Oh, my Calcutta—
my Calcutta.
If loving you makes me a fool,
then may I never grow wise.
May my greys grow
where you grow,
for I wish to age
only beside you.
Amid the cracks of North Calcutta,
my completeness lies
where your scars unfold.
A Bengali's heart unfolds
in every corner of College Street
in the serenity of the Ganga,
in winter evenings upon the Maidan.
Every corner whispers
one word—
My Home.
Beyond the imperfections
lies a quiet haze,
and beyond that haze,
a soul.
Fearless to choose you,
despite your flaws.
Neglected by the wise,
loved by fools.
Oh! Calcutta— my El Dorado.