Story of a Transplanted Organ

7/29/2019 Story of a Transplanted Organ

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Story of a Transplanted Organ

It was a distinctly normal Sunday morning, when a very weary Rajdhani

express, was arriving at the Sealdah Station. Red dressed coolies, were jumping

into the tired train, as all coolies normally do. Anxious passengers were standing

in the corridor, hoping to jump out of the train as soon as it stopped, as all

anxious passengers normally do. Enthusiastic relatives and well wishers were

peeping into the train in the hope of disobeying the laws of physics and watching

their loved ones through the polarizing windows, as all enthusiastic relatives

normally do. Everything was normal around me.

Only I was not normal. Flames of apprehension were roaring inside me. Thejourney from college was taking too long. It had been four months since I came

to my city. Four months since I stepped on its soil. Four months since I saw its

roads, since I touched its air, since I inhaled its atmosphere. The very moment I

stepped down from the train, I knew that I was home. I knew where the taxi

stand was. I knew there was a small pothole just outside the taxi lane and all

taxis would recreationally bump on it. As I relaxed through the traffic jam, I

noticed that the traffic lights in Shyambazar had not been changed. I observed

that, the painting of Swami Vivekananda on the Tala Bridge had been changed.

The Taxi rolled into Dunlop, and I was greeted by a new flyover. A huge

gathering in front of the Agarpara Jute Mills, meant something had gone sour

between the owner and the labours. The taxi took a right turn and the each one

of the very familiar shops along the road leading to our house welcomed me. As

I approached my house, I remembered my house had been painted. I grew a bit

uneasy. Would I recognise it? Could I still recall how the flower pots were

arranged on our terrace? Was the 'madhhobi-lata' tree that winded up the

eastern flanks of our balcony still there? Had my home changed, now that she

had been decorated. With the final left turn a beautiful blue building gestured

me. Instinctually I knew who she was. I leapt out of the taxi and banged the

calling bell. As the door creaked open I fanatically dived on my mother. I wasback. Back to my city.

I was born in Kolkata, eighteen years from today. Like any normal person, I

abode the law of juvenile amnesia, and what I remember is very less compared

to what I saw. Nonetheless, I shall attempt to recollect it.

My home is in the suburbs of Kolkata, in an unknown remote place called

Agarpara. It is so remote that, some of my friends thought they could go there

from our school in just two minutes, while others thought that they would need

a few hours. I used to study in Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan, in a place called Salt

Lake, which is popularly accepted to be in the proper Kolkata. Every morning I


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made an one hour ride in various forms of transportation to reach my school. I

used to travel in shuttles (a fancy name for share taxis), taxis, buses, autos,

rickshaws, trains, vans and even in my friends' cars. Thanks to my adventurous

rides every morning, I was a favourite of my vice principal, because I was a

relentless late comer. My vice principal thought I was a disgrace to time. No

doubt my feelings for her were not very affectionate.

However there were some delightful perks that came with my morning

ceremony. The most delightful of them all was that, I met new people every day.

This gave me a glorious advantage. Buses in Kolkata are unique beasts driven

by strange people. Generally buses carry one lakh prisoners but when the next

bus is far away the conductor will promptly jump down at every stoppage and

gleefully declare that the bus is empty, much to the displeasure of the prisoners.

The cons really don't like the sweltering heat of their chariot, and the fear of the

wardens at their office, just put salt on their wounds. The conductor would meet

his own share of greetings from the savage inmates, and even the bus suffers

significant damage as the convicts hammer the walls in a desperate attempt to

break away. Well, when one lucky detainee gets a chance to flee, he meets

severe resistance from others, and heated words flow freely. Every day I used to

volunteer to be one of these prisoners, and every day I was heated up. But

fortunately, I knew I would not meet my adversaries again. So, a few angry

words really did not make a difference. What does it matter, whose legs I

squashed or, whose ribs I jabbed, whom I pushed or whose space I blocked. I

really didn't have to make a good impression on my cellmates. After all, I wasn't

going to marry their daughter.

