It is early morning. It is a sweaty Calcutta day in 2003. My son Vasudev Nayar aka Chathu is running high fever. I had been awake through the night, trying to keep the temperature down by continually pressing on his forehead, a cloth dipped in ice-cold water. At daybreak, I set out looking for a Doctor. I walk around Bhowanipore area near the multistoried Nizam Place Building where we lived- A small one room apartment till we get a regular allotment. I realize that none of the doctors are open for business before 1130 hours. Standard opening time for Bengalis- In my office, men arrive around 11 AM after buying fish and vegetables in the market, getting it cooked and having a good meal. I asked a security guard about availability of doctors and explained in my poor Bengali that my 8-year-old son was sick. I could see worry lines furrowed in his face. He insisted on accompanying me to show a Doctor’s house where I could show him in an emergency…. Forgetting his duties. That’s Calcutta at its best.
I had asked for a posting in Calcutta and landed there as a bureaucrat in 2003. Creative Dimensions was no more. I lost touch with Himanshu Lathia and Abhijit Banerji after I left Calcutta in September of 1983. The wooden staircase to the old office In New Market were creaky. But some Computer Company had set up office where it stood once. The security guard asked what is my business there. I swiftly beat a retreat. Prince Henry tobacco was no more available (Kompany bandh Ache, the cigarette seller told me that the Tobacco company had closed business as it happens to many companies in Calcutta.) There were no power cuts this time- my friend told me with a wink that the State hasn’t exactly increased supply much but has tackled the problem from the demand side. Many companies have closed down and hence the demand was much less. Linton Street was unrecognizable as I tried to find out House No 41A. The street barbers were still plying their trade and the customers, mostly rickshaw pullers looked more majestic as they were shaved and given a hair cut with a free head massage thrown in. People were still having open-air bath near the public water line. Nizam’s in New Market has closed down and the striking employees were selling rolls on the roadside. And these days they put Maggi tomato sauce inside the Kathi roll…. What an abomination.
Free School Street is now known as Mirza Ghalib Street, an Indianisation that one couldn’t disagree with. The hedonist poet Azadullah Khan Ghalib would have loved to have a street full of prostitutes, sellers of second hand books and exquisite music in a city beyond his cozy confines in Delhi named after him. The music sellers are not knowledgeable as before. For instance, you could see a blinking uncomprehending eye or two as you ask for “Slow train coming” by Bob Dylan or “Pros and Cons of Hitchhiking” by Clapton and Dylan. That was the kind of rare stuff that one could always find 20 years back.
Eating out is still cheaper than other cities in India. Kathi Rolls are now good at Kusum Rolls in Park Street and also Sher e Punjab in Theatre Road. There is nothing Punjabi about Sher-e- Punjab. The best Mee Foon and Kathi rolls are available there- It became a permanent fixture for our requirements of home delivery. The Zen in Park Hotel is probably the best Chinese I had in India. Mainland China’s Calcutta branch is also good. In two years we had done the entire round of the restaurant scene in Calcutta. The missus’ cousin, Ram, a journalist in Telegraph was a tenant of the Chef in Oh Calcutta- the new age restaurant chain by Anjan Chatterjee- Ram says the Chef has an ear for the music of the “Grateful dead”. I went there several times- Checking out the Raj menu in their restaurant in Forum Mall and eating crabmeat, Railway Mutton Curry and Goan Prawn curry. A chef with an ear for Grateful Dead must have great culinary skills, methinks. Can’t help it, my standards are so shallow.
The Bong wedding is a celebration of food. You can skip the part where the groom wears a headgear and is led to the venue with hands around the shoulders of strong males and hanging on to them. This is to ensure that the groom’s feet don’t touch the ground. Caterers and the bride’s father see the wedding as an occasion to demonstrate their finely honed tastes and generosity. Once you are seated, the menu comes. It is just a list showing the order in which items are pushed into your plate. Guys like me with predictable tastes would wait for item no 16 (Prawn curry, Rossogolla or Fish) or 18 (Sandesh, Mutton curry) and generally skip all foodstuffs that come in between. The order is also strange I must say. Sweet chutney comes right after a heavy dose of Pulao at No 5 or even heavier items come at No 21 when your stomach is about to burst and you need to go out, take some air and do twenty five pushups to work up an appetite.
