chapter I

Calcutta is my favorite city in the world.

Whenever I mention this fact to people, they are always shocked. They invariably look at me for a long while with the same blank stare. Once they have regained their composure, the same question never fails to follow;

“Calcutta?”

They spit the word as if it were a particularly salty wad of phlegm.

“W…W…Why?”

As is so often the case, the only answer I can give is so obvious as to appear flippant;

“Because it’s full of Calcuttans.”

Certainly Calcutta isn’t a city of great physical beauty. Once it was known as the City of Palaces, but many of those grand edifices have been razed with sanction from an unconcerned government [as pictured above], and most of the remaining buildings have been allowed to deteriorate terribly. Calcutta today certainly could not be mistaken for Paris or Rome.

For tourists, Calcutta is not exactly on par with Hong Kong or London. Shopping is indeed extraordinary in Calcutta, but the tourist areas are simply impossible. The hours spent haggling with shopkeepers for over-priced, poor-quality keepsakes and souvenirs is not my idea of relaxing vacation time. Add the greedy shopkeepers, beggars, pick-pockets, obsequious porters, rip-off taxi drivers, pimps, and teaming crowds of sweating, spitting, swearing locals and you’d be better off staying home watching the Travel Channel.

One would never boast that Calcutta is particularly clean city. I have heard that Singapore is so clean, one can eat off of the streets. Having never been there, I can’t even imagine what Singapore must look like. All I really know is Calcutta, which can be downright filthy.

I mean seriously filthy.

Let’s go a step further and define filthy. In some neighborhoods (though certainly not all) the overwhelming stench of shit, piss, and rotting garbage may well be classifiable by the Geneva convention as biological warfare. In the wrong area, if you are not stepping carefully, you are very likely to slip when your shoe finds itself in a particularly viscous divot of steaming shit. If the turd in question is from non-human origins, you consider yourself fortunate. Indeed, naked, dirt-encrusted, flea-garlanded children can often be found squatting on the sidewalk plopping anti-freeze green diarrhea onto the pavement.

Therefore, if you are in the habit of eating off of the street, buy a ticket for Singapore.

If your looking for amusements, you won’t find much in Calcutta. One theme park exists, but my single visit was enough to ever keep me from ever returning. My only memory was riding a peddle-boat, which was so rusty and in need of ball-bearings that an Olympian track-star would have trouble propelling it through a half-empty bath tub. Worse, once you begin the ride, you have no choice but to pedal all the way through the narrow course with other peddlers pushing you on, so there is no way to stop when you are tired. I felt like Sisyphus pushing his rock uphill for all of eternity. I swear that dingy nearly became a coffin that day. The end of the course could not have come sooner, and when I finally disembarked from that miserable fiberglass tub, I half-expected someone place a gold medal around my neck. My rubber-band legs seemed incapable of supporting my weight for the rest of the afternoon and to this very day, whenever I pass by that place I feel a distinct throb in my quadraceps.

Calcutta will never be a popular tourist city for the aforementioned reasons. But what makes a city great? Is it merely fine architecture? Is it the quantity of business transactions? The shopping opportunities? Flashy nightlife? Do the tourist attractions make a city special?

No, of course not; it is the people who make a city.

This story is attempt to recount a personal tale of love in the romantic city of Calcutta. Yes, despite all that has been said to humble this great city, it is a very romantic place and the Bengali people are known for their enthusiastic appreciation of bhalobasa [love]. If India were Europe, Bengal would be France and Calcutta would be no less than Paris itself. Certainly the poetic Bengali language is as appropriate for expressing amorous emotions as French. Moreover, like the French, Bengalis love their language, exercising every opportunity to wallow in it.

Perhaps my story could have happened anywhere; but it did not. It is, in many ways, a distinctly Calcuttan story and that is why I must tell you a bit about this great city. Indeed, one could never understand Calcutta without a love story.

Certainly it is more interesting than facts, figures, and dates that your Loney Planet guide book describes in such scandalous detail:

"...with an extended metropolitan population of over 14 million, making it the third-largest urban agglomeration and the fourth-largest city in India."

No, that won't do. That is like trying to learn to swim by reading a textbook. If you want to learn to swim, you must jump in the water. If you want to know Calcutta, you must love.

I should make an admission at this point. I have never been a tourist in Calcutta. Therefore, my viewpoint may not be fair to one who simply plans on buying a ticket, crashing at a local YMCA, and eating dubious curries and biryani at roadside stands. You won’t see Calcutta that way. In fact, that Calcutta - the Calcutta of the tourist - could not be further from the true city hiding from you. If you want to see Calcutta - indeed, if you wish to experience Calcutta - you cannot do that alone. You can’t do it with a tour group. You can’t do it with an organized outing from your local church or yoga club. And just forget about doing it with your back-pack toting, granola bar chewing, pot smoking, quinine-dosing hippie friends.

Calcutta is a VIP. If one is to have her audience, he must be properly introduced. One cannot simply barge in unannounced; he must make an appointment. Try to rush the door, and you risk being booted out by the security guards of malaria, jaundice, and dysentery.

In a rash attempt to recover some its original personality, three of India’s four major cities have officially changed their names. Bombay is now Mumbai, Madras is now Chennei, and Calcutta has become Kolkata. In practice, however, Bengalis have always called their capitol “Kolkata” while speaking their own language. While speaking English, it has always been “Calcutta.” I follow this system myself. When the holy Hindu city now known as “Allahabad” again becomes “Prayag,” I will reconsider my position. Until then, it’s Calcutta. My beloved Calcutta.

please continue to
chapter II