re
constantly changing. It is 6:30 am and Rekha, my
guide for the next few days, and I get an early
start. First thing, we head for Victoria Memorial
Park. The playing fields are filled with activity.
At one side is a group of men who come every
morning for one hour of yoga. I speak with a
doctor, a journalist and a businessman. They tell
me this is a kick-start to their day and they've been
coming for years. An 80-year-old man, keen to
get into the conversation, is pleased to say that it's
his 40th year. Naturally, there have been changes
of teachers over the years. The yogi today,
proudly tells me that there is another section of
this large green grassy patch dominated by the stunning architecture of Victoria Memorial Building, a
mix of Occidental and Oriental styles, with a huge sour-looking bronze of Queen Victoria - both a
reminder of British Calcutta. A cricket game has young students urging each other on in loud
voices. This pretty oasis, in the middle of the often-squalid city, is flanked on both sides by two
small man-made lakes. The gardens are indeed still very British even though India received its
independence in 1947.
When I drive by the gardens later in the day, the pollution makes my eyes tear, traffic is at a standstill, the noise is deafening and the heat oppressive. I see that the grounds have now become a grazing field for a herd of sheep, which will go back with their owners to an out of town village. Yes, Calcutta is a kaleidoscope.
But who would have throught Calcutta would grab
hold of me. Beyond the abject slums, pollution,
endless traffic jams, constant horn honking, touts
that don't take no for an answer, is a vibrant city
with serious cultural, literary and religious outlets.
Like most Westerners, I find there is a shock
factor relating to the poverty even in the most up-market area.
It's still early and with water gushing out of water mains, the poor sit on the streets washing themselves and brushing their teeth. The homeless women, I'm told, do their ablutions earlier so that they "will not lose their dignity," Rekha tells me. There's an obvious inequality since there are many five star hotels with services to match and the former British bastions - the private clubs.
I visit the 100 acre Tollygunge Golf Club and the Bengal Club.
Tollygunge, an oasis in the heart of the bustling metropolis, once
was used purely for equestrian activities. Now there's an 18 hole
golf course, indoor and outdoor swimming pools and tennis court. It is a true city retreat. The former small racecourse
includes a property filled with tropical plants from distant lands
and indigenous palms. This has in turn, become a natural
sanctuary for birds and small mammals. As expected, the fine old
public rooms inside, are decorated with wood paneling and
oversized, comfortable but tired looking seating. It could be
described as shabby chic. The upstairs of the two-story building
is devoted to 70 guestr
ooms for members or 'friends of', who
also have reciprocal arrangements with similar clubs in many other countries such as Singapore, England and the
U.S. With the sun
beaming down, I head for the outdoor restaurant for a cold drink
and watch a few privileged Indian teenage boys eat their club
sandwiches and get ready to play tennis. At another table, a
group of stunning, sari-clad women are obviously having a good
gossip before ordering lunch.
About 10 minutes away, and also in the city, is the Bengal Club, which has the same reciprocal arrangements. However, it has become dingy and has not fared very well. The Colonial facade with a grand porte cochere, nevertheless, is newly painted in a pure white giving the impression of a still grand club. Unfortunately, the interior is now seedy-looking and even seems damp.
The real India is at the train terminal. Over
one million people
use the system every day. The flood of humanity, some hanging
out the doorways, comes from a variety of destinations on the
outskirts of Calcutta. Patience is a must. Much to my surprise
and amazement no one seems to be pushing or shoving to get out
of the station. This being Tuesday, there's an open market which
stretches over several city blocks from the entrance. Clothing for
every need can be purchased at great prices. It is early morning
and already there are jostling crowds, intense hawkers and
unfortunately, dozens of beggars.
With the myriad of temples and thousands of years of history, the Indian Museum is rated one of the best museums in India. I discover their treasures include meteorites, stuffed animals, miniature paintings and a great collection of Buddhist art to name but a few. It is dimly lit and dusty. I wonder if the curators and the government officials are concerned about the possibility of corrosion of these priceless, ancient works of art, since the museum is in such a sad state of disrepair.
Wednesday and our sightseeing starts at a mor
e reasonable time -
8 a.m. - later than yesterday, but before the heat and traffic
settles in. Our first stop is to the Missionaries of Charities, the
late Mother Teresa's building which is off a busy street, with the
entrance on a narrow lane. I pass several novices washing floors
and stairs while others, behind a curtained-off outdoor area, are
washing and wringing out cloths. On the first floor is Mother
Teresa's tomb. There is a humming of prayers; reverend
chanting and someone is fixing the floral arrangements. Still
devoid of tourists, at this time of day, the chapel on the second
floor is a spacious and sparse room. In this simple setting these
good people, through their desire to help those most needy, the
sick and dying, have become world famous.