The prisoner concept was more or less valid in every form of public transport.

But in luckier days, I could concentrate more on the people. I am proud to say,

we Kolkatians (Bengalis actually) can have really entertaining conversations. It

was a rare occasion when I talked or heard a fellow citizen and was not

enthralled by the exchange. We can talk about anything, because we know

everything. Our cosmic knowledge tends to infinity. We know everything

material and more than anything immaterial. We know, the secrets of Osama

Bin Laden's shoelaces and also the best cure to carcinomas. So, naturally our

conversations are really worth prying into. Once upon a time I had a niceincident in a train. I was returning from school when, a man who had bought a

pair of rabbits, boarded the train. The man, new to the art of animal breeding,

innocently asked a fellow passenger "Sir, when do they lay eggs?" The

knowledgeable Samaritan confidently replied "After two weeks." A few stupid

people rose up against him, and heat flowed again.

In spite of our world conquering knowledge, conversations in Bengal primarily

revolves around one topic, politics. A Bengali lives it, thinks it, breathes it, eats

it, drinks it, wears it and loves it. Any random Bengali will surely know more

politics than Roosevelt. Kolkata is spearheaded by a group of extremely efficientpoliticians, some of them so efficient that they kept on being re-elected until


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they died. A few of them are immortal. Parties in Bengal exist only for their

names. It is always the same politician who gets elected but under different

colours. In these fields we can beat even the crafty chameleon. Politics is the

single biggest employment generating sector of Bengal, the largest revenue

collector, and the spiciest topic of a conversation closely followed by cricket. The

camp of cricket has two classes of supporters. The die-hard "Dada" (Sourav

Ganguly) fans, and the die-hard KKR (Kolkata Knight Riders) fans. To anyone

remotely familiar with cricket, these two schools of thought, need no

introduction. These two classes of die-hard fans, frequently tempt the other into

arguments and then, well they die hard.

A description of Kolkata really does not end, unless one describes its buildings.

Kolkata was India's first colonial capital, so undoubtedly it houses some of the

best examples of British architecture. We are proud owners of "The Dalohousie

Square", "The Monument", "The Victoria Memorial", "The Howrah Station" and

many many many more. The tradition of these buildings have lived on 200 years

after the British left India, and sometimes new buildings are added a brick red

colour to give a colonial touch. Our generous English rulers gave us many things.

They made ours the first Indian city to have an underground railway system.

After the English went away other evil Indian cities made much better metro

railway systems and have continued to ensure that ours remains the worst in the

country. Kolkata also provides shelter to Spaniards, French, Portuguese, Chinese

and lots of other races and faces. These people had once brought a significant

chunk of their culture along with them into Kolkata, but eventually got smudged

into the crowd. The only times we remember their names are when a heritagebuilding is declared dangerous or when their houses are on fire.

Kolkata houses one of the world's best botanical gardens. It is the home for a

1000 year old banyan tree. This tree is extremely peculiar, because it does not

have any main trunk. Indeed, its prop roots support the immense scaffold of

branches and leaves. The garden has a type of aquatic Lily flower, on whose

leaves a child can stand and not drown. A public recreational spot, Botanical

Garden remains open for all. The garden is a favourite for morning walkers. So

much, so that when one day the gate was locked to prevent them, the deprived

walkers enthusiastically vandalized the gate. The authorities must have beenreally silly to think that the morning walkers harm the plants and do not follow

rules. Surely, walking in a spell bounding garden is a right of every citizen. The

authorities themselves got into trouble once, when it was discovered that exotic

trees had been smuggled from the garden. But, such a minor glitch was soon

repaired and things became green again.

This leads me to talk about the law and order system of Kolkata. We have lots of

laws, but rarely any order. Kolkata is run under the strictest principles of

Calcutta Police. The police are connoisseurs in their jobs. They are extremely

regular in collecting bribes and loosing files. They prefer to stay aloof from


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media coverage until suddenly, a thief catches them and asks for ransom. In the

rare, converse occasion the police promptly declare their success in facebook.

