Oh Calcutta ! Experiencing The City of Joy in Seven Different Ways
This happened more than 7 years ago. On September 13, 2005. I am reproducing it from my old defunct blog after much digging.
Oh Calcutta ! Experiencing The City of Joy in Seven Different Ways
With time hanging heavy on a muggy afternoon in
Kolkata, I decided to explore the city south to north. In a quiet suburb
of South Kolkata I took an auto to the nearest Metro station. The auto
sharing was a novel concept for me, and you could end up sharing your
private space with perfect strangers, even the opposite sex. Every few
100 metres the auto would halt and passengers would alight and board
like in a bus. Three passengers in the rear and two at the front on
either side of the driver. I was squashed between a portly housewife and
a chubby college girl; I was reminded of the Bangla Mishti. Rabindra
Sarobar was where I finally got off.
The metro still looks unsullied after more than a decade of operation. The turnstiles admitting you onto the platform are automatically operated through the ticket carrying a magnetic stripe. Park Street was 6 stations, 15 minutes and Rs.4 away. The coach was crowded and the only vacant seats were in the section reserved for ladies. Men and women are not segregated, but women have a third of the seats reserved for them.
I emerged out of the city’s bowels on to Chowringee Road very close to the Park Street crossing. Airline offices, banks, eateries and auction houses dominated the frontage of the famed Park Street. I dived into Flurys and was surprised by the airy, bright and contemporary European interiors. Soft spoken and knowledgeable waiters in chocolate brown uniforms took orders non-intrusively. I had Bavarian soup (a bit too salty) with buttered croissant, followed by an apple strudel and lemon tea. This gave me ample time to study the girls in eyewateringly tight tees and jeans, who trooped in at regular intervals. As they left with bags laden with sinful pastries, I wondered if they will retain their shape.
With both my stomach and eyes refreshed I rode the metro again to the northern terminus of Dumdum. The train was still crowded and I failed to get a seat yet again. Outside Dumdum station, there were a handful of vehicles, among them a lone yellow cab. I engaged it to go to Dakshineswar. The commodiously comfortable Ambassador sped along the broad Barrackpore Trunk road. My destination was less than 10 kms away and it took me under 30 minutes. The taxi had an electronic meter, despite which the cabbie used a crumpled card to calculate my fare. Rs. 80.
The ancient Kali temple of Dakshineswar has an architecture quite unlike any Indian temple. With protruding minarets the first impression is actually of a mosque. There were no harassing touts and I was left at peace to have my own personal communication with the Goddess Kali. Photography is forbidden, but I managed to steal two shots. The temple has a sprawling courtyard that hugs the river Hoogly and along this side are lined up a dozen chhatris housing huge lingams. After my perambulations I queued up at the ramshackle pier to cross the river.
I boarded the precariously tethered dinghy and a bunch of cantankerous women and unruly kids followed me on to the boat. We squatted on the hard wooden planks. No seats on this boat, which started off with a belch of thick black smoke. As it sped across the currents, the wind whipped up a spray of muddy brown water over the passengers. I hastily shoved my camera into the bag. 15 minutes later I was on the Belur Ghat. Six Rupees
If you want to know silence you must visit Belur. It is overwhelming and I lost myself in meditative contemplation in front of a life-size portrait of Ramkrishna. Another remarkable feature is the toilet, easily the cleanest public toilet in the country. It costs 25 paise to relieve your bladder into a shiny white bowl and the clerk who issues the tickets throws no tantrums if you don’t have the change. As I handed the one Rupee coin and walked away with the ticket, he hailed me to return the change, giving me the pleasure of holding a 25 p coin after aeons. Belur is where the quietly efficient Ramkrishna Mission has its Headquarters. The perfect place to purge your mind and body.
Kolkatans are warm and friendly creatures. A man patiently understood my requirements and directed me to board the mini-bus to get back to the heart of the city. Now these mini-buses are really the city’s shame. They look at least 100 years old and I hesitated to step in. For Rs 6.50, the bus took me through some of the poorest and most squalid quarters, before joining the snarled traffic on Howrah Bridge to cross over into the main city.
As I alighted from the bus after taking in copious amount of noxious fumes for more than an hour, the neon sign of K.C.Das across the road made me salivate. They have a mezzanine floor where they serve snacks and sweets on untidy tables. I gorged on Kachoris, Dahi Vadas and Rosogollas. I walked out of shop satiated and burdened with 2 cans of Rosogollas as souvenirs.
I was determined to make the tram as my next mode of conveyance. And for the first time my luck ran out. The trams were stranded with commuters waiting inside patiently. Overheard some mention of a line trouble, before I dashed off, for I had a tryst with Victoria Memorial. Maidan to Rabindra Sadan on the Metro. I fleet-footed to Victoria Memorial only to be told by the guard that the son-et-lumiere has been suspended for last 2 months. The brilliantly illuminated building stood as a mute witness as along its heavily wooded perimeter couples professed their love to each other away from prying eyes. More couples gazed into each other’s eyes in the park against the plaintive background of Rabindra Sangeet and colourful fountains.
The obsession of tram would not leave me and I skirted the maidan looking for the tram stop. More friendly instructions and soon came a tram clanging its way in the clinging darkness. I boarded the wrong tram, which was overflowing, but the conductor politely gave me instructions in Hindi on what I should do next. On the next tram I found myself seated next to a group that was engaged in animated tête-à-tête. My rudimentary Bengali told me that the topic was Central Government’s assistance for development of Kolkata. The streets looked unfamiliar in the night, but I need not have despaired. A friendly commuter gave me precise instruction on where to get down and how to reach my final destination for the day.
