It seems that if you want to love a city, you must move far away from it, far enough to forget its blemishes and dwell with teary sentimentality on its charms. A couple of years ago, a young woman sent me an e-mail from Texas which ended with these poignant words. ‘Are the old and gracious trees still around the Dighalipukhuri? I miss them so much.’ And yet, we who live in this city, zip past that ancient tank several times a day, and for the most part we are jabbering into our cellphones, or thinking of the tasks we have to complete, and never look at the leaves touched by the November sun, or the lights reflected on the water, or hear the bird song at dusk. We are so immune to the still beauty of these dreaming trees that if one day, someone were to chop them off, and leave behind only ugly stumps, it would not even elicit a shrug or a raised eyebrow. One parallel that somehow comes to mind is that of spouses in a marriage. Living together takes away the sheen of novelty, renders all interaction dull and commonplace. Each one takes the other for granted and there are no surprises. In time, the spouse is just someone you feel comfortable with, rather than in love with. And just as one spouse complains about the other, in a wry, deprecating way, without, however, the sharp edge of malice, so do we complain about the city which is our home, about the garbage heaps, the murderous traffic, the insolence of bus conductors, the hills bleeding after the assault of earth movers. And just like spouses, you finally give up trying to change anything in your city and accept the idea of growing old together.

What I am about to say next will perhaps be a dead giveaway of my actual age. And like all women who would rather admit to murder than their age, I don’t relish the prospect at all. But it must be told to highlight how much this city has changed in a few decades. On our annual winter vacations, when we, apple-cheeked and smothered in woollies, drove down from the hills into Guwahati, the tallest building we saw first and realised we were here was the Kamrup Flour Mills on GS Road. The other day, I drove that way with my son, and saw the rather shabby structure dwarfed by the malls and offices there. Another view was that of the round, bowl-like Gandhi Mandap. These days, it is not at all visible from that road. The whole stretch of Zoo Road was nothing but a vast paddy field and there was none of that ceaseless roar of cars trying to outrace each other. And girls wearing trousers elicited shocked, scandalised comments and stares. In that Guwahati of yore, there was something quaintly provincial and insular. The birth of Dispur changed all that forever. It was as if a bumbling country girl had suddenly transformed to a sassy, know it all woman of the world.

Cities are a sign of man’s restless ambition to better his lot. Great cities of the world like London, Paris, Moscow, Tokyo, New York not only attract men of commerce and industry, seekers of wealth and fortune, but also of artists, writers and intellectuals who soak in its ambience and immortalise it in their work. If Tokyo reminds you of tony Sushi bars, you remember the giant Christmas tree on Times Square in New York. A tender Christ holds out his arms over Rio de Janeiro. The onion domed St. Basils’ Cathedral looms over Moscow’s Red Square, Delhi conjures up at once the India Gate and the imposing Parliament House, as well as the colourful gallis of old Delhi. Mumbai’s most spectacular sight is the Queen’s Necklace, that band of glittering lights along Marine Drive. If the elegant Taj Mahal hotel there is a symbol of the wealth and refinement of this mega city, its other face lies in the crowded lanes of Bhuleswar, where people are cramped into tiny cell-like tenements, and every neighbour is privy to your family secrets. While one class is visiting art galleries betting on horse races and gracing Bollywood premieres, the other class is fighting to get a toehold on the local train, or dancing in ecstasy as the pink Ganapati is immersed in the frothy waves at Chowpatty.

If there is one city that you absolutely have to be during Christmas, it is, of course, Kolkata. Park Street is ablaze with lights and filled with music on Christmas Eve. The doorman of every restaurant worth its salt is dressed as Santa Claus. Every eatery has its crooner belting out eternal favourites like Hotel California. Whenever in Kolkata, I perversely decide to stay in College Street, much to the exasperation of the family. We check into the only decent hotel there and my adventure starts early every morning, when trams begin to trundle on the streets, and people huddle in stalls, drinking milky tea from squat glasses. All around me, men open the shutter of their book stores and I am as if in Ali Baba’s cave, drunk on the booty of Moravia and Anais Nin, Truman Capote and Isabel Allende, Alice Munro and Banana Yoshimoto. Dressed in a red bordered sari, which helps in the negotiations, and reasonably fluent Bengali, I am in demand everywhere, as the Boudi who can’t say no to a book. By the time it is over, I had been walking and talking for hours without food, feel limp as a rag, and stagger back to the hotel with so many books that I actually can’t see where I am going. By the next morning, I am raring to go, not only to buy books, but to sit in the Coffee House under creaking fans– as turbanned waiters bring coffee and cheese sandwiches, and the young, the old and the in-between harangue passionately about Ritwik Ghatak, Marxism, Derrida and a new world order. I also love the span of the Howrah Bridge, the evening strolls along the ghats, watching the barges floating on the inky black Hooghly, a mist wrapped maidan at dawn, and the tenacious spirit of a people who break out into a mystic Rabindra Sangeet, even as they are completing the most mundane chores.

