Jadavpur

4 cups of black and still he continues.
7 stubs in the stainless steel ashtray
Ashes overflow. Fire rests beside.
Rimless glasses scan around the mesh of unknown
Faces for a faint shimmer.
A quick glance at the old Tissot,
Thin hand sweeps away at time.

3 tables across diagonally,
Beside the window, see?
She sits there everyday, from noon
Till dusk falls into this neighbourhood
And the honking of the rickshaws takes centre stage.
Designated waiter serves the same latte everyday,
At her whim and sleight of hand.

New footfalls today.
All from the Arts Department.
1st year. Unmistakably.
Discussing Goddard, Ray and Karnad.
Adding to their repertoire of the unknown and the assumed.
Always trying to outdo the others’ lack of knowledge,
Accompanied by red tea and incessant flicks of the thumb and index fingers.

Don’t think he’s from around here.
Adorned in a faded khadi kurta and Bata flip-flops.
Subterfuges as he rolls in a Capstan paper, eyes darting across the hall from time to time.
Is anyone prying? Looking? Asking for some?
Satisfied, he beckons the waiter in white overalls and a white ‘topi’.
‘Ek cappuccino dena, jaldi’, he orders,
And runs a wet tongue over his rolled enigma.

I haven’t been here long.
I haven’t been gone long either.
Little has changed, a lot has altered.
The crowd’s still frantic. The students still curious. The waiters are still obliging.
A smile pasted firmly on their lips, In spite of the lack of ventilation in the kitchen.
I like it here.
I like to watch.



It feels great to be back in Calcutta. Some things are amiss, but the city's still too beautiful to behold.