Summer was 44 Deg C and
limiting myself to a congested air-conditioned room seemed suicidal on an
extended weekend. There wasn't a better idea than travelling. It was Eid and
the airfares were soaring high. I scrolled down my wish list to see what could
fit into my budget. Kolkata! I badly needed to get soaked in the rains. Been
reading Alexander Frater, it was literally Chasing the Monsoon for me. Though it
was sad to forcefully limit the trip to just 3 days for the sake of a better
flight deal.
Kolkata
Airport welcomes one with Tagore's own manuscript, printed on the ceiling. I
collected my prepaid taxi coupon from the counter. Approaching one of those
yellow Ambassador cars in queue, my heart
was pounding faster. I got in the rickety old car and felt my persona switching
to that 5 year old kid who was taken to school in a white ambassador car every
morning. I breathed in the smell of 'rexin' which the seats were made of. Call
me mad when I say the smell too felt the same. For us Indians, the comfort of
the back seat of an 'Ambassador' cannot be beaten even by a Mercedes.
Road travel in Kolkata can be a nerve wrecking experience until you get accustomed to. Taxis, buses, auto-rikshaws(tuk-tuk) and trams are common ways of commuting on road. Tuk-tuks are shared by upto 5 persons, though it can hardly contain 3. The yellow taxis charge the meter reading, however the drivers often find reasons to add 20-25 rupees to it. Air conditioned taxis charge 25% higher. Also late night hours have a surcharge. Underground metro and sub-urban trains too serve big time in connecting the city.
Human Pulled Rikshaws or carts are another conventional and prevalent means of transport. These carts have been discouraged since a decade and a legislation was passed to ban it, however continues to operate as rehabilitation plans of the rikshaw pullers did not fall in place.
Human Pulled Rikshaws or carts are another conventional and prevalent means of transport. These carts have been discouraged since a decade and a legislation was passed to ban it, however continues to operate as rehabilitation plans of the rikshaw pullers did not fall in place.
This track of 'Rabindra Sangeet' may catalyst the rest of the journey with me
I had booked a home-stay for
the 3 nights. Red Brick Residency, a typical two storeyed Bengali heritage
house, with lots of books, vintage stuff and furniture, a courtyard with trees
and bespoke home cooked food. Though a bit expensive, it provided me the
ambience and space I was yearning for since long. And for this reason alone, I
took occasional breaks from my wanderings, to spend time in the majestic
corridors, to watch the rain from the window, sipping ginger tea and listening
to music from an old record box.
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| click to enlarge |
Stepping out of the house, I
had concerns on reaching the old town of North Kolkata and its passion nested
alleys in the short time I was there. But interestingly, taking the metro and
walking randomly, I ended up in the places I had pictured within. Google Maps
weren't of much help betrayed by the broken data roaming.
Calcutta, as I would like to
mention it, may be the only portion of British-India left with that majestic
old face. The brick red buildings of colonial past, now with huge banyan trees
grown over, are homes for many families in the city. It drizzled, and life
reflected on the wet roads. The yellow taxis made squeaky noises while braking.
Some rikshaw pullers converged themselves under the tiny roof of their cart,
some others got wet; some of their passengers had rainbow coloured umbrellas
unfolded. I stood on the divider of the road, my camera-bag covered in its
raincoat, hugging this obsession called monsoon. Monsoon had always gifted me a
rejuvenating feel; inspiration and life showered with the rains.
As I walked further, the rain gave way to the afternoon sun. Makeshift tea shops on the wayside were busy brewing. Thick-milked tea kept boiling on kettles-typically served in (cup cake sized) mudkas or earthen cups fuelled heated conversations on politics, arts and literature.
Home to many of India's greatest poets, film makers, artists and scholars,
Kolkata upheld that air of creative energy. The operator at one of the machine
shops passionately talked to me in broken Hindi of the huge video cameras of
his brother whom he said is a documentary film maker.
I walked ahead and the trams passed by my side making grungy, clanking noises justifying its age and history. Kolkata has the oldest running trams in Asia and the only active one in India. Though many tram routes were being closed down after independence, I hold a prayer to keep these nerve lines of the city alive and healthy.
My romance with Calcutta got
intensified with every turn I took in those maze of labyrinths. I wished the walls
had voices, for the buildings there would have stories to tell. In one of the
windows was seen a woman with a subtle expression, her face neatly fitted
within the four wooden frames across a honeycomb grill. When I urged to
click, she gestured a no and I continued my walk with a curious mind.
It rained on and off shooing
away the hot-sweaty feel. Kids played soccer on the wet lanes while a
procession was moving on the main road celebrating the 125th anniversary of Mohun Bagan FC.
I realize that from a very shy
boy, I've grown up to someone who is ok with the crowd. Or maybe it is my
anonymity that is getting me closer to them. With many random thoughts and a
very excited mind, I walked through the busy evening markets of Calcutta.
Undeterred by the heavy rains, women crowded near ramshackle fancy stores on
footpaths. One of the best beauty genes of India reside with West Bengal.
Leaving far all beauty notions from Hollywood and Bollywood, Bengal defines its
indigenous charm. Every women or girl you encounter on the street has grace.
It was almost 5 in the evening when I started realizing that I hardly had any food the whole day. Despite of the incessant walks over unaccounted kilometers, Kolkata charged me with energy all the way. Yet, I decided not to leave my tummy empty. In that random restaurant I popped in, I was served with a mixed cuisine of hot and sweet dosa garnished with raisins, grated coconut and green chutney along.
