Calcutta, continued

If I made a diorama of Calcutta, and your eye peeked in and wandered over the temple scene, aghast, it would be all the more surprised by the scene outside of the temple, a couple of streets away, closer to the city center. Beautiful, old, decaying buildings rise up in faded brick red and mossy green, accented with thick wooden shutters, and latticed balconies. Echoing the chaos of New York, bright yellow cabs weave everywhere, honking past rickety buses and pedestrians. If your eye wandered below ground, it would discover a fast moving, efficient metro scheduled to the minute (but, as a sign orders, Please Do Not Bring Dead Bodies into the subway). And, you’d look twice at the Maidan, a many-acred park where sheep and ponies graze, and young lovers bashfully hold hands and talk together.

I wasn’t expecting the goat sacrifice, but then again, I wasn’t expecting a cosmopolitan place either. My mother loves to tell the story of her friend, a mature, single, well-traveled woman, who flew into Calcutta several years ago, looking to explore India in all her glory. I imagine this woman was well-coifed, carrying ample luggage, and followed by her diaphanous silk scarf—but, I really don’t know. What I do remember from the story is this: she made it off the plane, through customs, into a yellow taxi, and as far as the front desk of her hotel, where she primly requested, beads of sweat forming on the back of her neck, to be booked on the next flight out of Calcutta “to anywhere.” Evidently, the view from her cab window had given her more than a taste of “incredible India!”

As culturally ignorant as it may sound, the only thing I have ever heard about Calcutta concerns its horror stories and unimaginable poverty. But, evidently, Calcutta has been whispering sweet nothings into progressive ears and appealing to the culturally minded. Those who haven’t been to Calcutta still think of it as India’s nightmare, a place better left alone. But others, part of some quiet word-of-mouth marketing campaign, have heard Calcutta’s call, and she is now a cultural Mecca—a city of poets, film makers, novelists, painters, etc.

At the start of the trip, I had decided that I would not be making the trek to Calcutta. It was out of the way, and I didn’t want to be a “disaster tourist,” just visiting to see the carnage of poverty. But, India is a plan wreaker—she prefers you not make them, and if you do, that you break them, so as to experience her spontaneously, and with abandon. So, on a whim, with only 7 days left in the country, and on the opposite side of the country from Calcutta, I decided to go. I was curious about the writers and the buzz.

The trip from Delhi to Calcutta usually takes over 30 hours by train, but if you’re lucky and book your ticket well-enough in advance, you can take the Rajdhani Express, an upscale train that makes the journey across India in a snappy 16 hours. Visiting Calcutta was a last minute decision, so I was relegated to the waiting list—number 33—and didn’t know until an hour before the train’s departure whether I’d be going. Luckily, I got a seat—third class A/C, the lowest and least expensive class on this particular train.

Third class A/C was a complete revelation. We were given sheets, blankets, towels, a snack of cheese sandwich and mango juice, a nice vegetarian dinner, chai in our own thermos, and free bottled water. Every time the waiter appeared, he brought another surprise—biscuits? Ice cream? Fresh coffee? I had balked at the $38 train ticket—expensive for an India train—but now I understood why. The train was only an hour late (amazing compared to six hours delays on other trains), and the amenities were quite nice. Having the waiter call me Madamji—well, that was priceless (the suffix “ji” connotes respect).

When the train pulled into the station, I galumphed off, an awkward llama with a heavy load, and was wholeheartedly greeted by Calcutta in a full embrace, my face dipping into her moist, hairy armpits. Like an aging aunt, she was delighted to see me and I found it difficult to wrest myself from her grasp. I stayed longer than I anticipated, and in the end, let her have her way with me.

With the exception of the day of the goat sacrifice, I spent most of my time walking around and visiting some of Calcutta’s bookstores, seeing Bengali dance performances, and talking to locals. Unlike some of the other places I visited, I made friends with the locals, one of whom I ate dinner with in her home. The other stranger-cum-friend took me to a Hindi movie and translated for me, after treating me to a meal cooked by his mother. Perhaps it was the people, or maybe it was something in the air, but I rather enjoyed the place.

During my stay, I thought about Zana Briski’s Born Into Brothels, a documentary about the children of prostitutes in Calcutta, and wondered where the red light district was. But, I didn’t make an attempt to find it. Nor did I go to Mother Teresa’s home for the dying. There was more than enough chaos on the streets in general that I didn’t feel the desire to seek the horrors that Calcutta is famed for. The goat sacrifice was more than enough, and just in the nick of time. I went back to my hotel room after that and packed my bags. I made it to the train with time to spare, and boarded feeling a little dirtier, and a bit sweatier than when I arrived…but then again, that’s probably Calcutta’s goodbye kiss, a moist, lipstick pucker that will last long after I’ve gone.

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Now, four weeks after leaving Calcutta, I miss the tropical breeze, a belly dancer in the leaves, the shuttered windows, the skinny, trotting dogs. At my desk, sitting in front of a computer in a cube, I wonder at the lack of flavor, color, noise around me. My mind keeps returning to those streets with lust, and longing. I won’t soon forget the goats, the brown babies, or India in all her glory.