Ask for directions in Calcutta and you shall get very detailed ones: short of accompanying you in a bus or rickshaw. There is that earnestness in explaining so as to be sure that you, a stranger to the city, don’t get lost. Try the same in Delhi…you know what I mean. The Bengali women look great & sexy. Many admit to a general weakness for them (including yours truly). With big eyes and expressive gestures as they talk in their sing song tones. I could see some young mothers hanging around Chathu’s school for the whole day. Motherhood is an involved process in Calcutta. Bengali mothers spend the whole day in School waiting for their offspring to finish classes- gossiping with other mothers, dissecting the little one’s performance, teachers etc. The average Bengali male still stands by the street sipping tea from a mutka…. wearing thick glasses, loose pajamas and a vest. He is busy smoking endless cigarettes, discussing football, Nicaragua and Cuba passionately. He is tied too closely to the women in his life, mother wife, and sister. The relationship of a Bengali male and his mother is almost Biblical. The mother thinks the son is God who walked on earth. The son in turn thinks the Mother is Virgin Mary who carried him in her womb without the usual messy biological processes. (I heard this from a Bengali Male, so forgive me Lord for trashing thy name)
Once my son walked all the way from school (about 4 kms) due to problems with the school bus. I virtually went crazy trying to track him down. He reached home safe all right with a little help from strangers. I still believe I got him back only because it was Calcutta. I can name cities where a lost child would end up as body parts with mercenary organ traders. My staff at Calcutta is the most attached to me even today. Calling me up on every festival, dropping in at my Office at Delhi to see me.
My heart still beats for the city of Joy. Oh Calcutta, proof that the redemption of human soul lies amidst great poverty, the milk of human kindness isn’t extinct…. city of great contrasts, city of my dreams: I would go back there given half a chance. I have seen the world, the efficiency of Singapore, the romance of Paris, the beauty of Madrid, and the cosmopolitanism of New York. I have breathed the air of Nice in France, the top holiday destination in the world. I have enjoyed the grassy knolls in green green England. I have walked the streets of Seoul and Bangkok and marveled at the way cities of the world are administered. Calcutta cannot be judged by any known standards. There was a time when Calcutta and Singapore were touted as the Athens of the east. Singapore sold its’ soul to development, efficiency and prosperity. Calcutta remains vibrant, throbbing with life and its’ glorious uncertainties.
I had asked for a posting in Calcutta and landed there as a bureaucrat in 2003. Creative Dimensions was no more. I lost touch with Himanshu Lathia and Abhijit Banerji after I left Calcutta in September of 1983. The wooden staircase to the old office In New Market were creaky. But some Computer Company had set up office where it stood once. The security guard asked what is my business there. I swiftly beat a retreat. Prince Henry tobacco was no more available (Kompany bandh Ache, the cigarette seller told me that the Tobacco company had closed business as it happens to many companies in Calcutta.) There were no power cuts this time- my friend told me with a wink that the State hasn’t exactly increased supply much but has tackled the problem from the demand side. Many companies have closed down and hence the demand was much less. Linton Street was unrecognizable as I tried to find out House No 41A. The street barbers were still plying their trade and the customers, mostly rickshaw pullers looked more majestic as they were shaved and given a hair cut with a free head massage thrown in. People were still having open-air bath near the public water line. Nizam’s in New Market has closed down and the striking employees were selling rolls on the roadside. And these days they put Maggi tomato sauce inside the Kathi roll…. What an abomination.
Free School Street is now known as Mirza Ghalib Street, an Indianisation that one couldn’t disagree with. The hedonist poet Azadullah Khan Ghalib would have loved to have a street full of prostitutes, sellers of second hand books and exquisite music in a city beyond his cozy confines in Delhi named after him. The music sellers are not knowledgeable as before. For instance, you could see a blinking uncomprehending eye or two as you ask for “Slow train coming” by Bob Dylan or “Pros and Cons of Hitchhiking” by Clapton and Dylan. That was the kind of rare stuff that one could always find 20 years back.
