A good way to start the new year, I thought, is by relishing some of the best travel of last year
Illustration/Uday Mohite
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A good way to start the new year, I thought, is by relishing some of the best travel of last year. There were more trips than usual, by air, to London, Berlin, Sydney, Brisbane, Dubai, mostly for work. And yet, it was a train journey from Kolkata to Azimganj that has me grinning at the memory of it.
I was travelling with friends on a fabulous river cruise along the Ganga, organised by my sister Sarayu. We took the train from Howrah to Azimganj, five and a half hours north of Kolkata, from where we boarded the ship. Every day we dropped anchor at historic towns along the Ganga, visiting Murshidabad, Matiari, Mayapur, Kalna, the Portuguese port of Bandel and the former French colony of Chandannagore, before returning to Kolkata six days later.
This was an all-woman trip. Women in a space without their men are very different creatures. We were free to be ourselves, which meant that we were far more prone to epidemics of giggles. There was a steady ebb and flow of vendors in the train. We started off with superb lebu cha (black lemon tea). Then came a banana seller, and we giggled hysterically on discovering that Bengalis pronounced bananas, cola (for kela).
Next came a muriwalla selling jhalmuri, the Bengali version of bhelpuri. Strapped to his waist was an ingenious metal box of muri (kurmura, puffed rice), topped with a tray of small tins with boiled potato bits, sev, chopped onions, mustard oil, etc, that he would mix into the muri. Each of the tins had a round metal lid dangling at the end of a chain that would sway with the train, making it look like some exotic musical instrument, a muri manjira set.
My favourite vendor, whom I called the Kali of Small Things, wore several garlands around his neck, Kali-style, of strips of tiny packets of munchies - salted moong dal, masala peanuts, fried green peas, and what not. He was followed by the book sellers. I have always wanted to learn Bengali properly; I can speak only ektu ektu. Here, they sold booklets with songs by Rabindranath Tagore (of course), as well as those delightfully kitschy Bollywood song booklets - only, all the Hindi lyrics were written in the Bengali script. I greedily pounced on them. "Moho Rophir gaan o shorlipi" said one ("Mohd Rafi's songs and notations"). I could even sing songs from the book, squintingly reading the Bengali - Zindagi bhar nahin bhoolegi from Barsaat ki Raat, Taal Keharwa. Or Kaun hai jo sapnon mein aaya from Jhuk Gaya Aasman, taal Dadra. I loved how they always indicated the taal (rhythm, beat) at the start of each song, making a cheap booklet of Bollywood songs, seem like musical aristocracy fallen on evil days. Very Jalsaghar.
I bought a Meghdoot Anglo-Bengali booklet called "Two in One: Transports and Body Parts" (don't ask). Metro Rail is Patal Rail in Bengali (which somehow sounded like a Train from Hell or Dante's department in any case). The plaintive voices of the baul singers carried far beyond the train windows: outside, it rained lightly, over green rice fields, village pukurs (ponds) choking with lotuses, and elegant khejur (date palm) trees in the distance. And our journey had only just begun.
Meenakshi Shedde is South Asia Consultant to the Berlin Film Festival, award-winning critic, curator to festivals worldwide and journalist. Reach her at meenakshishedde@gmail.com
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