the ghats at sunrise. Or watched the pigeons launch themselves into the warm orange sky over Prinsep Ghat. Perhaps it is not just the rain or the heat; it is the overwhelming feeling of being seen and not recognized by the city. To belong, but never to be claimed.Maybe I fear that if I walk the streets, Kolkata might tell me something I’m not ready to hear. That it might look me in the eye and speak to the quiet loneliness I carry. The city is not cruel. It is not indifferent either. But it is like an old soul with too many stories. It won’t stop for mine unless I yell loud enough. And I have never yelled. I have only waited.
Have you ever belonged to a place so deeply that it aches, even when you are not physically there? That is what Kolkata is to me. Not a place. But a feeling. A weathered photograph, a humid sigh, a love letter I keep writing and tearing apart. I am its daughter, perhaps; but not yet a friend. The streets never unfolded themselves to me as they do to others. They keep their arms folded. And I, shyly, never insisted. My life in this city has been more of a passing shadow than a presence. My journeys are filled with destinations, and never with discovery. I have traveled in autos where the wind slapped against my cheeks and the driver cursed the traffic, but I did not look outside. I took the metro like a ghost among bodies. Holding my bag close, my thoughts closer. Every inch of movement was mechanical, never lyrical. And that feels like betrayal to the poet in me, to the dreamer, to the girl who once promised herself a walk. And yet, the romance of this city clings to me. Even now. Its soul travels in the rhythm of Rabindra sangeet echoing from a neighbor’s radio, in the fragrance of shiuli flowers crushed on damp pavements, in the iron warmth of Howrah Bridge glowing under twilight. The city doesn't reject me, it waits. Quietly. With old patience. Like a companion who knows you’re afraid to speak.
I once thought that the best walks happen in pairs. That someone would hold my hand and we’d walk past the cluttered shops of New Market, bargaining and laughing like lovers in sepia films. But perhaps some cities are meant to be walked alone. Perhaps some relationships begin in silence, in stolen glances and unfulfilled plans. And that too is okay. If cities are like people, then Kolkata is a reluctant old friend of mine. One who watches me grow from afar. She doesn’t call often, doesn’t reach out, But she is there. Always. And when she rains, she writes poems on my windows. When she shines, she flares up memories in the dust. There is also the fear that the walk I long for may disappoint me. That the city I dream of may not match the one in reality. That the crumbling walls of Shyambazar might not glow as I thought they would. That the streets might feel too narrow, too loud, too real. Dreams, when chased, are always at risk of breaking.
Still, I want to believe that one day I will get up, put on my sandals, and walk. Without a reason. Without a camera. Without an agenda. Just walk. Let my footsteps fall like gentle knocks on a sleeping memory. Let my eyes drink in the yellow taxis like cups of nostalgia. Let the city surprise me. Maybe I shall stop near a flower seller and ask nothing. Maybe I shall pause at a para club and hear the clatter of carrom coins. Maybe I shall wander through the by-lanes and find a painting on a wall that makes me stop breathing for a second. Maybe I shall sit on a park bench and feel, finally, like a part of the city's story. Until then, I keep writing letters like this one, to myself, to you, to Kolkata. I write because I cannot walk. And perhaps that is how the city knows I am still here. Still waiting. Still hoping. So, tell me, have you walked your city? Have you let it embrace you, without the urgency of errands or the pressure of purpose? Can you recall the taste of its air after rain, the way your feet remember stony footpaths long after you have left?
Does your city know you?
Let’s meet in our cities not as tourists, not as workers, but as those who dare to feel.
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