Calcutta

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I needed an affirmation. I felt as though I were going through motions, my heart and head displaced from Delhi and the subcontinent of India. I had become discouraged and despondent with this chaotic nation, quick to dismiss it and even quicker to complain. The weather was not helping. A dry, smoky heat that both soiled and dehydrated all who ventured into its reach. The heat had caused power outages, water shortages, and brought new mysterious bugs.
I decided to go to Calcutta. Alone. This was my own trip. I had heard it was a wonderfully atmospheric city, and thought that perhaps it would rekindle my passion to discover India. It had history, culture, seafood, and a wealth of sights to indulge in. So on Thursday afternoon, I caught an auto-rickshaw to New Delhi station and hopped aboard the Rajdhani Express to Calcutta (recently changed to the regional name of Kolkata, but as with most recent Indian name changes, it hasn’t quite caught on).
I arrived the following morning, around 10 AM. And when I stepped into Howrah Station, feeling well-slept and full from the train food, I found myself in an enormous, chaotic, vibrant transportation hub. The station itself is a late nineteenth, early twentieth century British building made of red brick. Avoiding the passing travelers, vendors, families, and beggars, I walked out of the train station and onto the street. Before me were rows of large yellow taxis, not unlike taxis I had imagined India to have, with big rounded edges and thick hoods. Howrah Bridge, a huge metallic structure crossing the Hoogly River, towered above the charming red train station. I felt as though I had stepped into a mad old British man’s vision, summoned from his easy chair as he sat in his bathrobe and recalled the simultaneous wonder and terror of the great Indian city of Calcutta. I hopped into a taxi and dove head first into the megalopolis of 14 million people, the home of countless literary and artistic giants, the old capitol of the British Raj, and the self-proclaimed intellectual center of India.
Ah Calcutta. From the first glimpses of the blackened stucco of looming British architecture as I crossed the frenetic Howrah Bridge, I knew this city would provide the restoration of my confidence in India. The savior of my dreams The bounty hunter of my romance. Calcutta is a coagulation of urban jungle, beautiful gardens, and revolutionary spirit. The whole city is palpable, but it doesn’t have the same kind of cowshit and motor oil taste as Delhi. It’s alive, bubbling and asking to be heard. And rambling about this metropolitan maze are the most amicable people I have thus met outside of the Himalayas. True, it has its share of gaudy problems. But despite its faults, when compared to the sprawling, impersonal, chaotic, and dusty political expanse that is Delhi, Calcutta is the cat’s meow. Well, the lion’s roar.
I dropped my bags off at the Broadway Hotel, and set off. It was Gandhi’s birthday, so most shops, all museums and all bars were closed for the day. This did not trouble me, however. I wanted to get acquainted with the city. I merely walked a few blocks to the west, down a city street, a true city street with buildings, traffic lights, and yellow taxis, and was delighted to find gorgeous British buildings on every corner, simply astounding architecture. The whole expanse, from the white dome of the General post office, to the intricate archways and statues of the Writer’s Building, was reminiscent of London. Except of course, that this is India. Many of the buildings were literally crumbling, with tropical foliage creeping over its doors and windows, pulling the city into its depths. The whole place was wonderfully atmospheric, delighting my exotic fancies. The British Raj on full display, receded into a permanent memory and left to groan on its foundations. I reveled in pictures, although I was told to not photograph the Writer’s Building on several occasions by armed police (How can you prohibit the photography of a building? Short answer: you can’t. I have the pictures to prove it).
I pulled my neck away from the churches, insurance buildings, and statues and made my way back to the metro. I only had a half a day, so I wanted to get a few sights out of the way. I dropped into the subway and bought a ticket for the metro to the Victoria Memorial.
