City of Joy
I watched with some Indian soldiers the last ball finale as Inzammam guided Pakistan to victory over India in the 6th one dayer at a shack restaurant outside Siligiri station. I arrived to find Calcutta had turned the heat up another notch. The monsoons are now only a month away and the heat on the West Bengali plains is egged on by a stifling humidity.
Calcutta had some fame as the first capital of British India, with haute couture and gentlemen’s bars barring ‘Dogs and Indians’. Mother Teresa’s grace in this desperate city made headlines in the later 20th c as did the book and motion picture ‘City of Joy’. Reading it here bought the fiction alive to a very real level. The only major city for hundreds of miles, the city has had a lot of work done to it to lift so many thousands of desperate, displaced rural people out of the scum conditions of the 80’s.
For the traveler Sudder St offers what some of India’s maddest cities don’t – a street of refuge where overpriced comforts, like a beer in a western style café make things better. Never mind the other leeches that attracts. I booked my flight to Kathmandu, flying solo as Gareth wimped out over a few Maoists. I’d done my research and knew that the situation would be easier to judge when I was there.
So with a few days before my flight I checked out the city Indian style. Indian tourist style that is. I can again confirm Indians are as mad as they come. On a tour bus with Indians from all around the country we literally rocked around the city. Our guide was biased that Calcutta must be the greatest city in India. Of course the Bangalorians wouldn’t agree to that and neither would the couple from Orissa, which degenerated into ‘Fight for the Mic’. And then instead of doing the usual ‘who’s from where’ introductions our bus became ‘Popstars’ on wheels and the Bollywood songs (that even I know) were belted out with unchecked enthusiasm by young and old. They really were a fun group of people and seeing how Indians see there country was even more interesting to me (the only westerner on the bus) than some of the fine sights of Calcutta. Some educated Indians enjoy a philosophical debate and in the gardens of Victoria memorial it was put to me that the difference between me (the west) and them (the east) was that we are bought up with the emphasis on developing a personal identity that accumulates personal gain. (This was the gist). This bollix was quite long winded but I did enjoy deconstructing the dichotomies of East/West, Us/them suggesting that while these terms were convenient divisions for old empires they don’t make any sense in today’s world of globalization in which Indian’s more than contribute in. ‘Where does the east begin and end today?’ I asked. ‘Geographically New Zealand is even further East than India.’
I jumped off the bandwagon after lunch when the bus went near Sudder St, cutting short an intensive tour. I met up with Cella and a friend who volunteers (as many do) in the orphanages around Calcutta. We headed for a coffee shop a few blocks away. I prefer to let India work for me, so I suggested taking a rickshaw. The rickshaws in Calcutta presented a moral dilemma for the girls, but not me. Here Man-drawn rickshaws, human horses, persist while being long extinct in most other parts of the world. I can see how you might think it must look like slavery carrying me in a carriage while a subservient Indian hauls barefooted through the obstacles of Indian streets. But let me shed light on my perspective – what is crueler, to accept a ride with payment or to leave a man without a fare, with the options of going hungry or turning to begging. There are enough skeletal beggars. So I take the ride and the girls decide to walk. I know I don’t weigh the same the fat sari’d women in the rickshaw behind me, or the 4 school girls occupying the same carriage going the other way. Yeah, I felt like the king of the world, carried on my elevated throne moving through the streets and markets of Calcutta by my happy Rickshaw wallah. Of all the random things you might see even in Calcutta I was pretty surprised to see sheep herded across the main road, across blocked traffic and beneath billboards. I arrived ahead of the others to find the café closed. While I waited I asked to give the ‘running man’ rickshaw a go for myself and run the giant 2 wheeled carriage down a side street. He wasn’t too keen but I took it for a spin anyway, just up the road, and quickly appreciated the strength to achieve equilibrium when starting and stopping. The girls arrived and my happy Rickshaw wallah give his prize customer a big smile. A westerner is a good catch because we pay more. All the same I always try to bargain down to local rates, pay the agreed fare with one hand, and add a tip with the other. Otherwise, by simply throwing a tip straight in it’s just assumed you’re a rich man and rather than being thanked, you’re usually taken for granted, never to get a fair price in that town again.
After a round of Dosa’s and (a great find) Icecream coffees we all walked back on some footpaths more bustling than normal. I didn’t know it straight away but it was a night before Bengali new year. Buses and shops were draped with lavish garlands of orange Marigolds, Puja (blessings) offered for a prosperous new year.
I couldn’t hang around for the party next evening, my plane left at midday. On the approach to Kathmandu I was sitting on the right side of the plane eyeing the highest mountain range in the world from the window.
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Ps. My camera is back in action thanks to some Indian know how.
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