The
night was spent in IIM Kolkata with a friend and
traveller soul, Azhar. He was the one who accompanied me to Jordan, now doing
his Post Graduation there. Though the wilderness of the green in the campus was
soothing to my mind, there was some level of discomfort I sensed being inside a
fenced one. I was reconfirming that I cannot fit into campus academics
anymore, the world outside being my classrooms since long.
Another day was born. Kids
rejoiced showering in wayside-open-bath-spaces. Hairdressers got busy under
banyan trees. ‘College Street’ was active with its routine business; the street
is nick named 'Boi Para' or 'Colony of Books' for it exhibits an array of
academic book shops selling textbooks for almost any course above secondary
school. College Street is enroute to Calcutta Medical College, the University
of Calcutta and many other colleges. I was to have my breakfast from the
legendary Indian Coffee House of Calcutta, which
witnessed the city's intelligent gatherings for decades. Being carried away by
the diverse colours of life in that part of city, I missed the Coffee House.
Sigh!! But glad it added another reason to visit Calcutta a second time.
Life in
Kolkata extends over a wide range of spectrum, often to extremes that an
outsider finds hard to perceive. Streets of the city are home to many. Life in
various degrees co-exist with joy and sorrow under flimsy roofs or no roofs.
Impoverished kids are either petting stray dogs or helping their parents to
earn their daily bread. Amidst the hardships and poverty, life continues in
full swing; blessed are they with great souls that need no guides on living
content. From them are big lessons for the rest of world
It struck two in the clock when I reached back Jatin Das Park Metro Station. I decided to savour homemade lunch that day, though Kolkata's street food scene was tempting me to the heavens. I took two deep breaths suppressing my temptations for a better experience of food tasting with Kolkata Food Walk that evening. They are a bunch of passionate youngsters proud of their home town and its culinary culture. These food walkers are ready to take you round gifting the best times for your taste buds. It was Srotoswini who accompanied me along the 'tasty-roads' of Kolkata. She was keen to explain me the ingredients of each item we tasted and it was surprising to know from her that Kolkata stays different from the rest of West Bengal in savories. Singara, King Kachori, Rabri, Fish Rolls, Sandesh, Rasmalai... the mouth-watering list goes on. But we had to wind up as rains got stronger, with a promise to continue on a second visit to Kolkata. When you treat your taste buds with them, don't forget to give a pat on their back in form of tips.
On the
third day I greeted the sun at the Howrah. Rabidrasethu aka the Howrah Bridge
stood tall above the On the third day I
greeted the sun at Howrah. Rabidrasethu aka the Howrah Bridge stood tall above
the Hooghly (river). For a moment everything seemed as a black and white film
roll except for those yellow taxis. The steel trusses ran criss-cross making
beautiful patterns of light and shadows. Gradually as the rain clouds gathered
over, the bridge seemed to be a silent witness of the tale of emergence of the
city.
Bigger stories were happening
down and around the bridge. Ferries moved people across the Hooghly, fishermen
prepared for a fresh catch by mending their nets, people washed and bathed. A
teenager by the ferry refused the packet of Oreo cookies that I offered, but
demanded to clean my shoe which is how he earned his bread. Next to all these
was the Mullick Ghat Flower Market. From a distance, the market appeared as a
community of bees bustling in a garden of flowers, so lively and busy in the
early hours of the day. On the marshy mud of the market was a lot of faded
lives, hiding behind the blazing yellow chrysanthemums, blood red roses and
blushing pink lotuses.
Taking a taxi to Victoria
Memorial, it was all green around. Even the Raj Bhavan seemed to be fenced by
trees such that from outside, the building was only seen through the road that
went straight from its gate. Victoria Memorial is that magnificent marble
building built almost a century ago in memorial of Queen Victoria, under the
order of Lord Curzon, the then Viceroy of British India.
Walking from the Sudder street
to the Park Street Cemetery, I got lost. When Google Maps was sure that I was
in front of the Cemetery, all I could see was a multi-storeyed car parking
building. It didn't seem to be a wise decision to have an ugly looking concrete
cube before a heritage site. Park Street Cemetery is one of the oldest non-church
Christian cemeteries in the world and the largest outside Europe and America in
19th Century (info: wikipedia). I found my way inside the cemetery through a
hole in the wall that seemed like another car parking. Walking through the moss
covered paths, I was rather walking into a past century. On the huge tombs in
Gothic and Indo-Saracenic styles were epitaphs engraved in marble, beautifully
talking about the life of people buried there. Light rays sieved in between the
trees that shaded the place. Reading the past from the tombs, I spent almost an
hour of time there.
Two days being in Kolkata, I started thinking and reading seriously on Mother Teresa and her time in India. I decided to visit Nirmal Hriday, the home for the sick, destitute and dying, at Kalighat. The road that led to Kalighat Temple and the adjacent Nirmal Hriday was lined with shops that sold beads and bands often associated with temple living. There was a big queue of women before a public tap and some shops that sold music instruments. Knocking on the doors of Nirmal Hriday, somebody answered from a window that Thursday is closed for visitors. Desperate, I walked back. Beside the narrow alleys were women, lazily clad in saree, adorning their lips with bright red lipsticks and jasmine flowers held in their hair. Kolkata possesses a lot of red-light districts though prostitution is illegal in India..
When the life in Kolkata played in my mind as a reel of
images and emotions, I was walking back home, lost in thoughts. My palette was
full of colours struggling to perceive 'Life in Kolkata'....
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