Keep Calm and Carry on

Waking up in a strange bed, in an unfamiliar room- sleep last night was elusive, interjected by restlessness.The streets this morning look dull and the sky is a flinty grey. I can hear the pitter patter of constant rain, a drizzle, but never pouring down unabashedly, as if it is waiting eternally for someone's arrival.

We drink our coffees, bite into something sweet purely as a complement to the strong, black brew. Ready to go on our exploration, we quietly close the door behind us as we leave the strange dwelling for the day. The drizzle not being a deterrent, I let it lash on my face, I had abandoned my glasses for the much disliked contact lenses so that the water droplets wouldn't come in the way of my eyes and the sights that lie before me. 

We are walking down Potter Street, ironic, I think, as it could've been Privet Drive. In the tube we count the number of stations we would need to pass to reach our destination. A little girl beside me is playing around holding the handrail and in her playing she lightly kicks the bag lying between my feet. She apologizes in a voice as sweet as honey, I am not used to such polite manners, I smile and mumble that it's alright clearly impressed by the little girl's etiquette. Gradually it dawns on us that the low hum of conversation is not in a foreign language, so used to drowning out conversation around us we had done the same here and suddenly we find out that we understand the words, it makes me want to eavesdrop, sure that I won't be hearing any ill about myself.

We are eager to reach our stop where we have to change trains to our final destination. We have to get off at Baker Street to change trains. Baker Street, Baker street, I wonder... isn't that where Sherlock Holmes lived? I am as thrilled as a child, lost in my thoughts of a Victorian London. The cobbled stone streets, the horse drawn carriages, the defiant, genius and petulant man who is Sherlock, all just becoming floating images in my head. We finally reach and I see red and green profiles of the man himself with his signature pipe all over the tiled walls, how exciting it all is. We clamber down the escalator to the platform all the while stealing glances at the tiles that are swiftly disappearing behind me. Oh! it is such a rush!

We finally reached in front of the Palace gates where the changing of guards will begin in about an hour, throngs of people have gathered, the street in front us is cordoned off. We wait at the gates, people have started to push, I panic, crowded places have never been my scene, I get away from the gates towards a fairly open area. I know I can't see much of the happenings in account of my height, or the lack thereof. But I soon realize the guards are not holding my attention at all, it is the building in front of me that is of much more significance to me. It is surreal being there, knowing that previous occupants of that palace were our Colonisers. The relationship is rather complex. There is a true love-hate relationship in my mind. There is an obvious attraction, far more complex than the attraction for other tourist destinations, yet there is a latent dislike. It truly is a baffling feeling. I mean, I am thinking all of this in, what originally is their language, English, but it is mine too, and yet I do not belong.

I wonder, is the hate because I do not belong? They were in the city I grew up in, I haven't seen them there, they have left what to my eyes are vast opulent (and ignored) colonial buildings covered in years of dust,that look wholly out of place in the bustle and poverty of central Calcutta (and I call the city by the name they gave it ) and we carry some pride about them in us, we proudly tell people that Calcutta was the first capital of India under the Empire. We have walk down streets named Curzon, Russel, Middleton, Elgin; we have been taught by Anglo-Indian school teachers, we've worn dresses tailored by them, we know 'Our Father..' by heart and sang Christmas Carols and after all of this shared history we still do not belong. 

With these thoughts in my mind we walk along lanes looking at the sights, I feel distant yet something entices me to go on. 

I think of the realities I have experienced through the world of  Literature, all the journeys I have been on, of human emotions and life in another world. Though universal in appeal the descriptions were most definitely of the cultures, geographies and lives of this land and so familiar did I get with them, that, unknowingly, I have had an identity crisis all my life. 

The Indian immigrants are an inevitability, they are a part of the country, they have been embraced by society, nowhere is the curry as popular as it is here. Yes, I think they belong here. We argue, we debate, we discuss- we theorise our relationship but we cannot deny the relationship, we have unquestionably influenced each other. We say they stole our Koh-i-noor but in turn they gave us chicken tikka masala, which is more of a personal favourite.

While thinking of such complicated thoughts we have walked past many a famous landmarks and we find ourselves inside Harrods. I get the hint, it is time for me to indulge a little in the luxuries of life, except it is too crowded to even get a place to stand. The smell of food inside makes our stomach rumble with hunger but there is no place to be found here to perch ourselves and get a bite or two. I suggest a pub should be the place to be. We haul ourselves out on the street and take a ride in a black cab to reach Covent Garden. We are lucky to find a place at a pub and we plonk ourselves down faint with hunger. The man at the counter is chatty and polite, he asks us how our day has been and I am thrilled to have understood everything that he said and that I can answer his question without so much as a thought. We pick fish and chips and chicken tikka masala with our preferred choice of Ales, life is good. I calculate in my mind how far the second hand book shop would be from the pub and decide not more than 10 minutes. Stomach filled and mind refreshed I am ready to go shopping. As we reach the shop recommended to me by someone, I see that it is quaint and packed full of books of all subjects. At the back they stack rare books, 1st editions and signed copies, a little beyond my budget, so I happily scour the general section and pick out 6. Joyful is the word I am feeling, with my exploits in hand we head back to our dwelling which could be No. 4, you know where!