Calcutta will never have the glamorous pulsating vibe of Mumbai, the aesthetically pleasing historical forts and gardens of Delhi, the IT success stories of bustling Bangalore, or even the medical marvels of Chennai. It isn’t eye candy for tourists or a city for travellers in pursuit of some deep soul searching. The humidity is unbearable, the roads are sporadically dirty and there are only about four swanky spots in town for a good night out of partying and drinks. One cannot enjoy Calcutta in a day, a week or maybe even a month. One just has to abandon all hope, agenda and reservations upon entering and surrender to it completely. Only then can the city show you she’s all that and more.

The dusty old book shops of North Calcutta, which house treasures the British Library hasn’t even heard of. When you go in and ask to see a book, the bespectacled old man at the counter needs no computer to check up the author’s name or year of publication. He promptly climbs up a long ladder and handpicks it out for you. The brittle yellow pages, the musty smell, the incredibly cheap prices all help drift you to a time many years ago and frankly not much has changed since then.

The Calcutta coffee house still serves tea in glasses under those high ceiling fans rotating away at top speed. On a hot summer day, you don’t need an energy drink to keep you from passing out, but the sweaty little man who carries green coconuts on his back to sell. He cuts off a little square from the top of it, puts in a pale green straw and you gulp away standing under the shade of a tall banyan tree with overgrown roots that nest hundreds of creepy crawlies.

The midnight mass at St. Paul’s Cathedral on Christmas Eve has thousands queuing up to go in and upon failing to do so, they huddle around and watch it live on a makeshift screen outside. A passer-by would assume a Bollywood star is probably performing seeing the crowds spilling over only to be pleasantly surprised by the sound of hymns resonating from the speakers.

The chicken a-la-kiev at Mocambo, with the butter gushing out when poked with a fork or the sizzling Chello Kebab at Peter Cat with its rows of neatly arranged grilled meats lying next to the buttered rice with a chubby stuffed tomato on the side. The piping hot biryani at Shiraz with its trademark giant potato and boiled egg, slightly crispy on the outside and tender on the inside. The long drives in the summer evenings by the floodlit Eden Gardens, milky white Victoria Memorial, the stately Writer’s Building, General Post Office, Governor’s House, where you stop to buy an ice cream cone from the Kwality Walls carts and make a drippy mess in the car. The madding crowds at Durga Puja visiting pandals and idols ornately designed by over worked, underpaid, unbelievably talented artisans, while listening to the beating drums and gorging on oily snacks at midnight (to be followed by a quick gelucil tablet at home of course). The Christmas lunches at the regal country clubs with turkey and its necessary trimmings. The one preserved Egyptian mummy at the Indian Museum, in the cold Air-Conditioned room that attracts history lovers as well as folks trying to catch a quick break from the heat outside, the local football matches held in the parks with the so-loud-yet-so-not-sexy cheerleaders, the jaggery desserts freshly churned at the onset of winter, the sturdy Mahendra Lal Dutta umbrellas that are passed down generations, Calcutta thrives in each of these.

Sketch by dad, Partha Pratim Ghosh
Sketch by my dad, Mr. Partha Pratim Ghosh
Calcutta seldom makes it to anyone’s list of favourite cities. It’s accused of being boring, slow, lackadaisical, and hobbling along over generations. It’s probably true. But for me, on those rare sunny days in London, when I sit in Hyde Park with my Lipton tea, and stare at the sky thinking how the fluffy white clouds resemble the autumn sky from back home, or the times I sneak in an extra tube of Boroline into my carry on luggage, the Hajmola I pop after a heavy meal and each time I half open my eyes, stick my head out from a self-designed cocoon with an airplane blanket, pull up the window shutter and see Calcutta at dawn while preparing to fight nausea during landing…I get a feeling of oneness, belonging and love so strong that I stop to care what the rest of the world thinks of my city. Calcutta is all mine. My love and my love alone is enough for the both of us 🙂