Finally in Calcutta. One of those places which come up so often in the literature you read that you start to form shapes in the head. Most of my shapes were colonial since those were the times when Calcutta was the foremost city in India. The stay was going to be too short to sufficiently satiate all my curiosity. I wanted to experience this city as much as I could, take in all I could and all I had was a night and a day.
It's hot and sweaty as soon as the aircraft doors open. Stepping down the plane exit there is a pitch dark night - some labouring lights struggling from the distant Subash Chandra Bose terminal building, few people milling around quietly attending to their businesses. Its not the bustle of IGI Delhi nor the glaring luminance of Changi, all is very sleepy here. The insides of the airport are empty, ours is the only midnight flight. Immigration officers come out when we reach their area. Hardly any questions are asked, they want to go back to their sleep. Luggage arrives promptly and out you are shoved. The car park is fairly empty, and there are only a handful of cabbies. They don't haggle for prices, they want to get out of here as well. The whole thing is like a chemist woken up at night who'd give you anything you want to be able to go back to his sleep.
The streets are empty at 2 AM, and there's nobody sleeping on the sidewalks unlike the other Indian metros. It's humid but not dusty and the huge Ambassador is rattling along fast enough to keep it's innards windy. Salt Lake, where I am to put up, is not too far from the airport or maybe it seems so because there isn't any traffic along the way at this time. I am too ashamed to ask the driver if there is a Salt "Lake" here. Maybe tomorrow.
Harry's Guest House is a house. It's fortified with a guard and high boundary walls. Inside, the air is heavy with the smell of new spotless paint. The staff is quick and efficient, and obviously eager to go back to sleep too. The room is simple, clean and quiet. The aircon and TV work, amazingly, and I'm soon cold and asleep - in the background KP goes on punishing the Windies bowlers on the telly.
Wednesday, May 30
The day in Calcutta
Breakfast got lost the next day and the India-Bangladesh Test couldn't be found on TV. The food had gone to another room, and the Test wasn't shared with DD. Eventually the sandwiches and tea arrives, were hungrily devoured and I was out on a Calcutta cab.
Its sweltering hot outside, and people have wisely stayed indoors this Sunday. The shops have mostly remained shuttered, but the roads - Oh the roads - Congress Exhibition road, Shakespeare Sarani, Chowringhee - rush past as if they were everyday names. On the way I spot an ad for that English "Indian beer" - COBRA. Nobody knew it ever set foot in India ! Modernity has brought fly-overs to this ancient city and while atop one of these, the colonial-age-old La Martiniere's school peeps out for a moment from behind the clutter of multi-storeyed developments.
The ride is to the Eden Gardens, that giganticstadium symbolic of India's massive presence in world cricket. The stadium is flanked by huge soccer maidaans on all sides reminding you which sport is really popular in this part of the country, and in the distance shines the Victorian edifice, Her memorial itself. The taxi-driver informs me how the Memorial shines resplendent from the stadium lights on ODI nights.
The walls of the stadium are towering and fortified. Unlike the British grounds, there is no way you can get a preview of the action from outside the perimeter. So I have to go in. The entrance to the Dr. B.C. Roy clubhouse is nondescript and shielded by tinted glass. There is a huge frame of Sourav Ganguly being felicitated by K.R. Narayanan in a glamour you'd have trouble picking out the erstwhile President of the nation. A bunch of players in cricketing whites rush out, one of them is bleeding from a gash on his cheekbone, the others are fussing about him. I linger around the entrance looking for a way in, when a guard stops me. On being asked about the possibility of entering the watching arena he is ready with a rude denial. I linger some more, but to no avail. He is adamant, and getting ruder by the minute. I walk out, take a stroll around the stadium walls looking for another way in - again, to no luck. Hot and adamant, I go back and this time go for the jugular - asking to see the club authorities. Before I can finish my sentence, another guard steps in and volunteers to show me around. Unbelievable!
We go up the stairs of the main stand. AIR offices pass by, all locked, eking hordes of wires from rotting door frames. Further up a flight and suddenly there we are, out in the pavilion end stand, right above the sight screen and below the media boxes, in the VIP stand looking at the grand arena. The field is a sheet of grassy green, the pitch looks flat and bare, there is a game on, the seats all around are all blue, the sun is out and the stadium is empty.
