So, how was your summer?
Since coming back from Kolkata I’ve fielded this question quite a few times. I’ll try to answer it here, but first, let me talk about the question itself. A lot of us will be answering it in the coming weeks, and I’ve thought about a lot about it.
What I’ve noticed is that each time I answer this question, my response changes. Why? Well, there are a couple ways to look at it.
In essence, you can see any conversation as a transaction. Is this too utilitarian? (lol). Maybe. But it is true that both parties want something from any interaction, whether it’s validation, or information, or to feel a certain way. I’ll give you a response to get what I want, and in kind, you’ll offer your attention to get what you want. My answers vary accordingly:
“It was really interesting, both incredible and terrible at times. I have to say though, I grew a lot.”
“It was such a unique learning experience… although it’s unfortunate for the patients, some cases are so advanced that you find some signs you’ll never see here.”
“It was SO hot, and the living conditions were tough. It really made me appreciate living in Canada.”
“It was pretty wild. How was your summer? What did you get up to? Oh that’s so cool, tell me more about that!”
And just like that, I’ll get to live through dozens of different summers in Kolkata over the next few weeks. Most of these summers will be barely a phrase long. The words will be careful and calculated; because I love to calculate, regardless of if the listener gives a shit. Some recollections will be rich and fleshy, spilling with love, fear, and portraits of people who shaped my life. In a rare few stories, I will peel back my freshest scabs for you. I will delicately extract truths from a putrid mesh of memories that host my most shameful and pathetic moments. We might sit and dissect these failings together so that we can learn from them, the way children learn from slicing open piglets and splaying their secrets.
The whole spectrum of these stories — from the ones that will feed your ego, to the ones that will inflate mine — will be true, at least in the most liberal sense of truth. I won’t fabricate, but I’ll say only what you want to hear and you’ll say only what I want to hear and I’ll end “so yeah, that was my summer”. And for some of you, that’s Good Enough.
But of course, there’s Something More.
(I learned this summer that things are never Good Enough if you’re set up to believe there is a Something More).
The Something More, is that there is a full uninterrupted truth, the truest kind of truth. A story that is not simply a transaction, not just carefully crafted for social palatability. It’s the story that my skin chronicled, my nostrils coded, and my eardrums absorbed, diligently, constantly, through every moment of my summer. Now of course I can’t share that story with you, because I don’t know all of it. This philosopher’s dome was too busy processing other stories from riots and Snapchats.
What I’ve actually got left are a couple of vivid snapshots. Let me take you to the scene of one:
I’m walking on the steps outside of Quest Mall, on the territory of perhaps the most overtly capitalist square kilometer in all of Kolkata. A thick concrete wall, metal detectors, some underpaid security guards, and a few “do you belong here?” stares separate Kolkata’s wealthy elite from everyone else. Inside is an air-conditioned heaven, filled with scents from Cinnabon, disorienting light arrangements, well-groomed children, so-stressed-yaar parents, and billboards of airbrushed models to peddle you, instead of sweaty old men. Outside, people choke on fumes from colorful private buses, homeless children with sun bleached hair play naked, and sweaty old men peddle whatever the fuck they can get their hands on. The only sign of parity here is the way that the constant heat presses its way through everyone’s flesh. Humidity has no regard for wealth or status.
At the moment, neither do I. In the way that only rich men can manage, I’m oblivious to the environment surrounding me. It’s my first time walking here, but I’ve seen versions of this all around the city. And although sometimes there’s a chink in my mind’s armour, a little gap that lets my brain scream “holy shit!”, today I’m a willing participant, sweat-soaked armpits and all. I’m actually elsewhere — thinking about how tomorrow I will be getting on a plane and starting my journey home, where weddings and family and friends are waiting. My research is complete, goodbyes at the department are said, and I’m in that transient period of nostalgia where everything seems significant because it’s The Last Time. I’ve had My Last Egg Roll and haggled for My Last Rickshaw Ride. Now, with one day to go, I have a few hundred rupees in my pocket. I’d like to spend them before I leave, preferably on more Last Experiences.
