Kothai Galo, Amader Kolkata?
(Where has our Kolkata gone?)
I was born in Tollygunge, Kolkata - 700033. For 16 beautiful years, I grew up in a place that I could only describe as magical. My Kolkata was a world where boundaries didn’t exist, where families extended beyond walls, and where you never felt alone. My neighbours, one Gujarati and one Bengali—were like my own family. We walked into each other’s homes without hesitation, day or night. Kolkata wasn’t just a city; it was one big family, where every para (neighborhood) was its own little universe of love and togetherness.
There was no fear, no distrust. We were free, running from house to house, eating breakfast at one home, lunch at another, and dinner wherever the sun set on us. The aunties in our para substituted as mothers, the uncles as fathers, and siblings were everywhere. I never felt unsafe not even once. I remember those days of para cricket, football, and carrom matches. Life in Calcutta was safe, damn, dead safe. As children, we were sheltered by the love of our community. We didn’t care who was in power or which political party was wreaking havoc because we were too immersed in our adda sessions and carrom matches. Every elder man was Borda (big brother), every elder woman Bordi (big sister). We were a family—one big, extended, loving family.
But somewhere along the way, we forgot to see the bigger picture. The bhadralok (the gentlefolk) were deceived, lulled into complacency by 30+ years of CPIM rule, only for things to worsen with the next government. And just like that, our Calcutta turned into Kolkata. One by one, people left. Our beloved city of joy became a distant memory—a place we now remember with nostalgia and yearning. The love that was once so unconditional? Gone. Replaced by a city overtaken by rogues and chaos.
It breaks my heart to think of what Kolkata has become. I remember a time when the entire para rallied around my family when my father had a heart attack. They cared for him for weeks, never once alarming my mother, fearful of how she would react. That was my Calcutta—a city where love and care knew no bounds.
When I used to tell my friends from Chennai or Mumbai about Kolkata, they could hardly believe me. I would speak of how Durga Pujo was not just a Bengali festival but truly a celebration for every single resident, even if he was Anglo-Indian. It was a time when the whole city came alive as one family, where celebrations transcended religion and culture. Almost my entire para knew my extended family by name and relationship, as if they were their own. My friends would always say, “You must be exaggerating,” not able to grasp how a whole neighborhood could be so intertwined with love and care.
But I wasn’t exaggerating. That’s how Kolkata was—one big, beating heart.
When I lost my brother in 2021, I was hit hard by the grief, but it was Kolkata's love that caught me when I was falling. I still remember my neighbor calling me and saying, “Tor ekta dada mara gache” (You’ve lost one elder brother). Then, with a voice choked with emotion, he added, “Aro onek Borda beche ache” (Many other elder brothers are still here). He burst into tears on the phone, and in that moment, I realized once again that Kolkata was still holding me close, just as it always had.
Today, this Kolkata is unrecognizable. Eta amader oi Kolkata noi (This is not our Kolkata). As I read the heart-wrenching news about the young doctor who became a victim of such unspeakable violence.
How has it come to this, where violence and cruelty have replaced the joy and warmth that once defined us? The city of joy is lost. The charm has faded. The love is missing.
But my heart still yearns for the Kolkata I knew. It aches with the memories of Purano Shey Diner Kotha (Tales of the good old days), those golden days when everything felt too good to be true. Days that perhaps will never come back. Yet, that one haunting question lingers: Kothai Galo, Amader Kolkata?
Kothai Galo, Amader Kolkata?
(Where has our Kolkata gone?)