On request the guard lets me be to sit in there for a half hour. He quells my curiostiy - East Bengal is playing Shyambajaar in Calcutta Assoc. of Bengal club league semifinal, the 2-day game is fifty overs old. I see the score standing at 140 for 4. I give him whatever currency notes I can prise and he disappears. Two shamiyanas on either side of the pavilion-end sight screen serve as dressing rooms for the teams. The play seems is dull, players undoubtedly getting sapped in the heat. The huge electronic score-board is switched off, and of the replay-display only the iron frame remains. When an EB batsman hits a lovely straight drive for four there are some cheers from the home tent- echoing from the empty stands and then dying out quick. Then all is dull again.
I stay there for another half hour - noticing how the 'keeper has put his pads inside the flannels, walking around the stands, going up to the entrance of the media boxes, peering in to the TV studios from behind locked glass doors. Its not too impressive - these boxes - but it'd be fun, sitting in them with the gurus of the game - someday, maybe !
On a sour note, on the way out I passed a group of four British tourists who were being duly tour-guided. Its sad that an Indian man has to argue/cajole/bribe his way in, while Caucasians are escorted in and served cool drinks.
Its sweltering hot outside, and people have wisely stayed indoors this Sunday. The shops have mostly remained shuttered, but the roads - Oh the roads - Congress Exhibition road, Shakespeare Sarani, Chowringhee - rush past as if they were everyday names. On the way I spot an ad for that English "Indian beer" - COBRA. Nobody knew it ever set foot in India ! Modernity has brought fly-overs to this ancient city and while atop one of these, the colonial-age-old La Martiniere's school peeps out for a moment from behind the clutter of multi-storeyed developments.
The ride is to the Eden Gardens, that giganticstadium symbolic of India's massive presence in world cricket. The stadium is flanked by huge soccer maidaans on all sides reminding you which sport is really popular in this part of the country, and in the distance shines the Victorian edifice, Her memorial itself. The taxi-driver informs me how the Memorial shines resplendent from the stadium lights on ODI nights.
The walls of the stadium are towering and fortified. Unlike the British grounds, there is no way you can get a preview of the action from outside the perimeter. So I have to go in. The entrance to the Dr. B.C. Roy clubhouse is nondescript and shielded by tinted glass. There is a huge frame of Sourav Ganguly being felicitated by K.R. Narayanan in a glamour you'd have trouble picking out the erstwhile President of the nation. A bunch of players in cricketing whites rush out, one of them is bleeding from a gash on his cheekbone, the others are fussing about him. I linger around the entrance looking for a way in, when a guard stops me. On being asked about the possibility of entering the watching arena he is ready with a rude denial. I linger some more, but to no avail. He is adamant, and getting ruder by the minute. I walk out, take a stroll around the stadium walls looking for another way in - again, to no luck. Hot and adamant, I go back and this time go for the jugular - asking to see the club authorities. Before I can finish my sentence, another guard steps in and volunteers to show me around. Unbelievable!
We go up the stairs of the main stand. AIR offices pass by, all locked, eking hordes of wires from rotting door frames. Further up a flight and suddenly there we are, out in the pavilion end stand, right above the sight screen and below the media boxes, in the VIP stand looking at the grand arena. The field is a sheet of grassy green, the pitch looks flat and bare, there is a game on, the seats all around are all blue, the sun is out and the stadium is empty.
On request the guard lets me be to sit in there for a half hour. He quells my curiostiy - East Bengal is playing Shyambajaar in Calcutta Assoc. of Bengal club league semifinal, the 2-day game is fifty overs old. I see the score standing at 140 for 4. I give him whatever currency notes I can prise and he disappears. Two shamiyanas on either side of the pavilion-end sight screen serve as dressing rooms for the teams. The play seems is dull, players undoubtedly getting sapped in the heat. The huge electronic score-board is switched off, and of the replay-display only the iron frame remains. When an EB batsman hits a lovely straight drive for four there are some cheers from the home tent- echoing from the empty stands and then dying out quick. Then all is dull again.