For the last leg of almost 2 kms, I chose the cycle-rickshaw. The air has turned pleasant after the nightfall and it felt good to travel under the star studded sky. Adeptly avoiding potholes and fast moving heavy vehicles, the balding and bearded muslim navigated me expertly to my destination. I did not grudge his Rs.15. My host was waiting with Hilsa curry and steaming rice. As we dined I told my tale of exploring the City of Joy though seven different modes.
The metro still looks unsullied after more than a decade of operation. The turnstiles admitting you onto the platform are automatically operated through the ticket carrying a magnetic stripe. Park Street was 6 stations, 15 minutes and Rs.4 away. The coach was crowded and the only vacant seats were in the section reserved for ladies. Men and women are not segregated, but women have a third of the seats reserved for them.
I emerged out of the city’s bowels on to Chowringee Road very close to the Park Street crossing. Airline offices, banks, eateries and auction houses dominated the frontage of the famed Park Street. I dived into Flurys and was surprised by the airy, bright and contemporary European interiors. Soft spoken and knowledgeable waiters in chocolate brown uniforms took orders non-intrusively. I had Bavarian soup (a bit too salty) with buttered croissant, followed by an apple strudel and lemon tea. This gave me ample time to study the girls in eyewateringly tight tees and jeans, who trooped in at regular intervals. As they left with bags laden with sinful pastries, I wondered if they will retain their shape.
With both my stomach and eyes refreshed I rode the metro again to the northern terminus of Dumdum. The train was still crowded and I failed to get a seat yet again. Outside Dumdum station, there were a handful of vehicles, among them a lone yellow cab. I engaged it to go to Dakshineswar. The commodiously comfortable Ambassador sped along the broad Barrackpore Trunk road. My destination was less than 10 kms away and it took me under 30 minutes. The taxi had an electronic meter, despite which the cabbie used a crumpled card to calculate my fare. Rs. 80.
The ancient Kali temple of Dakshineswar has an architecture quite unlike any Indian temple. With protruding minarets the first impression is actually of a mosque. There were no harassing touts and I was left at peace to have my own personal communication with the Goddess Kali. Photography is forbidden, but I managed to steal two shots. The temple has a sprawling courtyard that hugs the river Hoogly and along this side are lined up a dozen chhatris housing huge lingams. After my perambulations I queued up at the ramshackle pier to cross the river.
I boarded the precariously tethered dinghy and a bunch of cantankerous women and unruly kids followed me on to the boat. We squatted on the hard wooden planks. No seats on this boat, which started off with a belch of thick black smoke. As it sped across the currents, the wind whipped up a spray of muddy brown water over the passengers. I hastily shoved my camera into the bag. 15 minutes later I was on the Belur Ghat. Six Rupees
If you want to know silence you must visit Belur. It is overwhelming and I lost myself in meditative contemplation in front of a life-size portrait of Ramkrishna. Another remarkable feature is the toilet, easily the cleanest public toilet in the country. It costs 25 paise to relieve your bladder into a shiny white bowl and the clerk who issues the tickets throws no tantrums if you don’t have the change. As I handed the one Rupee coin and walked away with the ticket, he hailed me to return the change, giving me the pleasure of holding a 25 p coin after aeons. Belur is where the quietly efficient Ramkrishna Mission has its Headquarters. The perfect place to purge your mind and body.
Kolkatans are warm and friendly creatures. A man patiently understood my requirements and directed me to board the mini-bus to get back to the heart of the city. Now these mini-buses are really the city’s shame. They look at least 100 years old and I hesitated to step in. For Rs 6.50, the bus took me through some of the poorest and most squalid quarters, before joining the snarled traffic on Howrah Bridge to cross over into the main city.
As I alighted from the bus after taking in copious amount of noxious fumes for more than an hour, the neon sign of K.C.Das across the road made me salivate. They have a mezzanine floor where they serve snacks and sweets on untidy tables. I gorged on Kachoris, Dahi Vadas and Rosogollas. I walked out of shop satiated and burdened with 2 cans of Rosogollas as souvenirs.
I was determined to make the tram as my next mode of conveyance. And for the first time my luck ran out. The trams were stranded with commuters waiting inside patiently. Overheard some mention of a line trouble, before I dashed off, for I had a tryst with Victoria Memorial. Maidan to Rabindra Sadan on the Metro. I fleet-footed to Victoria Memorial only to be told by the guard that the son-et-lumiere has been suspended for last 2 months. The brilliantly illuminated building stood as a mute witness as along its heavily wooded perimeter couples professed their love to each other away from prying eyes. More couples gazed into each other’s eyes in the park against the plaintive background of Rabindra Sangeet and colourful fountains.
The obsession of tram would not leave me and I skirted the maidan looking for the tram stop. More friendly instructions and soon came a tram clanging its way in the clinging darkness. I boarded the wrong tram, which was overflowing, but the conductor politely gave me instructions in Hindi on what I should do next. On the next tram I found myself seated next to a group that was engaged in animated tête-à-tête. My rudimentary Bengali told me that the topic was Central Government’s assistance for development of Kolkata. The streets looked unfamiliar in the night, but I need not have despaired. A friendly commuter gave me precise instruction on where to get down and how to reach my final destination for the day.
For the last leg of almost 2 kms, I chose the cycle-rickshaw. The air has turned pleasant after the nightfall and it felt good to travel under the star studded sky. Adeptly avoiding potholes and fast moving heavy vehicles, the balding and bearded muslim navigated me expertly to my destination. I did not grudge his Rs.15. My host was waiting with Hilsa curry and steaming rice. As we dined I told my tale of exploring the City of Joy though seven different modes.
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