Down the Memory Lane

I went to The Telegraph House at Prafulla Sarkar Street after 12 years today. 

It takes 30 mins to reach there from Gariahat….by the Kolkata Metro of course. I am dead sure about the time, as I used to start exactly at 3:00 PM every day to be in time for the 3:30 PM desk slot at The Telegraph. It took 15 mins to reach the Kalighat Metro station and catch the 3:15 metro to Dum Dum (that was the last stop at in 2004). The tube rail reached the Chandni Chowk station at 3:28 PM, leaving me with full 2 mins to rush to the escalator, climb the moving steps, much to the disgust of others around me, and run up panting to the white imposing building.

Today, too, I assumed a repeat telecast of the above journey. I had to be there at 11:30 AM. So, I started off from Gariahat at 11:00 AM and hailed an auto rickshaw. The fare from Gariahat to Rashbehari used to be Rs 5. I noted happily that it has increased only by Rs 3 in the last 12 years.

I glanced up at the electronic time table at the station entrance to find that 4 mins remained for the next metro at 11:15 am. But the end station names were Noapara and Kabi Shubhash. I was used to Dum Dum and Tollygunge.

Anyways, I started climbing down the steps fast to buy tickets and catch this very train, only to realise that my head was reeling. I am no longer the 27-year old person used to flying down steps instead of climbing. Pushing back this unhappy feeling, I now steadily climbed down to the Booking counter.  The station looked more or less the same.

Feeling quite confident now, I went up to the ticket counter clerk and asked for a return ticket to Chandni Chowk.

“There are no return tickets Didi,” the clerk replied with an amused look.

“Oh! Ok then please give me one ticket to Chandni,” I said.

“Here you go,” he said handing me a round plastic coin.

I blinked and stared at the coin and asked, “Ok but what about the ticket Dada?”

“That’s the ticket,” he said trying hard not to smile.

I quickly glanced around to see quite a few people smirking and looking at me as you look at the rare nearly extinct specimens at zoo.

“Oh sorry, thanks,” I said trying to look smart despite felling like a complete ass.

I quickly walked away from the counter looking down at the “ticket”. I was looking forward to the rectangular paper ticket with the magnetic stripe on one side and the stations and timings printed on the other side. I had commuted for 4.5 years by Metro using those tickets. They stood as a leit motif for my first jobs in Kolkata’s original “office para”. I had a strong connection with those tickets. But these plastic coins brought back no nostalgia. Rather I was curious how they would function. I soon found out at the gates.

On the platform, I found the same murals that I so loved seeing, the sun god the hilsa and prawn duo. They brought back many memories, some good, some not so good. But, after the 15 min wait (I had missed the 11:15 am one), I finally boarded the train and felt completely at home. The reason was the familiar voice calling out the next station. I am sure it’s the same record playing on for 12 years.

“Poroborti station moydaan platform daandikey. The next station is Maidan, platform is on the right. Agla station Maidan, platform daine taraf”

It sounded like a nightingale’s melody to me after the ticket fiasco. Finally, I was feeling less stupid and more nostalgic. There is still now just one enclosure reserved for lady travellers in the compartment. Still now the faint smell of burnt coil lingers. And most importantly, the tube rail still now takes just 13 mins to reach Chandni Chowk. 

The Chandni Chowk station itself seems to have stood still in time. It looked just the same. I dashed up the stairs and went to the escalator. However, I didn’t try climbing the steps on it. I am no longer 27-years old. 

Outside the station I looked for the cyber café where I used to spend my rare off hours surfing the internet. It is still there! Wondering if I should take a quick peek at the cyber café, I glanced at my mobile to see the time. It was 11:45 am. I rushed up the familiar road to the white building.

Inside the lobby after collecting the visitor’s pass, I caught the same fragrance in the spotless marbled office. Suddenly, the years fell away. The hard baked IT professional was gone. I was just a rookie sub-editor, intimidated by the grandeur of the building, nervous and wary of working in the editorial of the leading eastern daily. 

I collected my employment certificate from the HR (I hope you weren’t suspecting/assuming that I went there for a job interview) and went to the reception to return the gate pass. The person at the reception, whose name I had been frantically trying to remember all this while, smiled at me and said, “Of course I remember you Anushila, because of your name. Remember we had mis-spelt your name on the ID card twice and had to reissue it?”

“Oh yes,” I lied, “I am sorry it was a huge bother.”

“No problems, at all. I am sure you can’t remember my name though,” he said with a smile.

“You are Brajen-da,” I said desperately.

“No, Soumen da,” he corrected me.

After a short chit chat with Soumen da I came out of the white building and tried to find out the sandwich shop just beside the gate. It was no longer there. Neither could I find the fruitseller from whom I used to buy guavas every day. 

However, I found the tea shop on the opposite footpath still there along with the crowd that always thronged it. I looked around for familiar faces but found none. I walked up and down the street in front of The Telegraph office twice enjoying my nostalgia. 

All this while, the security guards at the gate watched me curiously. I guess they too must have assumed that I had gone for an interview. Moreover, the way I kept on walking around with a disturbed and searching look on my face made them sure that I was very upset after a bad interview. So, when I finally turned to leave and passed the gate of the Telegraph house they asked me, “Didi are you feeling unwell?”

I said, “No but why are you asking me this?”

“Oh sorry for the mistake we thought you were upset about the interview,” they said most apologetically.

I assured them somehow that I was not a dejected interviewee lamenting my failure by walking up and down the road and started walking back to the Metro station. This time I knew the tickets.

While travelling back by metro, I remembered those years, the early ones in my career, when I worked more for passion and less for money. When I travelled by metro reading my favourite storybooks. When I could laugh out loud at my boss's stupid comments without fearing any consequences….and fly down stairs instead of climbing down. 

As the train halted at the Kalighat station, I came out of my reverie. It was a bitter sweet feeling like my favourite dark chocolate Toblerone. Yes, I can never go back in time. Neither do I want to. Imagine having to go through studying all subjects from nursery 1 to class 10 again!!! But, there is no harm in remembering that time. I have a problem here though; I have a very poor memory (all my history teachers would readily vouch for this). Hence, I decided to write down about this bitter sweet experience, somewhere, anywhere, but today……