Calcutta is an affair to remember, its people, the lovers to not forget.
North Calcutta is the older Kolkata; the one that reeks of nostalgia and rustic charm. It is that Kolkata which is identified with Presidency University, deserted mansions, bustling College Square, Indian Coffee House, fried goods and nosy neighbours. North Calcutta is all about conventions and traditions with a subtle tint of creeping in modernity. It is about Kumortuli (the hub of idol-making) and its unfinished gods and goddesses, the stories of the haunted Putulbari (doll-house) and lonely alleys. To me, North Calcutta translates into untold emotions.
A walk down the narrow, uncannily similar lanes on a sunny Wednesday afternoon turned out to be a fruitful liaison. This is a rather long rendezvous and what you see are just portions of it. So, as I introduce you to Hema and her street-echoing laughter, a certain Sreejit Kumar Tagore and his decaying mansion and the myriad people and albeit structures who faced my camera, I introduce you to a bit of North Calcutta through my rose-tinted glasses.
For it dawns upon me, the beauty of the city, to which I make dying promises to return again.