The Calcutta Metro was world’s away from the circus they call public transportation in Delhi. True, the Delhi Metro is clean, but only if you can get on the train. Plus, I was instantly struck by the difference in courtesies. Calcutta residents actually let one another get off the train. And, they smile at one another! What is this place? I did not expect a friendly city, and here I had one. In fact, just about everyone in Calcutta was friendly. I had numerous random conversations with strangers,. Perhaps one man at the Maiden put it best, as we sat and smoked an Indian tobacco paper, known as a bidi, together: Calcutta is many friendship.” Touche. I stepped aboard Calcutta’s rickety tram, which reminded me a lot of London’s subway, and rode it to the exit for Victoria Memorial.
The Maiden itself, a large city park with a cricket stadium, museums, a horse track, and much more, reminded me of Golden Gate Park in San Francisco, only the gardens were much wilder and Indian, of course. But the buildings, such as the Victoria Memorial and St Paul’s Cathedral, were some of the most gorgeous I have seen, in India or elsewhere. Both were closed at the time, but I strolled about the Maiden happily. Many families were out to celebrate Gandhi’s birthday, walking and laughing. Young, attractive Indian couples meandered hand its elegant pathways hand in hand. They were not just middle class Indians, but of all castes, creeds, and colors.
I took the metro back to Park Street, one of the commercial centers of Calcutta. It was like Market Street in San Francisco, or Broadway in Oakland. I couldn’t believe it. A real city, not just confusion and shouting. There were even street signs. I was in love.
I grabbed a chicken kati roll, a delicious creation made from a soft Indian paranthi (like a thick tortilla), fried in oil with an egg, then rolled with chicken, sauces, onions and peppers. Then I went to a confectionary called Flurry’s, which had cakes, brownies, croissants, tea and coffee. Then I went to a bookshop (it is fitting that bookshops should be open on Gandhi’s birthday) and indulged myself. I even talked to a man buying books, an Oxford educated man, and we talked about, well, books. I could not imagine talking to a stranger in Delhi about books. I felt that I could live in Calcutta.
I walked around a bit more, than stopped off in BBD Bagh. BBD Bagh is situated in and around fading, disintegrating British buildings. If only Lord Dalhousie could see this place now. I observed posh Indian bars inside of old clerks’ buildings, textile markets inside of officers’ quarters. This is the old capitol of British India, and it is wholly Indian. Many of the buildings are still in use by the Indian government. And yet throughout the day, I could feel a yearning to be the center of India once again. In my opinion, it should. I returned to the Broadway Hotel and dove into a copy of Frankenstein that I had picked up from the bookshop.
I don’t wish to be carried away by the whimsical intoxication of being in such a place as Calcutta, for much of it seems to be the right place at the right time. But the Broadway Hotel is perfect for me. Creaking, brooding, and dark, with large whitewashed rooms and a comfortable leather reading chair in mine, it was exactly what I was looking for: a kind of Casablanca establishment. I half-expected to see old Sam on the piano, and Humphrey Bogart smacking the table. “Of all the bars in this town!” I wanted to see the collapse of the Raj embalmed in its own grandeur, and I found it there. As for the rest of the city, it still thrives among the century-old ruins.
The next day, I submerged myself back into the city, only to discover that there were many more faces to Calcutta. To begin, I took an early metro to Kalighat Temple in the south, which is a famous devotional sight to the goddess Kali. I am unclear on the specifics, but most images of Kali show an all-black figure with at least four arms and a terrifying expression, adorned in a necklace of human heads and swinging a large bloody sword. The temple itself, which is obscured by vendors and ugly concrete structures, with only a small tower visible from its crowded surroundings, is known by non-Indians for its sacrificial practices. Upon entry, I was immediately set upon by a “guide,” and he led me around the temple. There was a large line to get inside the actual inner chamber, and lots of pushing and yelling. From a small window into the chamber, I could only see an orange glow, reminiscent of a furnace, every few moments, then quickly obscured by a mass of devotees. My heart raced a little. What was that orange glow? I thought. I got in line and was very heartily stared at, as I was the only white person there. The suspense was great as I waited to get in. When I finally entered the inner chamber, I pushed my way to see what was in the furnace, and found a smaller room, its walls orange and flames lit, and a large black statue of Kali, looking very fearsome indeed. I felt as though I were in the Temple of Doom until my guide told me to say “namaste” (which means “hello”) and to wave to Kali. I did, feeling very foolish.
