How green was my valley....

I was looking at some photos my cousin sent me from his recent trip to Calcutta. Photos of the city, of the people I love and grew up with, of places and times that I left behind when I came to the US. And as I went through photo after photo of known places and loved ones I was gripped with pain and sadness. It appeared to me that every little thing I knew and remembered was changed and different now. The city looked old and dirty, the people looked tired and aged. And nothing seemed to be the same anymore. And suddenly I realized as a sharp pang of regret shot through me that the only thing that was probably changed and different was me and how I viewed things now. And I wept. For times that were gone and lost. For family that I had moved away from. For days that I had spent growing up loving a place, missing it every single day, only to realize how distant I had become and how things were not the same anymore.

I left Calcutta with happy memories of my childhood. Of growing up basking in the love and affection of an extended family. Of sunny days and warm memories. Wild adolescence and much awaited adulthood. The joy of being able to do everything I wanted to, of being anyone I wanted to be. Of learning, maturing and being who I am. That is what I hold in my heart. That is what makes me smile everytime I remember home. When I think of Pujo. Poila Baisakh, Christmas, Bhai phonta.

And then yesterday happened. I saw the photos my cousin sent me. Photos that he had taken from the balcony of our house. Photos he had taken of familiar places. Of that shop down the road where we would buy stationery from. Or the library where we would get books from. The dhobi who ironed our clothes. The bus stop where we would wait endlessly in the scorching sun. The uthon-bari where we would play kumir-danga all afternoon. And they all looked so different. Everything looked old and moss-covered and like they had been picked out of some ancient bangla movie (see below views from the balcony and a house down the street). Like it was some suburban township in the middle of nowhere. Yet this was very much Calcutta. In the heart of the metropolis. There was a picture of a waterlogged street (see below). Something I had never bothered much when I was there. But now it bothers me. Why, oh why?





I looked into the faces of my uncles, my aunts, my grandparents, family friends. And everyone looked so much older than I remembered them. It was such a rude awakening. It felt like I was stuck in time and everything else had moved on without me, aging and withering away. It made me cry.

My Dad tells me that Calcutta has improved over the last few years. There are flyovers and less traffic jams, spanking new shopping malls and multiplex theatres. The city is cleaner and better. And I am sure it is all true. But why do I not see it in the places I love and want to remember that way? Why is the street still waterlogged after a shower? Why is the uthon bari not painted or the dhobi shop not fixed up? Why does looking at the photos after all these years make me want to cry? For myself. For having changed. And for finding everything else changed. I wish I had an answer.