I have not been associated with Calcutta Cacophony for more than 17 months. It has had its own shares of ups and downs. I remember, messaging Devangshu one day, congratulating him on his new internship at Calcutta Cacophony. I expressed my desire to work there, which made Devangshu give me Ankita, the boss' contact number, and within a week I was a part of the team. I covered some events, hosted The Soul Local Chapter I. I was part of all the letdowns and achievements that we had with it.
It was exactly a year since I joined CC, when I received a call from Rishi, co-Founder of the group. Rishi, Devangshu and I were to meet, I was informed. Rishi made Devangshu and I, the coordinators of CC, and I was suddenly facing an identity crisis. I aspired to be a failed poet (notice the paradox), and just write when I felt like, to pictures clicked by awe-inspiring photographers. Suddenly, I had to manage members and their huge compartmentalized departments. And it was alien territory for me. With practice, I tried to fit the role.
Then, came the WhatsApp notification. "Guys, we're doing a TSL Chapter 2. We need sponsors."
And so, it began.
The upcoming months were a haze. A violent, tiring, adverse, hailstorm on every single member of CC, who were organizing the event together. At times, things were tense, and it was the admins storming on the newly recruited volunteers and old members alike. While at times volunteers, admins lost patient with each other, and so on.
But, let's talk about more personalized feelings now.
It was a mammoth event alright and of course, much was felt.
But the evening before, at St. Paul's Cathedral, the venue, where all of us worked to give the event the foundation it needed, as a golden sun set down, some familiar, yet little-known faces seemed golden, with luminous auburn hair, as the swaying breeze murmured on the green grass. All I could utter was a tired, yet content, sigh, and I attempted a wry smile, at the end of an unfinished conversation, which can never be completed, now. A sigh of letting go, in the arms of my city, where only distant cars on Cathedral Road, Chowringhee Road and the softly audible loudspeakers near Academy of Fine Arts pervaded our collected thoughts that rustled the evening landscape.
It was then I realized that the city is bigger than the regular stereotypes and idiosyncrasies it is subjected to. It is bigger than a specific class of people. It is bigger than petty politics and two lies in one sentence. It is a home for the rich, the poor, the middle-class, the hypocrite and the honest, the happy and the melancholy. Calcutta, on the eve of The Soul Local Chapter 2, was a home for all the souls in the city that needed an abode.
And exactly 24 hours later, 3500 more people, felt the same things I felt. That evening also had the same swaying breeze from the previous day's twilight that called the nomad soul back home. Your home, and mine. As Calcutta outgrew itself, the loudspeakers at Academy grew dim, with time and nightfall. I don't remember if I looked through the rear view and found the Cathedral hazy. All action is because of overall inaction. As the nothingness felt as we drove away from the Cathedral that night grows, clawing at the insides, hope struggles and wins.
Search for the Soul carries on.
It was exactly a year since I joined CC, when I received a call from Rishi, co-Founder of the group. Rishi, Devangshu and I were to meet, I was informed. Rishi made Devangshu and I, the coordinators of CC, and I was suddenly facing an identity crisis. I aspired to be a failed poet (notice the paradox), and just write when I felt like, to pictures clicked by awe-inspiring photographers. Suddenly, I had to manage members and their huge compartmentalized departments. And it was alien territory for me. With practice, I tried to fit the role.
Then, came the WhatsApp notification. "Guys, we're doing a TSL Chapter 2. We need sponsors."
And so, it began.
The upcoming months were a haze. A violent, tiring, adverse, hailstorm on every single member of CC, who were organizing the event together. At times, things were tense, and it was the admins storming on the newly recruited volunteers and old members alike. While at times volunteers, admins lost patient with each other, and so on.
But, let's talk about more personalized feelings now.
It was a mammoth event alright and of course, much was felt.
But the evening before, at St. Paul's Cathedral, the venue, where all of us worked to give the event the foundation it needed, as a golden sun set down, some familiar, yet little-known faces seemed golden, with luminous auburn hair, as the swaying breeze murmured on the green grass. All I could utter was a tired, yet content, sigh, and I attempted a wry smile, at the end of an unfinished conversation, which can never be completed, now. A sigh of letting go, in the arms of my city, where only distant cars on Cathedral Road, Chowringhee Road and the softly audible loudspeakers near Academy of Fine Arts pervaded our collected thoughts that rustled the evening landscape.
It was then I realized that the city is bigger than the regular stereotypes and idiosyncrasies it is subjected to. It is bigger than a specific class of people. It is bigger than petty politics and two lies in one sentence. It is a home for the rich, the poor, the middle-class, the hypocrite and the honest, the happy and the melancholy. Calcutta, on the eve of The Soul Local Chapter 2, was a home for all the souls in the city that needed an abode.
And exactly 24 hours later, 3500 more people, felt the same things I felt. That evening also had the same swaying breeze from the previous day's twilight that called the nomad soul back home. Your home, and mine. As Calcutta outgrew itself, the loudspeakers at Academy grew dim, with time and nightfall. I don't remember if I looked through the rear view and found the Cathedral hazy. All action is because of overall inaction. As the nothingness felt as we drove away from the Cathedral that night grows, clawing at the insides, hope struggles and wins.
Search for the Soul carries on.
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