I stay there for another half hour - noticing how the 'keeper has put his pads inside the flannels, walking around the stands, going up to the entrance of the media boxes, peering in to the TV studios from behind locked glass doors. Its not too impressive - these boxes - but it'd be fun, sitting in them with the gurus of the game - someday, maybe !
On a sour note, on the way out I passed a group of four British tourists who were being duly tour-guided. Its sad that an Indian man has to argue/cajole/bribe his way in, while Caucasians are escorted in and served cool drinks.
Peter Cat (and fleetingly, Oxford) - Kolkata
Peter Cat - "one of Calcutta's oldest great restaurants", "not just a famous watering hole, it serves fabulous kababs as well.. ", "you must absolutely have the Chello's kebab there"
When you come across something like this, it must be had. So a taxi brought me to Calcutta's downtown Park Street. Streets were still empty in late afternoon, the heat was keeping the people out. Oxford, the bookstore appealed, but kebabs always appeal more, so I moved on. Reaching the cross-road I was told to reach, I must confess, I couldn't find Peter Cat amidst the loud surrounds of MacDonald's and KFC. Phone-a-friend was quickly utilised, and there it was - snuggled into a cubbyhole across the street from KFC, a low tiny off-white porch embossed with the simple italicised black font stating 'Peter Cat'.
The rights to entry are reserved, and you are stopped at the entrance until someone probably says 'Okay, he looks feline!' from inside. You enter and are struck by the cool and the darkness inside. For the first few moments you can't see your way in. Then you pick up cues from the lights that are suspended very low over the tables - the only lights. It reminds you of an English den - cozy, dark and hence busy.
The seating is in alcoves - the suspended lighting creates a very personal space around the table. They have realised this and hence ask you to switch off your cellphones. Waiters go around in hushed movements - they are doing the Mughal court attendants today- complete with flowing sherwanis and tussled turbans. Most patrons are families, I am the only loner. I am almost as weird to them as they are to me right now- sole male scribbling away in a notebook, earphones plugged where they belong, staring into the dark beyond my alcoved luminance between bursts of written activity. Weirdo !
Chello kebabs had to be ordered and the heat was countered with an exotic pineapple based cocktail. While the staff did whatever it is they do to get my order, I chanced upon Him himself, Peter Cat. There he was, in loud black brush-strokes on the back cover of the menu. There was something weird and sur-real about him. He looked a very angry old cat. Food thankfully came to the rescue.
It's a unique combination of mutton and chicken kebabs, served with rice, baked tomato and a sunny-side-up. It's warm, succulent and its meats after all. Awesome ! The cocktail is as exotic as it had promised in the menu and the lunch is made.
When all has been devoured, the thought of a cool dessert comes into the mind. A Tooty-Fruity is promptly placed on order. You'd think ice-cream would arrive faster than food - mais non - this is Peter Cat at work and he's probably pissed off at my choice. It's much like the Soup Nazi from Seinfeld. Eventually the stuff arrives, and it's a combination of ice cream and actual fresh fruits, to my surprise. Its delicious nonetheless.
I am done here, paid and all, and back out in the heat. It's definitely less searing now, more people have come out, and Ganguly's restaurant calls you out for an innings. But I resist, and make for the sanctuary between books.
Oxford - very colonial in name - is a posh bookstore, very Borders like in being. Books on two floors, a chai cafe on the top, wooden book shelves and floorboards make it immensely pleasurable. The sports section is sought, and without much ado the search is answered - right in the front, under a spotlight is featured Ramchandra Guha's A Corner of a Foreign Field.
It is picked up for browsing, and the body wanders up the creaking stair-case to the chai place - an Ice peach tea is decided upon. That arrives, and I am immersed in the book - which is informative and captivating. It's queasy to be reading about cricket in the colonial times, sat in Park Street on a hot afternoon in the most colonial of all Indian cities. You're almost afraid of offending the ghosts from the Raj - foreign and natives alike.
Inspired, the drink is gulped, the book bought, and I am headed out for a crack at the Victoria Memorial.
