The Call of Cuttack

The initial days were lonely. One missed the vast open spaces of Berhampur, the impromptu trips to Gopalpur, the ritual of receiving the Madras-Howrah Mail, the walk down Giri Road, the haloed precincts of St. Vincent’s, the teachers, the sisters and the friends…..everything had disappeared as quickly as dew drops before the morning sun.

Gradually one came to terms with the city and Cuttack began seeping into you making inroads into your heart.

Our first floor house overlooked a busy road that meandered its way from Chandi Mandir towards High Court. From the roof top you could view the huge pond in front of the Masjid. Around it were coconut trees in various poses. Some straight, some bent while others that could not bear the lashings of stiff winds in their infancy were almost at an acute angle striking a lazy soporific pose.

From the window one could see a long stretch of Sheikh Bazaar. Sprinkled on both sides of the meandering road were the numerous barber and vegetable shops, the pawn shops, the cycle repair shops and the ubiquitous tea shops. Each had its own unique clientele. If you observed the kaleidoscopic scenes long enough you would notice a distinct trend: a method to the madness in the bazaar. People with different profiles and backgrounds discussed different issues in different clusters at different times of the day but in a set pattern.

The barber shop would be the first to offer its early clients the two great Oriya dailies- Samaj and Prajatantro where you could discuss politics in the morning hours before the talk meandered its way to films as the day wore on. Not all would come for a hair cut. In fact many a middle-aged and the old would walk in just like that or for a shave. Many would never mind if their turn did not come. “Theek ochhi kaali khero heba” they would say without any grudges. More than anything else they were addicted to the early morning political gossip.

The vegetable shop was the venue for discussing inflation. After all, vegetable prices represented the sensex of the seventies “Poriba kete mohonga hai gola” was the usual lament. The paan shop venue was spicier. It gave you the pssssts gossips of the bazaar and kept your abreast of the current “affairs”. There was also a small verandah with a carom board and a low bulb hanging over it where the young and not so young would come, play a quick game and then go about doing their daily chores.

The courtyard of the house across the road was indeed interesting. Obscured by lush green foliage you could hear the rehearsals of the local drama party practicing their plays punctuated with a loud ha ha ha haaa- the trade-mark laughter of the wicked kings and villians of the jatra party. Women were never allowed to take part in the drama. Their roles invariably had to be enacted by males! I remember feeling sad when these dedicated actors were referred to as bhaands- a word which reflected a complete disregard to the profession of drama.

Then there was this interesting phenomena of the rickshaws wrapped around with “purdah”. This was a first for someone who had just come over from Berhampur. The entire rickshaw would be covered with a white cloth or a cotton saree and only then that the shy and giggling khatoons of sheik bazaar would sit in it and take a ride to their destinations. I wonder if this tradition still continues.
It is in this house that we lived for six years after leaving Berhampur.

After the initial awkwardness and after the Kotoki’s had made fun of my Berhampuria Oriya accent, I somehow managed to fit myself in Stewart School. It was the teachers more than the students who had me fascinated.

David John Hampshire was our smart,suvave and dapper Principal. I still recollect this blond haired Britisher in his Wrangler jeans with his remote controlled boat that he used to fiddle around with in the pond in front of the school. He and his pretty wife, who taught in St. Joseph’s Convent, made even cycling look very hep and stylish. Once, when he realized that we did not have a good book for physics he hand-wrote the entire Practical book, cyclostyled it, hard bound it and distributed it to each and every student of the class!

Then there was our grammar teacher, Mr. Saunders. He took it upon himself to shove the entire Wren & Martin book down our throats. Boy was he tough? What a rage he would get into if you wrote incorrect English. Mr. Mukherjee was our flashy Chemistry teacher. When there were overhead clouds and rains he would toss the chemistry book aside bring out the book of poems and take us on a lyrical and romantic journey. His rendition of “The Highwayman” in a rainy afternoon was a standout. The lines still haunt me after thirty years:

Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight,
though hell should bar the way.

He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i' the casement!
His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.

Now that's chemistry!!

Above all there was Mr. Somalingam who taught us Shakespeare and poetry. He absolutely mesmerized us with his emotional interpretation of “Ancient Mariner”. And we actually felt thirsty when he dramatically recited:

Water, water everywhere,
And all the boards did shrink,
Water water everywhere,
Not any drop to drink

There was a whole world beyond school that was willing to share its mysteries to the inquisitive soul. And inquisitive I was.

In the seventies people did not learn swimming in the swimming pools. It was either in the ponds (pokhori) or the river. And Mahanadi, the serene and majestic river that flowed past Cuttack, provided that opportunity. Nanda (my class-mate in SVC who had moved over to Cuttack a year earlier) used to stay in Cantonment Road and the river flowed just past his back yard. Trust Indian Bureaucracy to choose the best location for its officers! It was there that I learnt swimming and spent on an average about three hours everyday in the river and the many small islands that spread all the way across to Chowdwar. Tulsipur and the gadgadia ghat was another venue for long swimming afternoons.

It was in these islands that I came across a very intelligent species of bird. As we would walk across these islands, the birds used to enticingly land in front of us and start walking just ahead of us playing the catch-me-if-you-can game. The birds would look back ensuring that they were being followed. The innocent Berhampuria that I was, I followed it only to find that Nanda and Nabhi (Venu’s brother) go the opposite way. This was actually the bird’s ploy to divert us away from her eggs! We would soon discover their eggs amidst the weeds and the birds would then circle overhead creating a huge ruckus telling us to get lost!

Cuttack is also famous for its khottis. These are small joints, usually thatched huts, with a few wooden benches where tea (chaloo/ fresh/ one by two) and snacks (Bora, piyaji, kheero goja, lobongo lota and chenna podo) are served. It is here that groups of students and even elders come at specific times to air their views on important events and also indulge in plain gossip and small talk. At its very best a khotti was the Kotoki response to the Coffee House culture of the 18th century Europe. There were numerous khottis around Ravenshaw College and other important landmarks like the Barabati Stadium, YMCA etc. where interesting discussions would go on for hours and hours throughout the day with topics changing depending on the composition of the group.

The Barabati stadium, where the Clive Loyd led West Indian team descended in 1974 was and is amongst the finest and the most scenic cricket grounds in India. The sprawling expanse of wide open spaces in front of it stretches right up to Mahanadi and is the venue of the colourful Bali Jatra held annually in memory of the brave and enterprising sailors of medieval Orissa, who went out to trade their wares to the Indonesian islands of Bali, Sumatra etc. This was also the place where we played our cricket and had our evening dohi bora and aloo dum. You will never, NEVER, NEVER come across a kotoki of the seventies who has not gone ga ga over Raghu’s dahi bara aloo dum!!
As time relentlessly marched on and the seasons chased each other, time came for me to bid adieu to this city too. But when I look back I do so with pleasant memories of the by-gone era.

Berhampur, where I was born, will always be special. That’s where my soul will wander long after I am no more. But Cuttack is also special and will always remain so and my heart will cajole my soul to go there time and again to rekindle the nostalgic flames.

Space for two: you can always have one for the soul and one for the heart I guess.