Stumbling down the steps outside Quest Mall, I notice a small paani puri stand. I call it paani puri because that’s the Hindi name, and I never did put in the minimal effort to learn the Bengali word for it. I didn’t have to (nationalism’s perks!). For those of you who don’t know, paani puri is the quintessential Indian street food — bite sized explosions of every texture and flavour you can imagine. I’m in a happy place, so I decide to deal my weak foreign stomach a final blow and have My Last Paani Puri. The stall owner looks like every other paani puri stall owner I’ve ever seen. Why? Truthfully, it’s because I hardly pay attention to his appearance. I expect to see a ragged, proud man, whose eyes have learned to forget expression. So that’s what I see.
At the stall, there is already a young ‘modern’ mother and her son, maybe ten or so years old. She has shopping bags from the mall in one hand, and her child’s hand in the other. Her hair is neatly pinned, his shirt collared and unsoiled. Like me, they seemed to have stopped on a whim, a throwaway decision to feed this man’s family today. She vomits her introduction quickly, “How many for ten rupees?” as if it will hasten the interaction. “Hello” is not as common as an opener to conversation as “How much” on Kolkata streets. The man with the broken eyes responds, “Five for ten”. The woman nods and grabs two plates from him, one for her and one for her son. As the man begins preparing the food, he and the woman share a moment of mutual contempt for each other in silence.
I watch this exchange a few steps back from the stand. The paani puri filling the man is using has really captured my attention. There are chickpeas, and potatoes and oh my god this is going to be the best Last Paani Puri ever. But then something happens that is out of my ordinary, something that will soon transform this moment from a time my eyes saw and my ears heard into a vivid memory.
“Five for ten? Shouldn’t it be six?” There’s a brief pause as I clue in, that it’s a prepubescent voice speaking. “Last time I came,” the son says, with the authority of a government official speaking to a criminal, “it was six for ten”. The paani puri wala sighs. Mom says nothing.
For some reason, these words are like a slap to my face. The chink in my brain’s armour flaps open and thoughts come rushing out. Holy shit! Who lets their child speak like that to an elder? Where did he learn to think like this? Why is she silent? I’ve only ever seen four paani puriyaan for ten, how could this child demand six? A possibility dawns on me. Did he even want more, or did he just want to demonstrate that he could ask? Are these people made of slime?
Back at the stand, nothing changes. The man with the broken eyes is not fazed. He begins serving mother and child five paani puriyaan each. It’s business as usual for him, despite my world just being shattered. Although the flap in my brain’s armour has closed, I’m now trying to decide what I can do to right the child’s behaviour (and make myself feel better). I resolve to give the man double the rate for my paani puriyaan, and as I eat, I fish around in my pocket for two ten rupee notes. After all, I am leaving tomorrow, and this is My Last Paani Puri.
I’m feeling great as I hand over the two notes. I imagine the man with the broken eyes will be momentarily stunned, and I’ll grin, “Please, just keep it. The paani puriyaan were delicious”. He will nod and graciously smile back. After all, this is not the first time this has happened.
Instead he takes the notes, quickly pockets them, and turns back to the woman and her child to ask if they want more, ignoring me completely. I’m the one who’s momentarily stunned. His reaction was not Good Enough. I was waiting for Something More.
I’m frustrated with him. How can he pretend he didn’t notice the extra bill? Why be dishonest with me, what did I do? I’m frustrated with myself. I should have made it more obvious I was giving him two bills. Why am I so concerned with him not knowing my intentions? At least he has the money now. But I have to tell him that I know what he did. For all he knows, he’s stealing from me.
In the end, all I can muster is a meek “don’t worry about it” as I turn to leave. He briefly glances in my direction, and his eyes finally speak. They say, “If you won’t be buying anything else, let me get back to my customers”.
The end.
This summer, my physical was thrown in the direct path of thousands of stories just like that. They struck me head on, thumping against my beliefs and denting my attitudes towards the world.
We’re all shaped by experiences, but while I was in Kolkata, new ones packed my mental like it was one of the train platforms that dot the city. The stories came from every direction and were of every kind: complex, simple, profound and superficial. They descended on me in droves. Sometimes I felt like I had no space to breath or think because of how new everything was. My mind was drained and my soul was flooded.
As suddenly as these stories arrived, they left. They are now memories that still occasionally bubble to the surface of my conscience when I don’t expect them. The changes they’ll make in me will be swift and unpredictable. Now that the dysphoria of experience has settled, I know I will feel the euphoria of growth.
So, in the end, how was my summer? Like I said, my answer changes every time. If my summer is still changing me, how can my stories stay the same?