When you come across something like this, it must be had. So a taxi brought me to Calcutta's downtown Park Street. Streets were still empty in late afternoon, the heat was keeping the people out. Oxford, the bookstore appealed, but kebabs always appeal more, so I moved on. Reaching the cross-road I was told to reach, I must confess, I couldn't find Peter Cat amidst the loud surrounds of MacDonald's and KFC. Phone-a-friend was quickly utilised, and there it was - snuggled into a cubbyhole across the street from KFC, a low tiny off-white porch embossed with the simple italicised black font stating 'Peter Cat'.
The rights to entry are reserved, and you are stopped at the entrance until someone probably says 'Okay, he looks feline!' from inside. You enter and are struck by the cool and the darkness inside. For the first few moments you can't see your way in. Then you pick up cues from the lights that are suspended very low over the tables - the only lights. It reminds you of an English den - cozy, dark and hence busy.
The seating is in alcoves - the suspended lighting creates a very personal space around the table. They have realised this and hence ask you to switch off your cellphones. Waiters go around in hushed movements - they are doing the Mughal court attendants today- complete with flowing sherwanis and tussled turbans. Most patrons are families, I am the only loner. I am almost as weird to them as they are to me right now- sole male scribbling away in a notebook, earphones plugged where they belong, staring into the dark beyond my alcoved luminance between bursts of written activity. Weirdo !
Chello kebabs had to be ordered and the heat was countered with an exotic pineapple based cocktail. While the staff did whatever it is they do to get my order, I chanced upon Him himself, Peter Cat. There he was, in loud black brush-strokes on the back cover of the menu. There was something weird and sur-real about him. He looked a very angry old cat. Food thankfully came to the rescue.
It's a unique combination of mutton and chicken kebabs, served with rice, baked tomato and a sunny-side-up. It's warm, succulent and its meats after all. Awesome ! The cocktail is as exotic as it had promised in the menu and the lunch is made.
When all has been devoured, the thought of a cool dessert comes into the mind. A Tooty-Fruity is promptly placed on order. You'd think ice-cream would arrive faster than food - mais non - this is Peter Cat at work and he's probably pissed off at my choice. It's much like the Soup Nazi from Seinfeld. Eventually the stuff arrives, and it's a combination of ice cream and actual fresh fruits, to my surprise. Its delicious nonetheless.
I am done here, paid and all, and back out in the heat. It's definitely less searing now, more people have come out, and Ganguly's restaurant calls you out for an innings. But I resist, and make for the sanctuary between books.
Oxford - very colonial in name - is a posh bookstore, very Borders like in being. Books on two floors, a chai cafe on the top, wooden book shelves and floorboards make it immensely pleasurable. The sports section is sought, and without much ado the search is answered - right in the front, under a spotlight is featured Ramchandra Guha's A Corner of a Foreign Field.
It is picked up for browsing, and the body wanders up the creaking stair-case to the chai place - an Ice peach tea is decided upon. That arrives, and I am immersed in the book - which is informative and captivating. It's queasy to be reading about cricket in the colonial times, sat in Park Street on a hot afternoon in the most colonial of all Indian cities. You're almost afraid of offending the ghosts from the Raj - foreign and natives alike.
Inspired, the drink is gulped, the book bought, and I am headed out for a crack at the Victoria Memorial.
Humanity at Boarding gate D46
- Newly weds returning from honeymoon - tired, weary-eyed but excited at the same time. Hesitant to go back to the daily rut, yet relieved at the thought of awaiting familiarity.
Little wonder Einstein never married happily.
- Business traveller, travelling alone - no expression, probably rehearsing slides in his mind - there's a job to be done.
- Friends from the same native place working abroad - happy to be going back home, checking their elation being mindful that they've got to come back.
- Family back from vacation - all pleasant, looking forward to the locked gates of the dusty home. Definitely less irritable than when they'd started on the trip.
- Girlfriends on shopping weekend - chirpy, conniving, too eager - with not a care to anything else.
- Girl going away from boy - teary-eyed, furiously keying away SMSes to lover boy.
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