Photo-essay: In long walks across Kolkata, Sufia Khatoon comes across lives in motion, lives continuously moving forward, each person an immortal story that fuels the city and adds to its history.

- Sufia Khatoon

People are stories, breathing in between cramped spaces and passing noise. People who find pride in the simplicity of the work they pursue, who dream every day in their dimly-lit homes, drained sidewalks, littered streets, and sweaty afternoons by the small window, enduring the good and bitter moments of life. Every day when I walk on the streets of Kolkata, I pass by these lives, and I find warmth and comfort in the knowledge that everything is a story. The world runs on millions of stories, each more surreal than the other.

On my daily run in the mornings or evening walks, I usually move without a specific road in mind. I’ll often take lanes and by-lanes, just to discover something new, something I have never seen before. And when I see something that fills me with wonder, I capture it immediately in a photograph as a process of preserving the moment eternally in time.

It is the poet-artist heart of mine who is obsessed with the idea of ‘forever’ and making these stories of people surpass my death, my time, my existence and give comfort to others—like the stories have comforted me.

I grew up with my grandmother in Belgachia, in a house with a small shared courtyard, a chowk bazaar: burning chula smoke, goats and chickens running around, a mosque with a big ancient-looking gate, an open school under a shack, a tube well with people washing their clothes and utensils and the joy of co-existing in such simplicity.

All these years, I have lived near a market bustling with people. I’m familiar to the daily chaos of such places, but behind each landscape lies the raw realities of individuals that populate the market. Kohinoor market is the opposite of my childhood memory; it is another version of a mixed taste of things, with branded designer shops to running rickshaw-wallah’s hurling abuses at people out of habit. Its presence can’t be dismissed; it lingers on.

Near the auto rickshaw stand, a few things caught my eye while travelling: the neighbourhood paanwallah and an old barber shop. At times, I speak to the people I meet on the streets, but sometimes I just watch from a distance, to see the beauty in the way they carry out their daily tasks. Often, this act of observation feels like a moving art piece.

The paanwallah sits on his makeshift kiosk, his tools (supari cutter, chuna, katha, betel leaves, sweet condiments, etc) placed carefully to reach out and make a meethi supari paan in a matter of seconds. He reminds me of my Dadi, and the scent of paan in her mouth which she so loved to chew throughout the day. I have tasted paan, but I am not really fond of its musky, bitter taste. He moves his hands with expert experience, estimating the right amount of ingredients to make that perfect mouthful, while around him, customers wait in anticipation. The shade plays around with the sunlight, enhancing the ambience of his performance.

The barber shop had begun to look purposeless and sad during the Lockdown period. Streaks of its former glory returned in the past couple of months, but there is a sense of profound silence in the afternoons, in its chairs, mirrors, worn-out brushes, and scissors, as if it is content in the present circumstances, as if it has accepted everything. The silence of the shop continued to echo within me later in that afternoon. Sadly, the shop has since been sold to a food joint; like so many things, it has replaced a memory to keep up with the race of livelihood.

The tram in the Beniapukur tram depot, waiting for its passengers, looks like a lover yearning for his beloved, under the fully bloomed Palash flower tree. I can smell the nostalgic stories of people riding this tram every day back and forth from their homes to work stations, savouring the sight of Kolkata.

I have a habit of sitting in crowded places, just to feel the rumbling sounds and smells of different things. I sketch and write in cosy spots under the flyovers in Kolkata, overwhelmed with the zeal of places I’ve passed. During one such sitting, near the park circus flyover, I find a curious-looking man with a brown overcoat, leaning on the pillar, sitting with his feet crossed on the rock, engrossed in reading a newspaper. His sun-burnt face, covered by his white beard, is lost in his own world, while around him cars honk relentlessly and people push each other forward. He had a mysterious aura; he continues reading as if he had found something surreal to escape from his reality, as if he has found a secret world.

Under the Gariahat flyover, the chess club members sit for the afternoon game. I watch the game, the building tension, and estimate the moves while sipping my lemon tea. I see three young boys, who live under the flyover, sit for a game with the senior players. Everyone informs me with awe that the kids play really well, often scoring winning moves and leaving the experts shocked. They are quick in their movements, running their soldiers and knights across the chess board and grinning mischievously—the type of grin that says, ‘I control this game’.

At the same time, I see a family sitting on a cart puller, waiting in the traffic, with a box of corn kernels while a clay chula slowly burns smoked coal slowly. They are all set to go about their business. What was their story? How far had they come together? They look beautiful as a family while in conversation, dividing the day’s work, sharing their worries.

