A WINDOW VIEW OF THE CITY OF JOY by Sounak Bhaduri

A haze of smoke rises from the ghats, mingling with the aroma of tea boiling in tin kettles. I’m standing by my window, witnessing a winter morning in North Kolkata.

There’s something quintessential about winters here—something that belongs only to my city, therefore, to me. My family has lived here for generations. Kolkata defines me in mysterious ways. In the following sentences, I delve on some of these mysteries openly.

The first sip of cha (chai—tea leaves boiled with water, milk and sugar) served hot in a bhār—a disposable terracotta cup that returns to the earth after serving warmth out of its belly. It’s an existential ritual—a quiet communion with the city itself. I’m joyous in the city of joy.

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Kolkata is not a tamed city; it’s quintessential madness in a soulful way, remains stubbornly retro for over a century despite changing rapidly. The jolly spirit of the city is alive in fleeting moments—two strangers laughing, a poem on a napkin, melody emanating from an open window. There’s romance and there’s reality of life, both coexist seamlessly, at times indistinguishable.

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Kolkata wakes up slowly, like an old poet stretching his limbs before writing the next verse. Thoughts long subdued find utterance in the morning light.

I can hear, downstairs, at the local tea stall, uncles debate loudly everything under the sun—politics, football, Tagore, neighbourhood gossip. Their voices fill the air with a certain familiarity; warm and comforting.

Across the street, markets come alive as the sun grows warmer—slowly, but with a rhythm quintessential to my home town. Bargains are exchanged, so are stories.

It’s magical, to me, a certain softness, heartwarming, is hard to describe this lightness of being, joy ​is part of something larger than you, yet very integral to you. This feeling seeps into your soul, and makes its presence felt in strange ways.

I only realised what this city and living here means to me when I left Kolkata to pursue higher studies in Chandigarh. I felt the warmth of my city in the cold corridors of the hostel. Kolkata came to me in flashes—the faint sound of a flute playing on a quiet evening, mingling with the distant whistle of a tram. The buttery aroma of street food, particularly, telebhaja—gram-flour fritter. And much more. Missing Kolkata became a ritual of remembering.

I spent a good part of my final years of schooling, roaming around, photographing the city life, streets, people, and an eternal order in the chaos. Every lane offering a new scenario, subjects, people, every face tells a new story.

I was documenting my city intuitively, freezing moments for posterity, in these pictures, I see my reflection. It was a learning experience, about human condition, society in the dynamic mode, beauty, survival, simplicity, an underlying force that runs the city, trivialities that shape life.

However, this one frame changed me forever. At the ghats, where Ganges slows down a bit, expands, like spreading of arms to hug, as she prepares to meet sea, I clicked a boy, must be six or seven years of age, giving bath to his little brother, half his size.

They lived in a windowless room of the size of a grave, not far from there, hidden behind a shop. The elder of the two had a bright smile on his face, when he announced to​me: “Ei amader bari (This is our home).”

Home, as someone has famously written, ‘is not a place but simply an irrevocable condition.’ This experience intrigues me to this day. I remember those moments, me standing there, the camera suddenly felt heavier, confronting me, challenging all conveniently held beliefs. I now understand, the idea of joy is an integral to our being, and is fairly independent of the contexts. Carolyn Marsden puts it beautifully, ‘From the mud of adversity grows the lotus of joy,” This is​ the city of joy to me.

This is one of many ways in which my city has had a deep imprint on me. Made me a man. I cannot talk about Kolkata without talking about its cuisine. And you don’t have to be a native to go gaga over street food. Life itself. The craving for fish fry from Deshapriya Park in me is kind of an addiction—golden crisp on the outside, soft at the core. Perfection personified, it spoils you for all other versions.

This is just one example of nostalgia wrapped in the aroma of mustard oil. The

list is long: Kochuri-alur dom on chilly (as chilly it gets in Kolkata) mornings or the Mughlai paratha on rushed afternoons, the evergreen phuchka, which deserves a national award for what it does to my palate. Kolkata’s street food is a memory you can taste; it’s mouthwatering to even write about it.

Cuisine is just one way of celebrating artistic Kolkata. The city of joy has always belonged to artists. Art is a way of life here. Cinema, theatre, poetry, music—is relived in conversations, in tram rides, in tea stalls, in College Street’s cramped bookstores.

There’s art everywhere, from the flautist selling bamboo flutes on Chowringhee Road to the sketch artist capturing strangers in ten bold strokes to the poets scribbling at Coffee House. Masters like Satyajit Ray, Ritwik Ghatak, Mrinal Sen are alive in the pulse of the city long after their demise. Kolkata literally breathes creativity. Art doesn’t just inspire, it guides people, ameliorates and comforts them.

Kolkata is not a tamed city; it’s quintessential madness in a soulful way and remains stubbornly retro for over a century despite changing rapidly. The jolly spirit of the city is alive in fleeting moments—two strangers laughing, a poem on a napkin, melody emanating from an open window. There’s romance and there’s reality of life, both coexist seamlessly, at times indistinguishable.

People smile in face of hardships. A fragile cup of cha is a magic potion of survival. Kolkata is not a place etched on a map—it lives in me. And it will always remain, in the deepest sense of the word, an irrevocable condition, my home.