Hoy,
Calcutta!
I
did not look closely at the holding pattern of Calcutta when I visited the city
back in 1978 but I reckon something must have been holding it up. I read
somewhere that the city stands at an elevation of 9 metres, or almost 30 feet, above
sea level. It stands virtually in the backyard of the Bay of Bengal and, if it
stretched its neck a bit, I suppose it would be able to get a good view of the
sea. Thirty feet. Quite a feat. Didn’t want to get its feet wet, I suppose. I wonder
how they managed to put it up. It is still up there, I’m told. I’m sure it must
be up on stilts, unlike my own city, Bangalore, which seems to be on steroids
these days.
When
I went to Calcutta for the first time, it was by train. With my 5th Semester Engineering
class group. For much of our journey, we experienced heavy rains and we were
told that several cities were flooded. We were headed for Varanasi but skipped
it and decided to push straight for Calcutta.
I
got off the train in Hooghly. No, wait. That’s the river. I actually got off at
the railway station, the last stop, the terminus. Yus. Howrus. No, Howrah.
Hurrah! That’s the name I was looking for. Howrah, not hurrah.
Having
got off or alighted or disembarked or detrained as the case may be, we
proceeded to make our way out of the station to a Hotel Ashoka where we had
booked rooms in advance. It had an International or Intercontinental suffix, I
don’t remember exactly which at this point of time thirty nine years hence, but
it certainly hinted at a global reach. We got to our rooms and deposited our bori and bister. Then I packed a toothbrush and a change of clothes and took
leave from the group for a short break. A batch-mate friend who belonged to
Kolkata and was my neighbour in Bangalore was enjoying a holiday in the City of
Joy and had invited me to spend a day or two with him.
Per
instructions given, I boarded a tram moving towards Dalhousie Square. It was a
two-car tram and I got into the second car which was quite empty. The seats were all slatted, made from some kind of dark wood. I took
a window seat. I had been told by my friend to get off at Dalhousie or Esplanade. I muttered
“Dalhousie” to the conductor as he came towards me with his hand stretched. He
took my money, gave me a ticket and then tugged at a string attached to a bell
to give the “go” signal. The conductor in the first car echoed this with his
own bell. The tram started off and, with a lot of screeching trundled along the
Howrah Bridge, “The Grate Still Breeze of Calcutta”, through heavy traffic at a
sedate pace. My first ever ride in a tramcar. My first ever sighting of the
great symbol of The City of Joy! I could see all kinds of vehicular traffic, even
pedestrians crisscrossing the tram’s path, cutting across the tram-rails just
in front of the slow-moving tram with impudence. They were not bothered and
neither was the tram. It maintained a slow and steady pace. Last stop,
Dalhousie. The tram did not go beyond this point. At least the tram I was in. I
was sorry to get off because I was just beginning to enjoy my first ever ride
in a tram. Sadly, it turned out to be my only tram ride till date. I have not
been able to step into a tram again for I have not been to Calcutta or Kolkata
again.
I
looked for, as instructed, and located, the Telephone Exchange in Dalhousie
Square and walked across. There, waving down and hopping into a black-and-yellow
Ambassador, I bade the driver take me to Park Street. And he obliged, running
down the length of Chowringhee, past the Planetarium and then swinging a left
into the famed food and fashion street. I got off in front of Flurys, where my
friend was waiting. Flurys, the legendary pastry shop, has a long history
behind it and is known for its pastries, he explained to me. We walked in and
asked for some of their pastries but were told that they had completely run out
of stocks and a fresh batch was still in the oven. We would have to wait till 3
pm. So much for all the anticipation. I wondered what I would write about
Flurys, if I were to write about Calcutta forty years hence. But forty years is
a long time and I didn’t dwell on it. We had a cup of tea each to dilute the
disappointment and then my friend, after pointing out some of the Park Street
landmarks like Trinca’s, Kwality and the paan shop adjacent to it, drove me to
a theatre to catch the matinee show as a sort of compensation. Liberty, I think
the theatre was called, or was it Regal? And Athithi was the name of the Hindi
movie, starring Shashi Kapoor. Nothing special to mention about it, except that
it was quite noisy, both in the lobby and inside the theatre.
Movie
done, we moved over to what the Calcuttans call the “Lakeside”, near the
Victoria Memorial, lined with stalls selling “chaat” and other street food. I sampled the famed “puchkas” and was not disappointed. A puchka is a round, crisp, dry ‘poori’, the top of which is cracked open
with the thumb and stuffed with a cooked potato-onion-chickpeas filling. This
stuffed poori is then dipped into a
tangy solution of tamarind water, chilli, salt, chaat masala and black salt.