In Babughat I like to sit by the steps and look at the boats moving in the water. Once, I experienced a beautiful sunset just when the lockdown was lifted last year. It was the most surreal experiences of my life.

I drink tea from Sharma ji’s stall in Babughat, it’s proprietor a witty and joyful person. While I look at the river, at lovers sharing their feelings, children shooting balloons on the board and elderly taking a stroll around, Sharma ji jokes around with his customers, while brewing tea in the giant aluminum pan. He sells the most expensive and delicious tea around here. I pay and let the master brewer work his magic.

Once in Jodhpur Park area, I came across a lady feeding a dozen neighbourhood cats in the quiet lane, while the nearby football club kids prepared for a match. I stopped to talk to her and take some pictures. The lady immediately ran out of the frame, so I kept her privacy in mind and focused on the cats. We conversed afterwards about the cats, and about her growing up in this neighbourhood, her simple lifestyle.

I also feed some 100 to 200 wandering pigeons every day on my terrace garden, along with another man, whom I call ‘The pigeon man’. As the distance is far, I have never been able to photograph him feeding the pigeons with his kid.

While crossing the road near 24 no bus stand once, I come across the jhalmuri-wallah Kaku, who used to sell sweetened jhalmuri near my school some years back. I stop and talk to him; he smiles and prepares fresh jhalmuri for me. I don’t have very special memories from my school days, as I always had a hard time keeping up with the race, to be myself and choose my own course. I can still feel the taste of the lip-smacking delights of the food vendors who waited in front of the gate after school hours, for the children to run and savour their goodies. I still like to buy these delectable things whenever I cross a school gate and watch the kids circling the vendors; the taste still feels the same, irrespective of the time passed.

Some places also leave us baffled or leave a soothing effect on our hearts. I remember the evening I walked near Russel Street. Most of my walks are a way for me to deal with the emptiness I feel constantly as a creative soul—it is hard to describe, even harder to live with. I had found this big banyan tree where a small mandir stands tall among the worshipers. It is haloed with the sharp street light just beside a yellow taxi resting for the day. I had cried that day under that tree, held myself together and then walked back home, taking the fragrance of the place with me.

Some places give you that comfort when you need it the most.

The tram in the Beniapukur tram depot, waiting for its passengers, looks like a lover yearning for his beloved, under the fully bloomed Palash flower tree. I can smell the nostalgic stories of people riding this tram every day back and forth from their homes to work stations, savouring the sight of Kolkata.

The sunset in Gol Park ebbs away for the night in the water. It is always a sight that melts my heart. The water hyacinth in the pond found in Kolkata wetlands during my 5k nature trail with a group left me speechless. I had never seen this part of the crowded city, this serenity, freshness, raw and quiet nature, it was like experiencing the life right out of Malgudi Days.

The dhobi washes clothes near Chapantalao, vegetable vendors sit under a makeshift stall and fan themselves while passing their time at the Khaldar market, the washed clothes dry in the summer heat, overlooking the skyscrapers near the pond, the goat herder grazes the goats near Red road area overlooking the Church early in the morning, people cross the boat bridge in the canal near Kalighat temple, the son helps his mother fill the water bottles near a water tap in Ballygunge, the dog rests on the sidewalk, and the presser near Rashbehari presses clothes all day long while the iron constantly burns. These are the people who fill our lives with wonder, simplicity and beauty.

I’m still on the edge in the second wave of this pandemic, keeping my distance, hoping to protect myself and my family from this dangerous second wave. Yet, I love to meet and talk to people on the streets. One can share a lot in the company of strangers. Often, people have randomly opened up to me about their own problems, experiences and lessons. After a warm conversation and feeling of comfort, we have quietly separated our ways and walked back to our own realities, never to meet again.

I have met people visiting this city, leaving this city, struggling to survive in this city. Their lives are always in motion, continuously moving forward, but their stories become immortal, fueling this city, adding to its legend.

***

Sufia Khatoon is a multi-lingual performance poet, artist, literary translator and facilitator. She is the Co-Founder of Rhythm Divine Poets community Kolkata and Editor of EKL Review. She received the The Kavi Salam Award 2018. Khatoon authored Death in the Holy Month, shortlisted for Yuva Puraskar Sahitya Akademi 2020. Her second book of poetry is forthcoming from The Red River publication in 2021. Her work has appeared in Indian Literature Journal, Bengaluru Review, The Alipore Post, Mad Swirl, Indian Periodical, TMYS Review, Narrow Road Review, Poetry Dialogue, and more. You can find her on Instagram: @sufiamystic and Twitter: @SufiaKhatoon.

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