Outside the inner chamber, my guide took me to another shrine, this being a large outdoor pool with a statue of Shiva. He took me to the statue, and told me to put the flowers on the statue and to say the names of my parents. I did so, and he recited a few prayers. Then he gave me a book to sign, write my country. He said I could leave a donation, whatever I liked. I looked at the book. Each name was written in the same handwriting. I was all too familiar with the fact that, in India, temples can be the most expensive sights to see: even though they are free, the atmosphere of temples is often overwhelming, and tourists easily give in to the guilt-tripping strategy of asking for donations. Plus, being unfamiliar with the customs of a temple, a tourist is already in a compromised position, especially because one does not want to offend anybody, so Indians are often able to extort large sums of money. This, however, did not trouble me, as I had come prepared with a few hundreds. I wrote down two hundred below “Kim Chang, from Japan,” at which point my guide and another man standing there looked up as though shocked. “Five hundred minimum!” “I thought you said I could donate whatever I like?” I replied. He told me it was for my family. I told him I would be sure to pray at home. After much debate, he shrugged and walked me back to where I had deposited my shoes.
As I waited to get my shoes, I noticed a few men standing in the corner of the temple complex with what looked like a large amount of flesh. Upon closer examination, I saw that there were two goat carcasses. One hung from a pillar, and a man was pulling at its legs with all of his might. I heard ripping and tearing. Below him was a pile of purple organs, like sausages. I turned to my guide. “Sacrifices,” he said. One of the goats was for free meals that the temple cooked for people. The other was for the temple. I was unclear how the temple would put use to a dead goat. As I was speaking to my guide, the man tore down the goat that hung from the pillar and disappeared. He reappeared with another goat, this one appeared to be still kicking. In one hand he held its head, and in the other hand, he held its body. It’s fur was black and wet. It’s body was small, probably a young goat. It looked like it had been beheaded ten seconds earlier. I stopped listening to my guide and watched, unreservedly fascinated. The man threw the head behind the pillar and hung the goat on the pillar upside down, its legs flopping about. A fountain of red blood spurted forth. The blood looked way too red, almost fake. The open neck had a white bone sticking from its center. The whole display looked like some sort of “Itchy and Scratchy” cartoon. I rubed my eyes as the man cut open the goat and began to remove its organs with his hands. Then he began to rip at its legs, opening the hole wider and wider.
Goats just can’t catch a break in India. No one eats cow, most people don’t eat pork. That leaves goat. In most neighborhoods or marketplaces, one will see goats standing around, walking around dumbly, stamping their feet or licking a car or something. They look very cute. Poor goats. I guess they don’t get it as bad as chickens, though, which are left to rot in small cages their whole lives. Either way, Indians love mutton and chicken.
After Kalighat, I walked back toward the metro. Mother Theresa’s hospital was very close, and it was here that I found some of the worst poverty that I had thus seen in India. A woman with her child (I could tell this was actually her child, and not just the same scam that many poorer women in Delhi pull on tourists) came up to me desperately, and I decided to give her a few rupees. Immediately, I was swarmed by beggars, perhaps twenty, all shouting and holding out their arms. I empty my pockets of change. I felt foolish and helpless. I walked faster to get back to the metro, the mass of beggars trailing off.
I took the metro back to the grand St. Paul’s Cathedral, just outside of the Maiden, which was quite the change from the primordial fascination of the blood sacrifices. After sitting in its vast silence for a few minutes, I went to the Victoria Memorial, which is an absolutely stunning building, and surely one of the most beautiful in India. marble ode to Queen Victoria, and is was only opened about a hundred years ago. It is surrounded by a large garden and pool, and the whole complex is a terrific place to stroll with a girl, one’s family, or, in the case of many Indian men, with other Indian men, holding hands ever so gently. The inside of the memorial was just as jaw-dropping, with a great display of old British landscape paintings and photographs from 1950’s Calcutta.