In the middle of this colourful Christmas party, lives a handful of people. People

who can think. Less fortunate people, who know less, but think more. These

people dream of a "better". These people are the intellectuals. Hated by thepolice, politicians alike these people dare to dream. For years they had been

forced to live under the false colours of imagination and the illusion of life. These

people have dared to get shot in their chest, rather than wait to be shot at their

backs. Years of mindless orgies by the rulers and the ruled of Kolkata has

brought it down to a status of medieval community. Basic human rights are

being threatened. Not a single hospital or health centre functions properly. The

expensive nursing homes are no better. 84 patients died when a private nursing

home caught fire. Aged, sick, wounded, people had to be carried out through the

windows. The guarantee of cure too, is a figment of our imagination. One of my

close relatives died from a fungal infection because the doctors could not figure

out what the disease was until too late, and even after biological death they

wanted to perform a dialysis and carry on the ventilation. They probably

considered her immortal.

Everything about our society is crumbling. Our culture is dying. We have

proclaimed, Rabindranath Tagore, the great Bengali poet as the supremum of

cultural excellence, and have been contented to live on ever since, never

wondering whether we can do something for ourselves. Every annual function, or

cultural meet serves Rabindrasangeet as the major entertainment. I will boldly

state, that there is not a single cultural evening, where anything new, anything

creative is staged. We have chosen to live within the shadows of our past. And,

are we really justified in exploiting the great man as entertainment every time? I

do not think so, especially after we tagged his Nobel Prize as the only Nobel

Prize to be ever stolen.

There is decadence and sorrow everywhere in my city. A snake is strangling her

throat, choking her to death. But, even in her deathbed she smiles. Fortified by

the courage of a handful of her children, she smiles. She smiles and caress us all

lovingly. Her breath is losing its moisture, but her voice has not lost its melody.

The glass is yet half full, and the dawn is not that hopelessly dark either. Kolkata

too gets her share of love and care. If there is one thing of Kolkata, that I really

miss,it is the "Durga Puja". It is the only time when my city is decorated like a

queen. The female goddess durga is worshipped with as much pomp as the city

herself. Thousands of citizens get together in a collective effort to bring the best

out of our city. The superlative time of the pujas is not the puja itself. It's in the

few weeks before the actual date, the real fun lies. The air, thick with hidden

excitement and suppressed emotions, can be almost cut by a needle. Anyone,

who has experienced one puja, can easily smell a change in the behaviour of

everyone of us. Even private firms start forgiving employees for coming late.The NRKs (Non residential Kolkatians) are more addicted to the puja, than the


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residents. They even go to the extent of hiring Brahmins for a online video chat

ritual. The craze of the festival, resonates in the hearts of every single one of us,

and the further we go, the stronger the vibrations become. The more we feel an

unbearable urge to return to where we belong. We want to break free of our

lives, just to indulge in those few days of excitement, fun, devotion, care and

love. Our mother's lap beckons us like the hymn of the Pied Piper. To refuse it is

like ripping your body apart ten times ten. Staying away from the Puja is

agonizingly heart wrenching. To be away from the city is to realise, that the city

is like oxygen. Necessary for life, but scarcely noticed until taken away at one

stroke.

Our city nourishes us, feeds us, sustains us. Encourages us to grow up. To be

strong enough to wield a knife, and cut her loose. To be the true child of a proud

mother.

I want to be such a child. I want to give something to my loved ones, to my city,to my country, to the entire humanity. I would hate to spend my life just as a

passing stone in the path of human history. I want to be a milestone. But, even

after I may accomplish such a feat, I want to return to my city. Because my city

did not know me for what I did, it will not know me for what I will do. A mother

need not be introduced to her child by his deeds. I am as expensive to my city

as is the greatest man who ever lived here. I belong here, and here only. Me

and my fellow citizens were born as siblings. Conceived in the womb of the same

mother, we are all related to each other like a mighty super organism. Then why

should I wish to be a transplanted organ, doing my time in someone else's

body?

Name - Atreya Dey

SR No. - 09908

Topic - My City

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Story of a Transplanted Organ