The tangy flavours in the solution get the gastric juices flowing! One round of
puchkas was followed by another
Calcutta special, the “jhal muri”,
puffed rice mixed with fried lentils and stuff, finely cut pieces of onions and
green chillies, spices, salt and sprinkled with lime. Mouth watering! I had my
fill of these typical Calcuttan street snacks and washed them down with cool
and refreshing “nimbu paani”. It was
late evening and we did not feel like having dinner, so I was dropped off in a
vacant third floor apartment in an unknown (to me) location which belonged to
my friend’s family but was unoccupied at the moment. I was told to get ready in
the morning and that I would be picked up by 8.30.
It
so happened that I was tired after the long cross-country train journey and all
the perambulations through the city of joy during the day. Moreover, the
apartment where I was put up was vacant and there was utter silence. When my
head hit the pillow, I went off like the light I had put out moments earlier. I
never woke up. Well, I did, but not before creating a huge scare. My friend and
his uncle came for me at 8.30 in the morning as promised and rang the bell of
the apartment. I was sleeping in an inside bedroom and it is quite possible I did
not hear the bell, or it may be that the bell did not work. I slept on. After a
few attempts, so they told me later between gaalis,
they started banging the door. I slept on. I mean to say, 8.30 on a peaceful
morning in Middleton Street or wherever, who will notice a piddly thing like a
knock on the door? I am told that my friend was in a state of panic and wanted
to call the police. His uncle, however, was made of sterner stuff. He said, no,
don’t call the police, I’ll try the balcony. So he went up to the next floor
and, using some new spider-man technology, climbed down from that balcony to
this balcony. And managed to reach my sleep-benumbed brain. I woke up with a
start and, for the next several minutes there was a terrible thunderstorm
attacking me from two sides. I endured that and afterwards all was well. That
became the highlight of my visit to The City of Joy. Boy!
But
I left out Chowringhee! What a street! On my way back to rejoin my group, I
took a walk along this long and iconic lane. I seem to remember that there were
buildings only on one side of the street. Some kind of clearing and
construction work was going on near the Esplanade end and I was told it was for
the underground Metro. I think there was a large, open ground kind of area on
the other side. I believe it is the Maidan. Chowringhee was a street alive with
the sounds of a million tongues. Every step I took, I heard a different
language, or so it seemed. People were chattering away like there was no other
agenda. I would have been the only one silent as I walked along, trying to take
it all in and not succeeding. I walked along slowly, gawping at everything. But
no one seemed to mind. Quite a friendly city, this, with friendly people ever
ready to help.
Suddenly,
I was accosted by a tall gent sporting a luxuriant moustache and wearing a long
coat. Now who would wander along Chowringhee in Calcutta wearing a long coat on
a warm mid-September day? Exactly. So I decided that discretion is the better
part of valour and tried to do a quick sideways shuffle to my left. But this
fellow twirled his moustache and did a sideways shuffle to his right so that we
ended up facing each other again. We did this tango a couple of times and then
stopped for breath. When he was satisfied that I could not get away, he undid
the buttons of his coat and dramatically threw it open. The inside of the coat
was festooned on both sides with pens of all colours and descriptions! He was
only a pen seller trying to earn his living. I managed to make him happy after
I selected a cheap pen. Ceremoniously clipping this to my shirt pocket after
collecting my money, he stepped aside politely and with a gracious gesture of
his hand allowed me to continue my walk through Chowringhee. With an equally gracious
bow, I took his leave.
A
few steps later, I stopped, fascinated by a tall contraption which looked like
a weighing machine and from which were issuing forth short puffs whenever
someone stood on it. I was gaping at it, when the chappie standing next to the
machine beckoned me forward and, pointing to it, called me a brute. I looked at
him and said “Huh?” and he repeated the charge. I was not ready to pick up an
argument in a strange land, so I said “Huh?” again. He quickly deduced that I
was a “baahar ka aadmi” and spoke to
me in Hindi. He told me that a try would cost 50 paise. I was to stand on the
pedestal and drop the coin into the slot at the top right corner. And hey and
presto! A spray of perfume would hit me amidships and cover me with a fast
acting and long lasting scent! He again called me a brute and this time I could
infer that he was referring to a well known brand of deodorants and perfumes.
Indeed! But I didn’t want to be fumigated, so with a blank look on my face I
deftly moved away from him with quick steps. He wasn’t as intrepid or acrobatic
as the pen-wala and I managed to escape. Chowringhee!
While
meandering through the by-lanes, I found a South Indian hotel where I was able
to get a typical vegetarian meal. Happily I went back to my hotel to rejoin my
group.
I
was sorry to leave Calcutta and promised myself that I would come back one day.
I
wonder if I will have these experiences again when I revisit the old city.
Good
old Calcutta!
***
Glossary
Bori
and Bister > literally, sack and mattress. It stands for “bag and baggage”.
Chaat
> spicy street food
Puchka
> see above
Poori
> an Indian bread, deep fried till it puffs up
Jhal
Muri > see above
Nimbu
Paani > lime juice
Gaali
> abuse
Baahar
ka aadmi > outsider
