Wrapping up With Smiles in Kolkata, Amar Shonar Bengal

An old post from the last few weeks in Kolkata, which I hadn't yet posted: enjoy!

The words Amar shonar Bengal (My Golden Bengal) come from a famous poem by the Bengali "Indian Shakespeare," Rabindranath Tagore. The poem was morphed into a song, which is now sung as the national anthem of Bangladesh. After spending the last two summers (read: the past two monsoon seasons..) in the region of Bengal, I will part with it until I'm brought back here by some unknown force (likely a big, big wave or rising tides) as an environmental refugee aid worker. That's why I'm here learning Bengali anyway, isn't it?

Walking down the street to pick up vegetables tonight, I caught myself thinking that there is no reason not to love Bengal. I've been treated so well by the people here, and aside from general India annoyances (like the absolute lack of pedestrian right-of-way or layers upon layers of bureaucracy), I tend to really like many Bengali qualities. Here's a collection of examples from tonight's short stroll.

Our apartment's name means "bliss" in Sanskrit

I shuffle out of my apartment door to see my neighbor's door wide open; she's sitting on the couch as she does all day, watching television. Gladly, the sound of my door shutting distracts this elderly Bengali woman's attention from her TV for long enough to sincerely ask me how I'm doing. Once we exchange smiles and warm energy, I make my way down the seven flights of stairs. I see the elevator pass somewhere around the fourth floor, and I know the elevator operator would have been more than happy to have given me a lift, if for nothing else then to enjoy hearing me thank him with an overly-formal Bengali "dhonnobad" upon leaving.

I don't even make it out of my complex by the time I have my third lovely thought. Our favourite door guard is on duty, and he's up on his feet in no time, ready to open the gate for me with the utmost courtesy. I tell him "ashchi," -I'm coming (back)- when I go out, because it's a Bengali taboo to say "I  am leaving." I meander down our lane and hear melody from the third story of the building at the ned of the row. Music lesson hour. Today's it's piano. Yesterday it was drums. My feet continue to follow one another as I suddenly notice a change in scenery to my left; it appears a concrete/bamboo structure has popped out of nowhere, apparently built entirely in the past 24 hours. Labour power in these countries: really amazing.

Before I know it I'm shaken out of my labour-amazement trance by the shrill pitch of a moderately-happy Bengali working woman. I can't tell if she's actually in charge of the Chow Mein stand where she works, but she sure yells like she is. Without fail, and I mean it, at least twice daily - everyday, she stirs noodles and smoking oil with hot words spitting straight out of her mouth. Honestly, I've never seen a person yell so much. Cultural inability-to-understand? Her conviction to raising her voice makes me laugh, and I walk on.

I'm halfway to the main drag when I see that my usual street shobji wallas (vegetable peddlers) are closed! It's a pity, because these guys are amazing. Every morning on our way to school we share some love. They know when we're not feeling well, ask how we are and even tell us when we're running late. (Yes, thanks guys.. we know when we're behind schedule!) Anyway, no worries about them being closed tonight; I remember the other vegetable peddler just up the street, and unlike my guys, he even sells fruit!

On my way up the street I pass all my regular friends: the ridiculously endearing teenage boy who irons at the tailor's shop, at whom I never fail to smile coyly (!); the stock supply shop owner who, from his presence I can easily deduct, is one of the most wonderfully light/easy-going souls I've ever encountered: someone is bound to recruit him for the next "Life is Good" ad. I walk on. My steps lead me to the aforementioned, second-choice veggie guy. He's chubbily sitting under his sheltered stand, so sweetly snuggling up next to his wife. I almost don't want to bother them, but they produce huge, welcoming smiles as I walk up. His stand his pretty picked over, and it completely lacks the coriander leaf (cilantro) I got off my buns and came out for in the first place. No worries though, their smiles encourage me to buy more. I can tell it's been a slow night; tomorrow a new shipment will come, and business will pick up again. I pick out some potol (my favourite vegetable of the region) and have him cut me a slice of fresh pumpkin-squash. I pass on his fruit, as it smells riper than the seemingly homeless man moaning across the street.

