I often feel that the Kolkata of my youth no longer exists except in memory. Yet whenever I think of that lost city, I remember its seasons first—as though they were movements in a grand symphony that shaped the emotional rhythm of my life. Summer arrived with merciless intensity. The heat was so fierce that the earth itself seemed to crack beneath the relentless sun as the mercury climbed endlessly higher. By afternoon, the streets shimmered in exhaustion, ceiling fans whirled helplessly above sweating bodies, and even human tempers appeared to wilt beneath the oppressive humidity.
The city seemed suspended in a haze of heat and fatigue, gasping for relief. And then came the monsoon. Without warning, dark clouds gathered ominously across the sky and the heavens opened with torrential fury. Rain would pour relentlessly for days without reprieve, drumming upon rooftops and pounding the streets until large parts of Kolkata became hopelessly waterlogged. Sometimes the flooding became so severe that one could actually see small boats plying through the streets like scenes from some surreal dream. Yet strangely enough, I loved those rainy days with all my heart. For heavy rains often meant school closures, and nothing delighted me more as a child. I would spend hours making paper boats out of old newspapers and floating them triumphantly along the flooded streets while the rain continued to fall in shimmering sheets around me. Rainy days also carried their own special rituals inside Bengali homes.
My mother would prepare steaming hot khichuri—the beloved Bengali comfort dish forever associated in my mind with monsoon afternoons. She would cook rice and lentils together with potatoes, cauliflower, green peas, onions, and other vegetables until the entire house filled with an aroma that felt deeply comforting and intimate. The khichuri would often be accompanied by fried eggplant, fried potatoes, fried pumpkin, or fried eggs. Sometimes she would also prepare a delicious tomato chutney whose sweet and tangy taste completed the meal perfectly. Outside, the rain continued its endless performance while inside the house there was warmth, food, safety, and quiet contentment. I remember sitting for hours by the window gazing silently at the falling rain.
The soft rhythmic sound of raindrops striking rooftops and trees seemed to cast an almost hypnotic spell upon me. My mind would drift far away into vague daydreams and unnamed longings. On many of those rain-soaked afternoons, I would play my father’s record player and listen to a Rabindra Sangeet rendered hauntingly by Suchitra Mitra—a song that exquisitely captured the gathering clouds and darkening skies of the monsoon. I was far too young then to fully grasp the emotional depth of Tagore’s lyrics, yet something about that song stirred my innermost being in ways I could not understand. The final lines especially left me strangely pensive: “I only stare and gaze afar, My soul cries in the stormy winds.” Even now, after all these years, those words continue to echo deep within me whenever I see dark clouds gathering across the Kolkata sky.
Then, in its own leisurely and graceful manner, autumn descended upon Bengal carrying with it enchantment and anticipation. White kash flowers swayed gently in the breeze beneath impossibly blue skies, and suddenly the entire city seemed charged with festive electricity because autumn in Bengal meant only one thing—the arrival of Durga Puja. As a young boy, I would often recite with unalloyed joy Tagore’s beautiful poem on autumn from Sahaj Path. Even now, those lines instantly transport me back to another time and another Kolkata—a city bathed in soft golden light, dew-covered mornings, drifting clouds, and the intoxicating excitement of the approaching Puja season. Even now, I cannot think of those days without feeling an ache of nostalgia.
Kolkata transformed itself completely during Puja. Streets glowed with lights and decorations. New clothes, laughter, music, crowded pandals, the fragrance of dhuno, and the hypnotic rhythms of dhaak created an atmosphere that felt almost magical. Durga Puja was never merely a religious festival. It was an emotional experience, a cultural celebration, and a collective expression of joy. And after the euphoria of Puja slowly faded, winter quietly arrived in Kolkata like a gentle old friend. I remember waking up on winter mornings beneath heavy quilts while pale sunlight filtered softly through old wooden shutters. Tea somehow tasted better in winter.
Conversations felt warmer. There was a deep comfort in those misty mornings and lazy afternoons bathed in golden light. Winter also brought Christmas and New Year celebrations, adding yet another layer to Kolkata’s cosmopolitan charm. Park Street came alive with dazzling lights, music, restaurants, laughter, and festive crowds. People from all communities joined in the celebrations with genuine warmth and enthusiasm. And for cricket lovers like us, winter also meant the arrival of Test matches at Eden Gardens. There was an indescribable thrill in sitting amidst roaring crowds who treated cricket almost like a sacred ritual. The excitement, the collective gasps, and the thunderous applause all became part of the emotional landscape of growing up in Kolkata. Looking back now, I realize those seasons were never merely changes in weather.
They were emotional markers in the story of my life. They shaped my memories, deepened my attachments, and gave Kolkata its unique poetry. And perhaps that is why, even today, when I think of Kolkata, I do not merely remember a city. I remember a feeling of innocence, wonder, and quiet longing—a time when the world still seemed magical and full of mystery, and when even the sound of falling rain could stir the deepest corners of the soul. The writer is professor emeritus at Loyola Marymount University, Los Angeles.