For those who live away from Guwahati, it is normal only to remember the poetic details– like the stunning view of the city from the Bhubaneswari temple, or the leafy tranquil environs of Gauhati University. We remember the row of stately old houses including the DC bungalow, and the amateur cricketers playing on the Latasil field. We remember the Physics gallery of Cotton College and the stained glass windows of the Pan Bazar Church. We treasure fond memories of happily wandering the labyrinthine lanes of the Fancy Bazar markets, and the shopkeepers comically holding up saris over their bodies for your inspection, as you try not to giggle at a mustachioed male draped in a peacock blue silk sari. You also think of the stunningly beautiful girls of Handique College, preening under the trees, fluttering their eyelashes, supremely indifferent to the hapless males who are almost getting into cardiac arrest as they drive past. Things have, of course, never been the same since uniforms were enforced.

All who belong here have their favourite spots in the city. Mine is a solitary road that skirts the Gandhi Mandap. A hush descends as you walk and wild flowers speckle the bushes lining the twisting road. Unseen birds call from the bamboo thicket and you are far from the surging restlessness of the city. It is the perfect place to get back some stillness into your life and reach that quietness within from which noble thoughts flow.

There was a time when I was new to the city and was wary of it. Then, I resented the heat, the swarms of mosquitoes, the unrelenting monsoons and the roads in which I so frequently lost my way. Then, through college, love, marriage, parenthood and job, this city kind the grew in me and when I leave it for any reason, there is this little pang at the parting, and a lump in my throat as I see it from above in the plane or as the train thunder over the Saraighat bridge. It feels like an old friend whos is always there for me. When you love a city, it’s not because it has a picturesque river, or great malls and sweeping flyovers. You love it because it is linked to the many memories of your life. You love it because the people you love, and from whom you cannot bear to be apart, live in the city. That is perhaps the reason why I raised a toast to Guwahati with a poem. It goes like this

Guwahati /

Ancient city with a young heart / Hills huddle around you / Like old women at a birth / Or a funeral / A sullen river / Receives your offerings silently / Of flowers, ash, coins

Guwahati /

You contain multitudes / Slums break out like rash / Your arteries are choked with cars / You die a little / As fumes permeate your lungs / As floods surge into your homes / And taps run dry / You die a little / When they tear down your/ Dreaming, time worn houses / Dig up your verdant fields /

Guwahati/

You unleash a melody / The clamour of bells at Kamakhya / Trains mounful whistles / Tumult of traffic / Cries of children at play / Muezzins call for prayers / The madman’s muttered obscenities / Ringing of telephones / Scream of pilot cars / Catcalls of eveteasers /

Guwahati /

Lovers link arms / Under yourKrishnachura / As red as the blood / Of the scooterist who / Died in your street /

Guwahati /

Your pople have no time / To read the graffiti on your walls / Or live out a cosmic experience At your planetarium / Few care to walk / The corridors of your- history / Or even know why / A frozen God contemplates the river / At Sukleswar / At the temple of the nine planets / On Chitrachal hill / The earthen lamps flicker / To dispel the darkness /

Guwahati /

Every day your old self / Dies a little The glossy tourist brochures / Have for you / A brand new sobriquet / Gateway to the north-east / How can you be / Only a threshold / To be crossed? They have forgotten the pulsebeat / Of your history/ Perhaps only the statues / In your parks / Remember your past / The wrinkles under your paint / The hills huddle around you / The river sullenly washes your side / Live on Guwahati / Dreaming under the sky.

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Indrani Raimedhi