21-Day Blogging Marathon | Day 19: Unique Experiences Part 2

For Part 1 of this blog post, please click here.

So the two of us moved in. Me, some suitcases, a laptop bag, a flat mate, and nothing more. Except, a few hopes and dreams, perhaps? It was a tiny house, with two tiny bedrooms, and a hall, which was just enough to accommodate the both of us. I don’t really recall when exactly it happened, when I developed a liking to this place, when I got comfortable enough to call it home. My room was bare, with a bed and a cupboard, and that was how I preferred it. However, there was something about it that I did not like at the time – I didn’t even bother to wait a day to change it – the open windows. They did not quite match with my “keeping it private” theme. I don’t know about most people, but I’m not comfortable with strangers peeping into my private space, even if it’s not what they intend to do. Hence, I picked up newspapers, new and old, and covered those windows with layers of them (yes, plural). I ensured that there was not an inch of open space, and completely vampire-proofed my room with magenta curtains.

Soon enough, this room became my safe haven, the refuge that I would disappear into during weekends and after work. With windows fastened shut, curtains pulled tight and the door locked securely behind me so that, finally, the only eyes on me were my own. My day job was a difficult one, which left me with very less private space during the day, and this room was what separated me from the outside world.

My flat mate was cool and helpful. She was the one who taught me specific techniques to make the perfect chapatis. In the initial few weeks, we would both work until 8 PM, come back home and cook. She used to cook vegetables, while I was in-charge of the chapatis. We would set it up at the dining table, and simultaneously watch Friends. Never before was there a time when I could identify with Rachel so much – the slightly spoilt one, who was oblivious to the reality of life, but who was also learning at her own pace.

Weekdays were long and boring. And then there were Saturdays, when I would wake up late, thank my stars for it being a Saturday, have my breakfast at lunch time, and feel slightly depressed around 5 PM. Not knowing what to do next, I would text my flat mate (who was literally in the other room), on what to do next. Sometimes, we would go out to party, other times to buy groceries. Both were equally tiring.

We found friends in no time, though not many. There was one enigmatic individual in my team, who quickly became one of our best friends. The three of us could always count on each other as partners to go out for a drink. We knew that each of us was simply a text away. Our party scenes evolved over time, once we realized that we spent more on alcohol than we did on rent! Eventually, we thought, it would be better to go for a movie on a Saturday evening, or even better, to stay in and play Uno. And before we knew it, this became a tradition – friends, beer and Uno. This tradition didn’t stop us from going out, of course. We explored a great deal of eateries, good and bad, and some of them became our favorites.

One favorite was a café, concealed in the streets of Salt Lake. I found it online, and fell in love with the place the minute I first stepped inside. They had live music, board games, delicious food, and hearty desserts. I devoured their brownie with ice cream, cleverly named Ebony & Ivory. Then there was another one, a restaurant, slightly closer to my workplace, where we would hang out regularly after office hours, even on weekdays. It was a rather shady place, and did not have many visitors, the food was only okay, but it still holds a dear place in my heart, possibly because of all the memories.

Sundays were meant to rest and do laundry. Waking hours were similar to Saturdays, except the additional hangover perhaps. I would treat myself to some carb-rich brunch around 2 PM, and often enjoy an afternoon nap afterwards. My Sunday night blues would kick-in at 8, right on schedule. I would keep myself up until late at night, to lengthen my Sunday as much as I could. This was my moment of serenity under my sheets, when I could binge on food too fattening for me, and rewatch my favorite TV shows long into the night. It was the time when I could slow down, take a breath and enjoy the little pleasures of life, before the chaos of the week would reappear.

There were also some magical days, when the city seemed a little more lovable than usual, when the humidity in the air was no longer bothersome and the people seemed more affectionate. These were the days when I would explore the beauty of Victoria Memorial, the hustle-bustle of Park Street, the serenity of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, the intellect of Oxford Bookstore, and the calming waters of Prinsep Ghat.

Of course, my job made me miserable and I was frequently homesick, which is why I decided to eventually return to my hometown. But my mind has found ways to somehow fade the unhappier memories, and all I am left with is the nostalgia, each time I hear the name “Calcutta”. All I’m left with, is the delightful memories of the magic of the good old days. City of Joy, indeed!