Rough City

At dusk, a layer of reddish brown dust hovers above and around the Oberoi. It settles nicely into a strata of that which had already existed before and that which was only beginning to take form.

For just one second, you admire Calcutta. The Oberoi, with all its dignified curves and marbled excesses, like its cousin the Raffles in Singapore, was as picturesque as its moneyed inhabitants. It would have been if it was on a postcard, though nothing about this place really is. That’s because this is not a postcard, and time does not freeze frames for too long, especially not when the cars in this deliciously mad city continue their symphony of horns, and the auto-rickshaw men are joining in with feeble beeps of their own resembling impotent chipring, and the chorus of child beggars begin: one rupee sis, gimme one rupee. In the crisp English honed by their brisk dealings with foreigners of our kind and others.

Every second and every freeze frame in Calcutta really is a long sentence, barely punctuated. I would like to say it was like one long gulp of air, but then you would know I was guilty of romanticizing it — you can’t take in a long gulp of air, the pollution would kill you in an instant.

Once the seat of the British Crown in the Empire, Calcutta could not have suffered any more bad luck than it has, yet it stills manages to retain every bit of its Bengali, intellectual pride. When it was displaced by New Delhi as the capital, the Bengalis scorned the decision: the British are moving their capital to the graveyard of ancient kings! Surely they would regret it in an instant, because what Bengal does today, India does tomorrow..

Yet one can say with near accuracy, Calcutta remains very much as it was when the British left it in 1911 — perhaps worse. The buildings certainly seemed so, even in the middle class neighbourhoods of Tollygunge and Ballygunge. The spirit of Mother Teresa lingers around the city, where she is presented as more of a conundrum, less of a saint: she was never welcomed with open arms here. Granted, she did render assistance to the needy and poor and dying, highlighting the extent of this city’s poverty and squalor to the world. Yet this same force has also trapped the city in the cycle it resents, whether or not she meant to; locals are quick to point out much has changed for the better, and who can blame them? With names like the great nun’s attached surgically to this place, it’s no wonder the “City of Joy” resents being synonymous with death, destitutes, and dung. Which isn’t all there is to it.

One easily obtains a sense of this native grief if you walk down any bustling road with a professional-looking camera in hand. Hey you stop, what you doing? They’re afraid I’m a journalist, here to perpetuate the myths about their city even further. One looks around the city, and understands this grief immediately, maybe even to the point of empathy. In the spirit of nationalism and reinvention, or catharsis, all British influence was scrubbed off the subcontinent. Writers especially know the importance of names, of vocabulary: you call it one thing, and it becomes precisely that. Names bestowed by the British become local ones. Overnight, Bombay became Mumbai, Madras morphed into Chennai, while Calcutta had a change of names, too, but chose one which sounded similar: Kolkata. Calcutta. Kolkata. Tomato and to-mah-to.

With the change of names, they’re also anxious to show you the new Kolkata. The new Kolkata that is at once the Calcutta of old money and glory, the Calcutta of ornate, Park Street saris and chaffeurs. The new Kolkata of new money, Pantaloons department stores and Shopper’s Stop with all the trappings of Adidas and imported movies, neighbours who fly to Singapore to shop at Mustafa Centre for made-in-India products. I want to get into the skin of this city, but it does not seem to welcome me, maybe because I have a camera that intimidates it.

Exactly a month and 5 days from now, I will get to stuff myself with chicken rolls and puchka chaat, hobnob at the Coffeehouse and stroll at the Maidan, yet somehow.. months away from a person I haven’t been apart from for 3 days, doesn’t make the prospect as exciting as it should be.