On Saturday morning, I decide to face the worst of it first; I head down to the Kalighat temple, notorious for attracting pilgrims from all over India and being crowded beyond belief. I gravitate naturally towards the metro (finally! public transport I can make some sense of). I am most amused to find the film Born Free playing on elevated screens and am pleasantly surprised by a designated 'ladies section' in each subway car. It's nice; the women's section is less crowded, so we've all got room to sit. Also, no danger of being trapped beneath a smelly man's armpit as is so often the case on a summertime tube ride in London.
Walking in the direction I believe the temple to be, squalor abounds. It's drizzling, the streets are muddy and scummy, but there's also lots of colour: in saris, in tropical flowers, in very leafy trees, in the promise of the crowds and wares yet to come.
Everywhere are crumbling facades, rusty vehicles, starving dogs, malnourished children and eager pilgrims. To my right, a dead mother and her child rest beneath a sheet of tattered maroon and humming flies. At least I think they are dead - the sheet covers all but a tuft of matted black hair and a few sickly, lifeless limbs.
Calcutta makes me want to cry and yet I don't. I'm too busy putting on my game face and hardening my heart. Self preservation or otherwise, I am not alone in my dulled sense of empathy, my disturbing lack of shock. It's a documented phenomenon. AM Rosenthal wrote in 1957: "An individual-to-individual callousness, despite India's belief in her own spiritualism, was always a part of India. No miracle has taken place. This callousness is still so strong in the country that it is the greatest danger for a foreigner living in India, for it is a frighteningly easy thing to find it creeping into one's soul."
That said, I meet a number of people in Calcutta who are in the city expressly to do good: a doctor from Madrid volunteering for 15 days with Mother Teresa's foundation; a couple from Zurich with their 4 yr old son Damian, come to meet and collect the 2-yr old Bengali girl they've been in the process of adopting for 7 months; an Oracle channel manager who flies up from Bangalore every few months to hang out with the ten orphaned children (ages 4-14; 6 girls, 4 boys) whom he financially supports.
These people are amazing, their stories heart-warming, and I am not like them. At least not this weekend.
The Kalighat temple is thrilling and sickening - too many people, pushing, shoving, shouting, too much incense, pungent flowers, candles burning, too many people, elbowing, angling, raining, slipping, chanting, preaching, blessing, praying, shouting - I am very lucky to have visited on the day of not one but TWO festivals, my self-appointed Brahmin guide informs me. Not THAT lucky, as I do not even get a glimpse of three-eyed, golden-tongued Kali. Too dangerous, not worth it, says the Brahmin priest - better just to take a picture of placid Shiva, give me 2500 rupees and be on your way. 2500 rupees?!That's more than my room costs for the night. No.
By the time I pay off the priest, the guy who holds the umbrella that I do not need (I have my own), the guy who spots me in the crowd, the guy who carries the prasad (offering), the lady who watches my flip flops, the guy who hands me the water to wash my feet and the guy who tells me when I can and cannot take a picture, I have had enough. I express my displeasure with a scowl before anyone else can do anything unsolicited for me and then ask greedily, and in pushy unison for remuneration.
I don't trust the Brahmin priest, sat atop the Hindu caste ladder, to use the money to buy rice for starving children, as he says he will. They push to breaking point, but they don't like to see you get upset. The minute you do, it's all smiles and "tikh hai, tikh hai (it's ok, it's ok), are you happy?"
No, I am not happy, and off I go. Having braved the worst of it, I head north away from the madness. It's still raining but the day is looking up. I wander about a quiet cemetery that looks like something out of Indiana Jones. Mosquitos try to chase me away, but after Kali and her goons, I can take them on. A little later, freaked out by a snake-touting boy, I stop for an air-conditioned, sugary iced latte at Barista - India's Starbucks equivalent. Calcutta is hard work!
But there's loads to see, and I start to hit up the sights: Birla planetarium, colonial cathedral, Victoria memorial. Late lunch at Peter Cat off Park Street, a dimly-lit Calcutta institution that has changed little since the British raj. Much like my hotel and various other places of immense comfort. Stop for some barfi (funny name for fudge) at Gupta Brothers and then make my way towards the river.
Just past Fort Williams, I am joined by an army boy on his day off. He's just gone to get his papers to apply for a passport. He is very eager to show me all of his documentation. He wants to go to America and fulfill his parents' (not his own) dreams. Looking dutifully at his papers, I find we share a birthday; he is 4 years my junior - he is sweet, a little naive and not very good at carrying on a two-way conversation. He believes that all religions are true and valid; he could be Pi Patel (from The Life of Pi), a life-long Hindu, a devout Christian and a practicing Muslim.
In true Indian fashion, we bribe our way into Eden Gardens, which have been shut for 3 yrs according to the gatekeeper - but not my guidebook. We wander about town for a while, stop for some tea and then he heads back to the barracks for 9pm curfew and I go dine on the roof of the Lindsay Hotel with stunning views of twinkling, smoggy Calcutta. Sitting alone, I seem to be a curiosity and have soon made new friends.
Sunday highlights:
-250+ yr old banyan tree with world record canopy at the botanical gardens
-mirror and coloured glass studded Jain temples
-taxi drivers who actually use their meters
-marble palace full of marble statues, Renaissance paintings, Mingh vases, grotesque chandeliers, Madonnas, Jesus busts, a couple Napoleons, Greek & Roman pantheon, and a larger than life bronze Queen Victoria...the muddled and very bizarre collection of an Indian hankering after colonial times.
-Dalhousie Square, Howrah Bridge and Flower Market
-for some reason, photographs are forbidden just about everywhere. But if there's something I've learned in India, even if "it is not possible, Madam" - there's always a way around it.
-Jesus the rickshawallah
By Sunday afternoon, I have traipsed all over town, my feet are caked in dirt and I feel bad for the person who's going to have to 'fly the good times' (Kingfisher Airways' slogan) sitting next to me! In the taxi on the way back to the airport, I look out the side window instead of the front - it's much easier on one's nerves. Nothing worse than looking at the head on traffic, er, head on. At the airport, the driver tries to tell me he has no change for a large note, but when I call his bluff, getting out of the car with my luggage in search of change, the right notes materialise in his hands as if by magic. "Tikh hai, tikh hai," he says with a grin on his face. He has lost nothing by trying, but I have lost a little more faith.
Seems as if I have one fan in Calcutta, though, as my phone has been bombarded with messages of this nature ALL day:
"1+1 = 2 My eyes looking for U. 2+3 = 5 Sense missing for U. 5+2 = 7 Days thinking of U. 7+5 = 12 Month dreaming about U. 99 + 1 = 100 Years I need a sweet friend like you."
"If lovers are like MOON then friends are like STARS and have you noticed that the sky can look beautiful with out MOON but not without *STAR*"
Doesn't it make you want to barfi?!
Anyhow, my young twin does not think I'm so sweet 15 missed calls and 35 unreplied text messages later...
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