The Calcutta I Carry

Memories too precious to risk, yet impossible to forget

My parents met in Calcutta, and it was there that they fell in love. Though they married later in Kerala, the beginning of their story—and mine—was written in Calcutta. No matter where life has taken me since, that city has always remained close to my heart—as if part of me was left behind in its streets, its churches, and its quiet corners.

Those early years were filled with a kind of wholesome joy I have never quite been able to recreate.

Saturdays with my mother were sacred. We would walk together to church, our steps carrying us from the bustling noise of the main road into quieter lanes where the city seemed to exhale.

Trams clattered along the streets, their bells ringing through the morning, while rickshaws wove between pedestrians and bicycles, carrying people in a slow, jolting rhythm that made the city feel alive. Vendors called out from every corner, their voices mingling with the scent of spices, sweets. And the Hooghly whispered in the distance.

Amid this, we moved like a calm current.

Along that stretch sat the textile shop of Sardarji Uncle. I never knew him personally, and we never once bought anything from him—he was always surrounded by bales of colourful cloth. Yet every Saturday, without fail, he looked up, spotted me walking hand in hand with Mummy, and gave me a wave and a smile. I was only four years old, but that small recognition made me feel known, seen, part of the city’s heartbeat.

At the church, we prayed in silence, spoke sometimes with the priest who always seemed to find me a treat from the mess, and then returned home—often stopping at Mummy’s friends’ houses, where I was fed rosogollas and other local sweets.

There were picnics on the sprawling grounds of Victoria Memorial, at Park Circus, and in other corners of the city where families gathered and laughter carried into the evening.

There were ice creams with my Daddy, birthday parties with friends, and endless games with family friends’ children who never let me feel left out.

Through it all, my mother was radiant in Calcutta. She was a teacher, and she loved it thoroughly—pouring herself into her students and being nourished in return by the bonds she formed with colleagues and friends. When the day came that she would leave, many of them pleaded with her not to go. She had found not only a career but a home, a community that filled her days with warmth and joy.

We loved our visits to our native place in Kerala—there was excitement in meeting relatives, in touching the roots from which we came.

But never once did we want to leave Calcutta behind. That was unthinkable.

Too dear. Too alive. Too full of us.

That night, Mummy explained to me at bedtime that we must always be in a state of gratitude to God for the good friends He gives us at each juncture of our lives—and that nothing lasts forever.

Yet, even in gratitude, I was startled by the bland finality of having to leave my birthplace.

And one December day in 1964, we said goodbye.

Daddy said we’d return someday. Mummy stared out the window, half-heartedly, lost in thought, carrying her heavy heart like a silent companion. And the train chugged loudly as if to fill the silent emptiness in our hearts.

For decades, I have wished I could return to Calcutta. But now, after writing my memoir, I find myself afraid.

What if the Calcutta I find is not the Calcutta I remember? What if, by going back, I lose the only Calcutta I have left—the one alive in my heart, untouched by time?

Perhaps this is where my mother and I meet again across time. She left Calcutta with a heavy heart, not wanting to lose what she cherished. And I, all these years later, hesitate to return—for fear of losing the Calcutta that still lives within me.

And so Calcutta remains, not just a city, but a part of me. A place of love and laughter, of beginnings and belonging. A place I will never stop carrying, even if I never set foot in it again.

Though my memoir You Told Me to Be Brave begins at my mother’s grave in Kerala, it holds these Calcutta chapters close too—for it was there, in the city where my parents first found love, where my mother thrived as a teacher and friend, and where my childhood bloomed, that the true story of my life began.

And now, I wonder: should I risk returning to see what Calcutta has become? Or should I let it live forever in memory—untouched, whole, and unbroken by time?

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Hi there, I’m on the road to releasing my memoir, You Told Me To Be Brave, soon. If today’s story resonated with you, sharing it with someone you care about would mean the world.