I was born in Tollygunge, Kolkata. For 16 beautiful years, I grew up in a place that I could only describe as magical. My Kolkata was a world where boundaries didn’t exist, where families extended beyond walls, and where you never felt alone. My neighbours, one Gujarati and one Bengali were like my own family. We walked into each other’s homes without hesitation, day or night. Kolkata wasn’t just a city; it was one big family, where every para (neighborhood) was its own little universe of love and togetherness. No fear, no distrust we were free, running from house to house, eating breakfast at one home, lunch at another, and dinner wherever the sun set on us. The aunties in our para substituted as mothers, the uncles as fathers, and siblings were everywhere. I never felt unsafe not even once. I remember those days of para cricket, football, and carrom matches. Life in Calcutta was safe, damn, dead safe. As children, we were sheltered by the love of our community. We didn’t care who was in power or which political party was wreaking havoc because we were too immersed in our adda sessions and carrom matches. Every elder man was Borda (big brother), every elder woman Bordi (big sister). We were a family—one big, extended, loving family. But somewhere along the way, we forgot to see the bigger picture. The bhadralok (the gentlefolk) were deceived, lulled into complacency by 30+ years of CPIM rule, only for things to worsen with the next government. And just like that, our Calcutta turned into Kolkata. One by one, people left. Our beloved city of joy became a distant memory—a place we now remember with nostalgia and yearning. The love that was once so unconditional? Gone. Replaced by a city overtaken by rogues and chaos. It breaks my heart to think of what Kolkata has become. I remember a time when the entire para rallied around my family when my father had a heart attack. They cared for him for weeks, never once alarming my mother, fearful of how she would react. That was my Calcutta—a city where love and care knew no bounds. When I used to tell my friends from Chennai or Mumbai about Kolkata, they could hardly believe me. I would speak of how Durga Pujo was not just a Bengali festival but truly a celebration for every single resident, even if he was Anglo-Indian. It was a time when the whole city came alive as one family, where celebrations transcended religion and culture. Almost my entire para knew my extended family by name and relationship, as if they were their own. My friends would always say, “You must be exaggerating,” not able to grasp how a whole neighborhood could be so intertwined with love and care.
But I wasn’t exaggerating. That’s how Kolkata was—one big, beating heart.
When I lost my brother in 2021, I was hit hard by the grief, but it was Kolkata's love that caught me when I was falling. I still remember my neighbor calling me and saying, “Tor ekta dada mara gache” (You’ve lost one elder brother). Then, with a voice choked with emotion, he added, “Aro onek Borda beche ache” (Many other elder brothers are still here). He burst into tears on the phone, and in that moment, I realized once again that Kolkata was still holding me close, just as it always had. This Kolkata is unrecognizable. Eta amader oi Kolkata noi (This is not our Kolkata). As I read the heart wrenching news about the young doctor who became a victim of such unspeakable violence.
How has it come to this, where violence and cruelty have replaced the joy and warmth that once defined us? The city of joy is lost. The charm has faded. The love is missing. But my heart still yearns for the Kolkata I knew. It aches with the memories of Purano Shey Diner Kotha (Tales of the good old days), those golden days when everything felt too good to be true. Days that perhaps will never come back. Yet, that one haunting question lingers: Kothai Galo, Amader Kolkata?#Kolkata #justiceformoumitadebnath
Apart from his chinaman deliveries, Shikhar is also a genuine power-hitter. Very good base against pace and spin. Talents like these are very rare - Chinaman + genuine batter.
Apart from his chinaman deliveries, Shikhar is also a genuine power-hitter. Very good base against pace and spin. Talents like these are very rare - Chinaman + genuine batter.
@ScoutingMinds the difference in white ball bowling in this video and red ball bowling in the original video .. change in control on flight, speed and variations as per T20 and longer formats .. shows good skills
Some more glimpse of his bowling. Great control and release point. What a talent. Rare commodity in the market - Tall, Chinaman, good batter too. He was in the GT camp as a net bowler. One to keep an eye on.
@sachin_rt Sir - the people (your genuine fans) who have been following you for more than 2-3 decades would know the way you speak and would easily understand that this is not you speaking! It's fake!
It is over 2 weeks that my family and i applied for renewing our PPs. Didnt receive call from the police for verification. So visited them yday and realised that there was a huge backlog causing bottleneck. Many people affected. Check Dindoshi P Stn at Malad East @MEAIndia
In some of our houses, we still have MTNL. I speak to my parents on the landline. However my parents MTNL landline has had issues for a week now. I lodged the complaint 4-5 times. No one has contacted or visited yet. Sad @DoT_India
Meet Shikhar, a crafty chinaman coming through the ranks. Great accuracy and control, possess several variations. He has been part of a few IPL camps, namely GT in their maiden season as a net bowler. (1/n)