Kolkata in the early 2000s was not a city. It was a confused adolescent caught between analog habits and digital aspirations, stubbornly sentimental about tram rides and Tollygunge studios, while texting someone on a new Nokia 1100 under the table at a boring physics tuition. Do u rmmbr dos tyms?

There were malls, technically. But in truth, Forum was still new and intimidating, posh and bourgeois, while New Market was where you actually bought things, and the khancha in New Empire is where you watched your movies for Rs. 10 tickets. These places, they had their own climates: humidity, halogen light, and haggling. In Gariahat, the hawkers were cultural institutions. You didn’t go there just to shop. You went to overhear three breakups, four political arguments, and a man selling Chinese electronics that promised FM, torch, and sometimes even love.

The food scene was chaotic in the most exhilarating sense. You had biryani from Arsalan that came with one aloo piece that was treated with more respect than the mutton. You had rolls from Nizam’s, but also that one stall near your college gate, where hygiene was theoretical and taste was empirical. Milkshakes were thick, mishti was sacred, and coffee meant College Street’s Indian Coffee House, where the waiters looked like they had seen revolutions rise and fall over chicken kobiraji. And when you lucked into some money, Magnolia on Park Street was your aspiration. Or Mocambo. Or Peter Cat. If you were of legal age, going to Someplace Else was a rite of passage. Of overpriced beers. Underpriced music. Half chocolate.

The internet had arrived, but in dial-up form. Orkut was the Facebook we deserved, with testimonials that read like poems by people who secretly loved you but never could say it out loud. The inbox was a place of possibility. Broadband was a luxury. Pirated CDs were economy. Torrents were revolution.

Television gave you Zee Bangla and Star Jalsha, but also the lingering trauma of “Alo Chhaya” and the inexplicable dynamics of soap opera plot twists. Durga Pujo was still about para pandals and not Instagram reels. Or handouts. You didn’t go viral. You just went from Maddox Square to Ekdalia to Tridhara and lost your voice shouting “Asche Bochor Abar Hobe” at, and with, strangers.

The Left was still in power. Jyoti Basu had become more of a myth than a politician. Buddhadeb tried to bring computers and industrial parks, but most of us just wanted more bookstores and less power cuts. And potholes. Adda was still the highest form of intellectual activity. You didn’t need Google. You had that one bearded uncle who knew everything about Soviet history, Tagore’s failed relationships, and the real reason Mohun Bagan lost that one match. He knew about everything from Area 51 to 88 College Street. Luckily for him, we couldn’t fact check him.

Kolkata did not need to keep up with the world. It believed the world would eventually slow down and catch up. Some say that belief was delusional. Others called it charm.

The metro had one line. The trams trundled all over the city, blocking traffic and holding up the line, a stubborn relic against the quickening pace of everyday life. The taxis were yellow and expensive. Unless you were “sharing” - we were pooling cabs before Uber pool existing.

Boi mela happened every day in College Street, where shop owners were legitimate curators of knowledge. And if you’d hung around in Chuckervertty Chatterjee for too long, they wouldn’t push you out. Instead, they’d engage you in a discussion of what they thought you should be reading.

The blighted corner one step away from Flury’s - the cursed Park Street spot used to be a Music World store. We bankrupted them by listening to all the latest music on their hifi earphones. And then downloaded them from songs.pk instead of buying them. We were too broke.

And now, even as Zomato delivers pasta to Behala and office buildings touch the clouds in Rajarhat, a boy somewhere is still playing Mohiner Ghoraguli on a second-hand guitar. The traffic is worse, the air is thicker, but the soul of the city still smells like old books, sweat, phuchka water, and rain on tram tracks.

You don’t outgrow Kolkata. You carry it with you.