Sunday, November 13, 2011


I was disappointed. Very.

I had waited for ‘The Tree of Life’ to get a wide release here in Kolkata. After all, this was the ‘kaalcharaal capital’ of India. But it was never to be. My hopes did a Sergei Bubka when I heard that the Kolkata Film Festival was to screen the film. Okay, it was a weekday, but never mind. I was ready to sell my soul for this.

I headed to Nandan yesterday to get tickets. And in a massive #KLPD moment, I found out that the film had ‘Press Cards Only’ entry. Fantastic. So you decide to screen a long-awaited film, and instead of letting the public to try and grab a seat, you whore out to the press. I contacted friends who had Press Cards, but as was expected, they wanted to watch the film more than being philanthropic.


I headed to Howrah from there, angry at what fate thought was funny. She was to be back in town after a week-long office trip to Hyderabad.

To cut the story short, I picked her up from the New Terminal, which is as navigable as a JFK Airport in Manila. I think even Harry Potter would have landed on the train tracks had he used the Apparition spell meant to take him to a certain platform.

The only interesting thing that happened was when she informed me that the train had already docked into the station, and she was waiting for the coolie (ref. me). I panicked, because there was no train at the platform where I was waiting. I imagined all sorts of things in a timeframe of 5 seconds, including being sentenced to being the middle berth on Patna-Chennai trains to being subjected to a tirade that will stop only when Frooti plugs the flow. 5 seconds later, I saw the train chugging into the platform, and broke into a cold sweat. “Baal baal bach gaye”, I grinned and muttered to the Bihari coolie standing next to me, who was not Bihari after all and spat out the choicest of expletives at me. Apparently, baal is not a term of endearment here.

A warmestest of hugs later, we set off for a cab back home. By we, I mean me, two suitcases and a bag on me, and her. Well, of course.

After haggling with the cab drivers outside the station, who wear glasses that stick ‘ripe murgi for halaal’ stickers on to young couples coming out of the station, we set off. The plan was to drop her off and then back home in the same cab. So the usual tension and worry had taken a walk.

The usual talk of how the trip was, how she was missed, how a dream had caused her to call at 2:00 a.m. zipped past, quite like the formidable but beautifully lit up Howrah Bridge and the kebab-laden aroma of the biryani stalls at Park Circus. We fell silent after that. Not that awkward ‘soooo-what-else-is-up’ kind, but the cheesy but sugary ‘Words-are-not-important’ kind. The lights whizzed by. A coquettish smile, fingers intertwine and an endless, warm hug cheating out the coming of winter on the highway. Suddenly, four years seemed only like four hours back in time. 

When I dropped her off and headed back home, I finally said it out loud to the flyover pillars hurtling by in the darkness…..

Dear KLPD, KLPD kaisa laga?!



  1. @Poulomi - Thank you :)
    @Mrin - has to be. This one has been written by my heart and not the pen. ;)

  2. nice indeed... but you didnt mention what shopping she did..... :( ? :( ?

  3. As one dear friend calls it...'ROTOMANTIC' !!!!