In late 2009, as I walked down many a Calcutta street, past the ubiquitous image of flowers springing in the grass, it increasingly appeared that there was barely a neighbourhood in Kolkata where the Trinamool Congress did not have a presence. The TMC was everywhere:
On walls of homes along quiet lanes, keeping a young man company on the steps warming to the morning Sun,
Or looking over the shoulder of an elderly lady knitting on the steps of an old dwelling in Kalighat,
Better still, fluttering in the breeze in streets leading to the Esplanade,
Everywhere,
Except at the Writers’ Building.
It was still Red.
Bright, brilliantly Red.
Strikingly Red. Forebodingly Red.
Only until the middle of 2011, that is. The year Kolkata, and West Bengal went to polls.
And Trinamool Congress finally came home to the Writers’ Building. The lease is new, for now.
The grass is still green, and the flowers fresh. Jora Ghas Phul.