By the time we leave, the roads are bumper to bumper with motor rickshaws, bicycles, cars and vans, but through the juggernaut of traffic, we manage to arrive at the ornate and down-right marvelous, although admittedly somewhat gaudy, Jain Temple. What to look at first? There are so many diverse architectural influences; and to add to the colour and splendor - tiles from around the world and mirrors everywhere! It is a jewel box set in a stunning garden setting. In fact the builder, Rai Budree Das Bahadoor Mooken, was a jeweler. There are Moorish styled doorways, Colonial influences, huge carved elephants which are a symbolic form of welcome, Venetian chandeliers, crystal objects from Belgium and Czechoslovakia. It isn't hard to see why it took ten years to decorate. Overall the affect is charming.
In great contrast to the serene atmosphere of Jain Temple, is Dalhousie Square. We drive around
and I am surprised to see the proximity of the serious slums in
this up market business section of the city. The monumental
buildings need constant care and these edifices employ many poor
who live close by. But since they cannot afford to come into the
city each day because of the cost, tents and make-shift living
quarters are pitched next to the buildings. Some of these buildings date
back 200 years and are built in British Colonial style.
Outstanding are the General Post Office, St. John's Cathedral,
the oldest church in Calcutta, the Reserve Bank of India,
Writers' Building and Fort William, with the infamous Black
Hole of Calcutta, a tiny guardroom at the northeast corner of the
post office. It was here that 146 people were forced into the tiny
cells when the city fell to Suraj-ud-daula. Only 23 survived, as
did the name.
It is almost impossible to walk too long witho
ut finding small
shops, stalls and markets. We walk through one, which
specializes in clay pots and lightweight pith religious statues. All
the merchants in this area produce the same merchandise and if you close your eyes and choose
one, there would be very little difference. Pith is very lightweight. When I am handed a statue of
Vishnu, I expect this white artifact to be heavy. Instead it weighs just ounces. Pith is a water
reed. The men, to whom I speak, sit in their stalls all day turning out the most intricate objects
from this reed.
I like the busyness of markets. It is where you see how the locals live. Rekha suggests we go to the flower market. It is as colourful as I expect and there are mounds of various coloured flowers ready to be made into arrangements or garlands. Marigolds seem to be the most used flower, probably because they last longer in this extremely hot climate. By the end of the day, the total sales are usually over one million units. But in a city with a population of 16 million, it is a realistic amount.
The rush of humanity, the colours and the smells all mixed
together gives me the ultimate insight into India. It is a most
complex country that manages to continue to work. Hooghly
River, a tributary of the Ganges River, is where I see Judges'
Ghat. In this open sided room I see men washing
themselves or being shaved after the period of mourning for the
death of a relative. It is low tide and there are heaps of clay pots,
which once contained the ashes of the dead. They have been
washed up on the shore along with sewage and garbage. Instead
of feeling a sense of remorse, I feel ill from the stench and the
refuse that comes in with the other more religious artifacts.
Since religion is so very strong here, I decide to
go to one of the
surviving synagogues. The Maghen David Synagogue built in
the late 1800s is located behind a busy, frenetic market and
locked iron gates. The irony is that it is kept immaculately by
two Moslems who allow me to walk around. Since there are just
a handful of Jewish families remaining in Calcutta, they alternate
their services every other Friday and Saturday with the nearby Beth El Synagogue.
For the shopper an interesting area is Chowringhee Road. The wide boulevard is just a mass of
cars with the drivers all leaning on their horns; the noise constant and loud.
Somehow, I seemed to become accustomed to the cacophony. Every shopkeeper, who sees that you
have the slightest interest in his merchandise, offers you tea, coffee, or a cold drink. At one shop I'm shown a
shatooch, a pure cashmere shawl, which is illegal since these scarves are made from goats, which
had to be killed. The shopkeeper continues to go down in price and I continue to tell him that not
only am I not interested, they are illegal, no matter what the price. As though he has not heard
me, he continues to bargain.
I have witnessed several women loaded down with heavy bundles; have heard about arranged
marriages, and the hardships of females. It is lunch at Shenaz, a restaurant known for its great
Indian cuisine. I am having lunch with Rekha and two men. Our conversation is most animated
about the rights and plights of the women in India. Since I am aware of the various demands on
even the educated, modern, working Indian woman, I am not surprised to hear that housework and
childcare are not considered a job and it is expected that the career woman also manage the
household. Unfortunately, sati, the burning of a woman when her husband dies, does occasionally
still happen, as does dowry burning. Rekha is an anomaly. She has opted to work while her
husband has a job 200 miles away in a small village where she would have very little to do. They
meet once a month. It was her decision, which to the average Indian puts her into a very difficult
social category. India is complex.
As Winston Churchill wrote to his mother referring to Calcutta. "I shall always be glad to have seen it - namely that it will be unnecessary for me ever to see it again". However, feeling much the same, I'll never regret having spent time in this throbbing, kaleidoscope called Calcutta.
By Barbara Kingstone
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