New Yorker Bhaskar ('Papa') Menon looks back at the city he grew up in and his entry into JS.
At six, the world is focused on small things, a fragrant mango and a black-handled knife, dripping sweetly onto the dust of a railway compartment, the coal-dust and occasional burning cinder from the steam engine in front, the singsong rise and fall of the telegraph wires, little whirlwinds in the arid fields, shimmering heat pools in the dry distance. Through the shutter cracks, a cow gallops away, tail straight up, the tassel hanging down, parrots wheel in the bronze sky.
In the lower berth my brother lies, breathing hard, restless in his bedclothes, delirious. Double pneumonia Dr Singhi said, his stethoscope held up in warning. Careful. Careful. Medicine bottles in a little basket slide in and out from under the green berth. Quiet in the compartment. All of you be quiet. And keep the shutters down. The little black ceiling fans whir and whir and whir. The train rumbles day and night, stopping sometimes unexpectedly in the still afternoon heat or the stiller darkness. The guard goes by, metal strikes metal as wheels are tested, signals set. Tea vendors calling on platforms. Sudden loud crossings over trestle bridges. Thermometer out every hour. Ama looks grim. Ice packs, soup, low voices. From the upper berth, thoughts of a tiger. One could jump in when the train is stopped. But there's safety in the upper berth. Surely, a tiger couldn't get up there. The thousand-mile journey to Calcutta across the great northern plain dissolves into a thousand little details.
A new rhythm in the wheels, a new swaying, clacking, changing of tracks as they branch and rebranch, cross and recross, clackety clackety clack, smoothly, the train slides past the yellow sign, Howrah Station, into a vast echoing gloom of pigeons in the air and on the long broad platform, pools of coolies in crimson shirts, food carts and fresh, receiving faces. The train stops with a final shake. Two men from Achan's office await, a thin one with a woman's voice, a fat one all muffled grunts and smiles. They pat us on the head, supervise the coolies with the luggage. Down the emptying platform we scurry, following the crimson shirts, Ama carrying brother, father chatting with the thin man and fat man. "All arranged, sir. Taxis are for the luggage. Temporary housing." A black DeSoto wagon with taxis in pursuit, across echoing Howrah bridge, into the roar of Calcutta.