Eating out is still cheaper than other cities in India. Kathi Rolls are now good at Kusum Rolls in Park Street and also Sher e Punjab in Theatre Road. There is nothing Punjabi about Sher-e- Punjab. The best Mee Foon and Kathi rolls are available there- It became a permanent fixture for our requirements of home delivery. The Zen in Park Hotel is probably the best Chinese I had in India. Mainland China’s Calcutta branch is also good. In two years we had done the entire round of the restaurant scene in Calcutta. The missus’ cousin, Ram, a journalist in Telegraph was a tenant of the Chef in Oh Calcutta- the new age restaurant chain by Anjan Chatterjee- Ram says the Chef has an ear for the music of the “Grateful dead”. I went there several times- Checking out the Raj menu in their restaurant in Forum Mall and eating crabmeat, Railway Mutton Curry and Goan Prawn curry. A chef with an ear for Grateful Dead must have great culinary skills, methinks. Can’t help it, my standards are so shallow.
The Bong wedding is a celebration of food. You can skip the part where the groom wears a headgear and is led to the venue with hands around the shoulders of strong males and hanging on to them. This is to ensure that the groom’s feet don’t touch the ground. Caterers and the bride’s father see the wedding as an occasion to demonstrate their finely honed tastes and generosity. Once you are seated, the menu comes. It is just a list showing the order in which items are pushed into your plate. Guys like me with predictable tastes would wait for item no 16 (Prawn curry, Rossogolla or Fish) or 18 (Sandesh, Mutton curry) and generally skip all foodstuffs that come in between. The order is also strange I must say. Sweet chutney comes right after a heavy dose of Pulao at No 5 or even heavier items come at No 21 when your stomach is about to burst and you need to go out, take some air and do twenty five pushups to work up an appetite.
Ask for directions in Calcutta and you shall get very detailed ones: short of accompanying you in a bus or rickshaw. There is that earnestness in explaining so as to be sure that you, a stranger to the city, don’t get lost. Try the same in Delhi…you know what I mean. The Bengali women look great & sexy. Many admit to a general weakness for them (including yours truly). With big eyes and expressive gestures as they talk in their sing song tones. I could see some young mothers hanging around Chathu’s school for the whole day. Motherhood is an involved process in Calcutta. Bengali mothers spend the whole day in School waiting for their offspring to finish classes- gossiping with other mothers, dissecting the little one’s performance, teachers etc. The average Bengali male still stands by the street sipping tea from a mutka…. wearing thick glasses, loose pajamas and a vest. He is busy smoking endless cigarettes, discussing football, Nicaragua and Cuba passionately. He is tied too closely to the women in his life, mother wife, and sister. The relationship of a Bengali male and his mother is almost Biblical. The mother thinks the son is God who walked on earth. The son in turn thinks the Mother is Virgin Mary who carried him in her womb without the usual messy biological processes. (I heard this from a Bengali Male, so forgive me Lord for trashing thy name)
Once my son walked all the way from school (about 4 kms) due to problems with the school bus. I virtually went crazy trying to track him down. He reached home safe all right with a little help from strangers. I still believe I got him back only because it was Calcutta. I can name cities where a lost child would end up as body parts with mercenary organ traders. My staff at Calcutta is the most attached to me even today. Calling me up on every festival, dropping in at my Office at Delhi to see me.
My heart still beats for the city of Joy. Oh Calcutta, proof that the redemption of human soul lies amidst great poverty, the milk of human kindness isn’t extinct…. city of great contrasts, city of my dreams: I would go back there given half a chance. I have seen the world, the efficiency of Singapore, the romance of Paris, the beauty of Madrid, and the cosmopolitanism of New York. I have breathed the air of Nice in France, the top holiday destination in the world. I have enjoyed the grassy knolls in green green England. I have walked the streets of Seoul and Bangkok and marveled at the way cities of the world are administered. Calcutta cannot be judged by any known standards. There was a time when Calcutta and Singapore were touted as the Athens of the east. Singapore sold its’ soul to development, efficiency and prosperity. Calcutta remains vibrant, throbbing with life and its’ glorious uncertainties.
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