Abbe s.! Ki khobor, boss?'' The greeting is followed by a hearty thump on the back that only emphasises the mateyness of the first words. The newcomer reciprocates with a bear-hug. But no one minds, because this is a reunion quite unlike any other.The setting is bewitching: The air is clean and crisp, the sky a pure azure blue speckled with warm cottony clouds, the sea an enchanting silent presence in the background. Somewhere in the distance, undulating hills complete the perfect picture. Not quite the cacophony of Chowringhee or the madness of College Street, but the earthy Bengali abuses aren't out of sync with the pretty landscape of South Wales. Indeed, after a while, the other guests at the seafront hotel even stop turning their heads at the unfamiliar sounds and colourful silk sarees.The occasion is the wedding of a medic friend and his Welsh fiancee. As luck would have it, a large number of batchmates and alumni were already in the UK; others were a hop, skip and jump away across the Atlantic. The two of us, based in India, grabbed the opportunity to make a long-treasured dream of visiting England come true. And so we all came together, bringing with us memories of school plays and shared lunch boxes, sports events and bus rides home.There were three distinct groups: Schoolmates, fellow medics and their spouses. But Calcutta was the bond that joined us; though all of us had moved away from the city we grew up in, our sensibilities had been moulded by the overcrowded public transport, the hallowed halls of medical college (and, for non-medics, its hostels), the late-night chai and omelette under the Sealdah flyover, the early-morning breakfasts at China Town, the walks home on nights the Stoneman was on the rampage, the first falling-in-love, the first hangover.There was plenty to catch up on, and as champagne (we were here for a wedding, after all) gave way to tequila, circles formed and stuck together. There wasn't much time for social niceties, so the PC quickly made way for conversations that tried to cram in the events of 10, even 15, missed years. ``You never invited us for the wedding,'' grumbled a friend, even as he showed off his new-born. ``You know, I've heard so much about you. Who'd have thought we'd meet here, of all places,'' said someone else as she wandered off arm-in-arm with a new-found friend.The magic of the moment touched almost all of those present. It had taken some doing, of course. The bridegroom passed around the good word almost six weeks before D-day; since then, invitees had had to juggle schedules and on-call duties to ensure they had the weekend free, book air tickets (to London, Cardiff, wherever), check up if dress was Indian or western (obviously, this was the most difficult part, as some friends smartly attired in black complained bitterly about missing an occasion to dig out their best silks!) òf40óand make their way to the beautiful seaside venue of the wedding without getting lost in a village that had all of seven houses!But once at Oxwich Bay, the light sea breeze ruffling our hair, the rounded Bengali vowels merging seamlessly with the Welsh sing-song accents and a pleasure-inducing combination of seaweed tarts and champagne rumbling in our tummies, the logistical impossibilities become a mere memory. Indolence induced by an unchallenged sense of well-being rules and, for a brief, shining moment, a corner of South Wales is forever Bengal.