I'm at the end of the main boulevard and ready to turn back on the home-stretch, paying the shobji walla the 9 rupees ($0.20 USD) I owe him, when the smile of my friend the popcorn walla comes to mind. He's stationed farther on across the street, and I haven't visited him in a few weeks. So I take a 180 and pivot back in his direction... As soon as he sees me he blurts, "bhalo?!" to ask how I am, straddled between inquiry of my health and sheer ecstatic greeting. I respond, "bhalo :)" to assure him that no, I didn't catch yet another viral fever; I just haven't had much time for popcorn-hopping. (The street popcorn they sell here is brilliant: fresh roasted/sifted with charcoal and everything.) He head-bobs, pleased that my health is holding strong and that I'm back for my usual two bags. Then he reaches out his scooper like a Captain Hook hand and insists on giving me a free handful of piping hot roasted peanuts as a conciliatory gift for my homecoming.

It was right about then that I decided this night would have to become a blog post.

After saying our goodbyes and assuring him I'll return (remember: you're never leaving in Bengal; you're always coming), I cross the street again, and a basket-carrying fol walla (fruit peddler) catches my eye.  I fraternize with him for a bit about his action of 'popping up out of nowhere' to show him that I do indeed speak decent Bangla (and thus know the correct prices of the fruit to not be white(skin)-balled and overcharged). His prices, once quoted, are not only fair, but are cheaper than I normally pay. I buy five apples, and although it is hard to resist his insistence, I pass on the pomegranates. (I'm expecting a fresh delivery tomorrow from my organic shobji walla!) He'd already gotten me to buy more apples than I wanted, but it's okay, as I think I'll make some raw applesauce tonight. Back to the action - I end up one ruppee short of the 41 taka ($0.85 USD) I owe him for the five Indian-grown apples. One taka short and no change to be had. Then, he extends - as Bengalis often do - a vow of trust. He head-bobs "no problem" and says I can come back and pay the the remaining one taka tomorrow. Geeze I love when they do that! It's such a sweet gesture, making me feel like this huge, polluted city is really only a small, modest village, all tenants of community still intact, where this whole cast of characters are my neighbors, and I am quaint and happy. An auto-rickshaw zips by, nearly running over my toe, and I step back, remembering this is indeed a village of 17 million.

The return home includes the same smiling cast as the walk there, peppered with a few entertaining encounters - like a guy walking high-speed in front of me, looking back, confused, every few steps as if trying to figure me out. One more glance and I'll understand... By his fourth glance I start laughing, so I think he felt I'd figured him out first. I meant to bring leftover chicken from Danielle's leftovers with me on the walk to feed to the sweet, loving stray dogs. I suppose I'll have to save that excitement for another night.

Back at the homestead our door guard awaits my return. I'd told him I was coming after all, no? I open the gate and tell him it's okay, he can stay seated. As I move past him without saying too much, my mind births a second thought. I deeply want to share my good mood and pass on the electric vibes I've received from my community here in Kolkata, so I turn back and ask him "chandro kothai? where's the moon?" He springs up out of his seat, yes, you guessed it, with a big smile a-face, and takes me over to the side of the building, where he gestures and says the moon is hiding, and only our neighbors have a view from their buildings. I thank him for his answer and say that I'll still
try to find it from my 7th story window.
When I get back to the apartment, the moon is nowhere to be seen. My maid says I can't find the moon because it is hiding behind the clouds. I think the door guard's right. My neighbors, all 17 million of them, have the moon, big half-moons,
right across their faces.

I sign off now with a quote from my dear friend Ben:

"There is a misconception that is holding peace and happiness from us. It is the persistent belief that the world has limits and that we are bound by our circumstances. The truth is much more inspiring and when we suspend our wonderful cynicism, embrace the power we all possess we can begin to flower together and live life as it should be lived: in abundance, in peace and in equanimity."