After the memorial, it began to rain, so I took a yellow taxi to Park Street, which has a vast array of delicious upscale restaurants, and hurried inside to a famous eatery called Bar-B-Q, which served terrific Cantonese food. There is a wide range of world-class cuisine in Calcutta, especially Chinese. I had a few Tom Collins and then headed outside, as it had stopped raining.
I met two very interesting people that day. Both were elderly Indian men. One was also named Ronnie (different spelling), and used to work for a factory. He was laid off almost twenty years ago, and although he spoke excellent English and had a wealth of knowledge about world affairs, he was forced to live his life on a corner of Park Street. He waited until a car would break down at that corner, and then he would push the car to a safe spot and fix it. Sadly, he said, not as many cars break down anymore. He said he wished to join a union, but unions have too many regulations, and he did not qualify. I was unsure why he wasn’t able to join. He said what he really wished to do was to work in a job that needed English speakers. We talked about the flooding in Karnataka and the tour boat that capsized in Kerala, among other things.
The second man was named Stanley, who served me cocktails at Bar-B-Q. He had a five hour break in his day, and he happened to see me in line at the Indian Museum after he got off work. He yelled to me, having remembered my name, and looked very excited, with the kind of giddiness of a young boy. He decided to spend his break with me, so we walked through the museum together. The Indian Museum is a wonderful curiosity. It is one of, if not the oldest museum in Asia, and housed in a magnificent British building with huge white marble columns. Inside, its displays of dinosaur bones and bug fossils are shelved in wooden cabinets with glass windows. Its presentation was disorganized, but this only added to the wonder of it. It allowed visitors to rummage about and discover things for themselves. Among my highlights, I found a human fetus in a jar of fermaldahyde, a badly taxidermied “jack ass penguin,,” a disgusting photograph of a man with elephantitus, and a glass case with a fossilized treet over 350 million years old. Stanley was very good-humored, and he seemed to get a great kick out of walking around with me. He said he had not been to the museum since he was a young boy. He was now 59, but he looked much older. He had worked in Mumbai, Delhi, and Ladakh as a bartender, but he was born and raised in Calcutta. He was Christian, and he poked fun at the amount of Hindu holidays (That day was the Laxmi Puja holiday. Stanley explained, “it is a holiday for moneys,” and then raised his eyebrows and laughed.), as Hindu holidays fall on half of the days in a year. After the museum, Stanley helped me to negotiate a train ticket back to Delhi. We then got a cup of coffee and walked through New Market, with its bustling marketplace amidst art-deco cinemas and decaying Raj architectural pomp.
The next day, I the majority of it walking. I walked excessively, in fact, because the metro does not open until 3 PM on Sundays, and I was exhausted by late afternoon. I walked to College Street, near Calutta University, which had rows and rows of bookstalls that stretched for whole blocks. I walked to the Tagore house and toured its display of personal effects and saw the room in which Rabindranath Tagore died. These sights were in North Calcutta, which is relatively uninfluenced by the British and was previously referred to as “native Calcutta,” or “Black Calcutta” by the Raj. It was dominated by old Indian mansions, but much of it looked like Old Delhi. It was just like the rest of Indian cities I had seen, and showed another side of Calcutta. It was dirty and full of beggars, and the buildings, crumbling just like the rest of Calcutta’s old buildings, were actually inhabited. The poverty here was very pronounced, and shanties lined each and every street, right outside of shops. Middle-class Indians and students walking from the university passed the shanties without looking. I walked more briskly when I was told by someone that I should not be there. He was friendly and in tradition with the other Calcutta people I had met, but I needed no second warning.
