Kolkata Chronicled

'Taxi?', a fellow with a moustache and stubble enquires. As a rule, all such language is representative of taxi drivers scouting for passengers. The surprise here was, there was only one. No pack of hounds closing in on doomed prey. Calcutta looked hopeful.

The yellow ambassador taxicabs are an intrinsic part of the city landscape. The same way a black premier padmini is of Mumbai, a multicolored vikram is of lucknow and the yellow painted red seat shikara is of Shrinagar. Coming through the bypass via Salt Lake City, you see large tracts of green but in development land screaming from both sides. A site few cities can boast of. (The only comparison I could think of was Hyderabad with it's million year old rock strewn landscape.) The road is lined with Coconut trees. Something which stands out, especially when your airplane circles the city forgetting the fact that it was supposed to land.

As the car weaves through the narrow bylanes and the constantly overhead flyover, it feels like Lower Parel. Old dusty buildings, sundry people crossing roads and a jumble of cars maneouvering under flyovers. Buildings, ancient and creaking, dot the roads, lanes and bylanes, interspersed rarely with the modern. Sometimes, a jarring half-renovation leaves behind a comical (architectural) juxtaposition that escapes classification. Multi-storey relics of a bygone era also stand witness, watching the city sprawl outwards. Things which perhaps gives Kolkata an old world charm not present most places.


Malls and roads are not wide, accentuating traffic and plaguing parking. Branded outlets, while international inside, carry the look of a suburban market, when driving through. Between cars of all variety, two wheelers and helmets resembling miner's hats stand out. The boards everywhere are in English, the same way as in Mumbai, Delhi or Hyderabad. In fact more than Hyderabad, which denotes that it is a cosmopolitan city.

Chat stands, kulfi and the ubiquitous kwality walls cyclewalahs declare their presence with a crowd of connossieurs waiting to catch a bite. An assortment of cars wait by the sidewalk for a dip of the puchka and a bite of the chila. The especially enticing mango kulfi (it was kulfi literally in a mango) is a street delicacy not to be missed.

While in the city, it is impossible to miss the Havda brigde. Without any pillars, with an awe-inspiring view of the Hoogly, a broad promenade and pleasantly vibrating side-railings, it offers multiple opportunities for photographs. Primitive jute mills and red brick paint-peeled buidlings stand in wilful harmony with the red railway station. Boats float arcross the horizon and cars drive over the Rabindra Setu. The imaginatively named 'New Havda' bridge with private vehicles, lesser traffic, toll booths and sidewalk-less road stands in a wired contrast to its pillarless all-men-are-equal ancient neighbour. As the car approaches visible distance, you recall photo-albums of all your relatives who ever went to the Golden Gate. 'New Havda' however, is protected from the ravings of capitalist tourism. With a police fine.

People travel across the river. On jetties. 3 rupees each - that is the minimum fare for lazing across the hoogly on a white blue boat chugging smoke. Boys, perhaps employed by the transport, jump across from port to river to boat and the other way round. The Hoogly flows on - in slow sluggish currents buried under its own expanse, letting wooden boats float gently and be guided by the oars. The lights of eden shimmer on and gongs of the prayer to kali drift with the mellowing day.

A railway line runs near the havda. Ring rails. Empty rails. Rails also run in the city centre. Comfortably ensconced in northern calcutta, the trams of chitpur and bada bazaar welcome you into the arms of old calcutta. The change is gradual. The roads get narrower, the buildings dirtier, the traffic thins as the crowds bulge and then you even see the hand-rickshaws. In the land of equals, man rides on man, unconcerned. This is the Calcutta you see in the movies.

A tram follows my taxi. However, there is only one lane and no space to park. So it follows us for quite some time, trumbling on and humming a horn whenever we stop for directions. The road names mark all addresses. Perhaps a vestige of British planning, addresses in Calcutta are the preserve of streets, like the west. (e.g. in Calcutta you live on Russel Street, in Mumbai you live at Parel) Very few area names, fewer landmarks. Road names in Mumbai confuse, landmarks in Calcutta do so. The autorickshaw driver takes in five people - with a security rod near the driver's seat, so he does not fall out.

Vast tracts of gardens, especially near the Eden do not surprise you. They follow you right from the Victoria Memorial, a white mansioned, ancient-gardened Victoria Memorial. Protected by the Marble lions gruaring the gates, you can see the people walking, exercising. You can also see an orange beaked bird. I could not figure out its name. The sprawling gardens with grandfather trees, a throned queen with a pigeon piss crown and calm reflecting pools where ducks eat fish attract all kinds of tourists.

The memorial houses a history of India. A musuem. They story of class divisions, surprisingly, does not overwhelm the picture. Hidden vignettes can be found in the numerous life stories scripted (like a Britisher who died a troubled death advocating rights for the natives). Ancient portraits (the son of Tipu Sultan painted by a European, Siraj-ud-daula looking pretty foreign in a furred cap) and amazing landscapes ('A rock-cut temple on Salsette island' - my guess are the Kanheri Caves, Kashmir, Kanyakumari, Gujrat) from across India at the turn of the 18th century present a picture of history pickled, preserved.

Coming back to the parks, the land outside is marked with stalls and with horse-carts driven by half starved ponies. Ponies which graze in the parks under tall trees, yellow flowers. a searing sun and noon criket. As you near the eden, the parks turn into parking lots, especially on a day of the IPL. Parking for cars with stickers, blue, green, red, pink - multicoloured privileges of getting closer to the grounds. The grounds of full. As many people throng in to see the cricket as to see Shahrukh Khan. The pitch is slow and the white cheerleaders seem to be the only interesting thing around - the calcutta crowd shouts anyway, unfluttered with the dangers of moral turpitude. Even Shahrukh escapes the obligatory dance routine. Bored, the flash lights refuse to work. Nothing shimmers on the Hoogly.

Buses in Calcutta are small and cheap like all public transport. Glorified vans. They leave you at the landmarks, the streets, the street market of Chowringee with the un-named old building that features mandatorily in all tourist guidebooks. It also leaves you near the metro, as the crowds move to the underground. The metro seems small especially if you have experienced Delhi. The stations however, are lined with art like all good metros whould be. It is crowded but not crowded enough to evolve its own chaotic structure unlike the suburban railway of Mumbai. The city is sweaty, smelly, tasty, crowded and red. It is also a sightful. And something you cannot easily forget.