We, Malayalis, have an inexplicable love for all things Bengali.
I don't know if it is reciprocated to any extent at all –but boy, do we idolize the Bongs or what! Growing up in communist Kerala that was still hungover from the (excessive) intellectualism of the '70s and '80s, Bengalis, to me, were our khadi-clad, jhola-toting comrades- in- arms; kindred spirits who shared our passion for art, literature, theatre and cinema. We take great pride in our shared love for fish, football and leftist ideologies, we love name-dropping Ray and Tagore and Ghosh in normal day-to-day conversation and Kolkata in the ultimate intellectual capital that tops every Malayali’s list of places to visit.
Needless to say, I went into a complete tizzy at the prospect of a trip to Kolkata. One of the obvious risks of making a trip that you’ve dreamt of for so long, is that the actual thing almost never matches up to your expectations. But Kolkata was all that I’d pictured in my mind, and more!
Granted, Kolkata has got its fair share of bad press (dying city, city without future...), but I would say its all a matter of perspective. At first glance, it is a mouldy, crumbling mass of a city with a distinct air of neglect and disrepair, and as dirty, grimy and polluted as any other big city in India. Old Victorian mansions defaced with with later constructions that have been tastelessly added to battle constraints of space and comfort; erstwhile colonial edifices, now decrepit with missing tiles and broken windows; once-handsome Corinthian columns that support spacious terraces, now unrecognizable with the grandfather banyan tree that has sent gigantic roots and branches all over it – the image that it leaves in your mind is that of old aristocracy that had evidently been part of a glorious past, but has fallen into bad times ever since.
But, then again, the romance of it all! The shameless Anglophile that I am, who thrives on Victorian novels, period dramas and stories of the Raj, Kolkata held irresistible charm, with all its grand English architecture, fountains, parks and pathways ( albeit rundown and dilapidated) teeming with stories of a bygone era. Take, for instance, the Victoria memorial and the maidan –one of the few places in the city which must have changed little over the last hundred years. All it takes is a little imagination (and a studied ignorance of the street vendors and yellow cabs whizzing by!) and for all you know, you could back in colonial Calcutta, with gentlemen in top hats and tailcoats taking a stroll around the lush expanses of the park!
Just around the corner from the Victoria Memorial, is St Paul’s Catheral with its stained glass windows and Gothic spires…
A short drive in one of those yellow monsters and I am at Dalhousie Square, which is another paradise of colonial buildings – The Writers Building that stands resplendent in red…
The giant dome of the General Post Office…
Other colonial structures, now in shambles, stand all around the Lal Dighi...
I spent three glorious weeks in Calcutta, and one blog-post hardly does justice to the wonders of the city....Which means, this blog-yatra through one of the oldest cities is India is far from over- in fact, I’m just warming up!