I walked back to BBD Bagh and saw more crumbling British buildings, such as St. John’s Church, which is a fabulous and grand structure stay aside from the street and hidden behind a slew of unruly trees. I walked past the High Court, the Town Hall, and the famous Eden Gardens, where cricket matches are hosted. As I was taking a picture of a statue outside of Town Hall, I was threatened by a large police officer in a jeep. He was literally screaming at me to not take pictures, and told me he would arrest me and throw me in jail. He repeated this last part to me repeatedly, and told me to put away my camera. I debated the things I could say to him as he spat at me (“There are absolutely no signs saying I can’t take pictures, sir,” and “Should I give you my bombs too, dumbass?” both entered my mind). I was still confused as to how I could be prohibited of taking pictures of statues, and even further confused as to how this animal could have the authority to throw me in jail for innocently snapping photos in honor of the wonderful architecture. I wasn’t, after all, defacing the city. I was impressed and wanted to capture the magical feeling I got from looking at these buildings. After the police officer drove away, I quietly muttered “Fuck India,” to myself.
My good spirits were quickly returned however, when I bought a chicken roll near New Market. I then walked down Sudder Street, a large tourist enclave with cheap accommodation and cafes. I walked down Mirza Ghalib, which connects Sudder and Park, and passed a group of men sitting under scaffolding, tying one another’s arms and poking each other with needles. They looked emaciated and had shallow smiles. I had never seen anyone doing heroin in such a public place. In fact, I had never seen anyone doing heroin.
I walked down wealthy Park Street, this time to Park Street Cemetery. It would be hard to describe this place (it is hard to describe any of Calcutta. It is a city to be experienced, not described), but my best attempt would fall somewhere between spooky and phenomenal. The cemetery was crammed full of flamboyant and bulky British graves, ranging from giant stone obelisks to small marble chapels. Yet each was covered in moss and obscured by the jungle that had grown around it. Though it was the middle of the afternoon, the green foliage covered the sky and darkened the cemetery. Crows squawked overhead. I ambled about, looking at dates and taking in the exotic atmosphere. I could feel the malaria exuding from the grave stones, feel the dysentery that these bold and foolish British had died from. I stayed a little too long for the comfort of the guard, taking as many pictures as I could.
I tried to walk around more, but I was exhausted. So went back to the Broadway Hotel and crashed on my bed I woke up an hour later, went down to the street to grab a chicken roll, and went back upstairs to read. It had been a very different day than the wide-eyed imagination I had entertained on the first two days.
The last day, I walked around the business district and realized that Calcutta is not a fantasy, but only my fantasy. It is, after all, another big city, and is home to the same kind of poverty that most big cities have. I should correct myself. It is still a big INDIAN city, and one of the biggest, so it is home to some excrutiating poverty. Mother Theresa wasn’t kidding. I found rows and rows, and rows, of shanties lining busy sidewalks frequented by some of Calcutta’s biggest business gurus. It was quite humbling.
I also walked along the theatre district, and back to Park Street. I finally had some Bengali food (a fish prepared in a banana leaf with mustard spices). It was sooo good. Maybe it was just because I had not had sea food in a long time. Traditionally, Bengalis love to cook home meals, so finding the right restaurant can be a tough task. I’m not sure how mine would compare (it was a dingy little café called Radhuni’s, near Sudder Street), but I thought it was very good.
Around four that afternoon, I hopped on a train back to Delhi. All in all I must say that I had a great time in Calcutta, and would not mind going back. It is not the miserable pit of poverty that it is often described as. Roger Ebert said that the only thing that could prepare him for understanding “Apocalypse Now” was a trip to Calcutta. Maybe I already got that experience in Delhi, but I think there are enough faces in Calcutta to justify the statement that it is a great city. In need of some fixing up, to be sure, and probably a great deal of social welfare, but the progressive-thinking people I met seem to be dwelling immensely on it. I have heard it has improved greatly in the past ten years. And don’t all cities need some fixing up?
My dad is meeting me this week, and we plan to do some traveling. It will be very refreshing to see someone from home, and I can’t wait to do some exploring together. I feel a little spoiled, having just seen my girlfriend, but I sure as hell won’t complain.

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