I hope Tagore dosen't sue me for using his movie namesake as a title for a blog post ,only a handful will see. I like my home in Kolkata a lot. And not just for the obvious reason, but also because homes like this are hard to find. Even in a city like Calcutta.
The mosaic tiles laid out in the balcony is my favourite. The powder blue wrought iron jalli (on the right) is the same as I always remember. The windows on the left have wooden shutters. The same kind that all old buildings in Kolkata have, keeps the sun out and helps circulation of air.
Lots of happy memories on this terrace. Not just for me, but for everyone who has ever spent time in this house, since my grandparents' time. Dinners, birthday parties, Diwali celebrations, wedding (including mine). Sometimes, the terrace is eerily quiet. Like the day that I sketched it. There is always some kind of ambient noises like bird cries, traffic sounds and the muezzin calling out the faithful. But ever so rarely, it is still.
Our neighbourhood is pretty, but only if one peeks from our terrace. The houses around must be as old as ours, probably older. There are some massive mansions in disarray along the route leading to our home. According to my dad, way back in 1961 (during the Indo-Pak war), many of these homes were abandoned by influential Bengali families thinking that this part of the city would be bombed. Nothing like that happened. My grandfather and his family had already moved here by then. They hung on.
The mosaic tiles laid out in the balcony is my favourite. The powder blue wrought iron jalli (on the right) is the same as I always remember. The windows on the left have wooden shutters. The same kind that all old buildings in Kolkata have, keeps the sun out and helps circulation of air.
Lots of happy memories on this terrace. Not just for me, but for everyone who has ever spent time in this house, since my grandparents' time. Dinners, birthday parties, Diwali celebrations, wedding (including mine). Sometimes, the terrace is eerily quiet. Like the day that I sketched it. There is always some kind of ambient noises like bird cries, traffic sounds and the muezzin calling out the faithful. But ever so rarely, it is still.
Our neighbourhood is pretty, but only if one peeks from our terrace. The houses around must be as old as ours, probably older. There are some massive mansions in disarray along the route leading to our home. According to my dad, way back in 1961 (during the Indo-Pak war), many of these homes were abandoned by influential Bengali families thinking that this part of the city would be bombed. Nothing like that happened. My grandfather and his family had already moved here by then. They hung on.
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