An Afternoon in Kolkata

I meander back from work one day, pausing at a bookseller’s one room shop. It smells like an old library and I’m attracted to the faded volumes lining the dark wood shelves. A boy carrying an oversized teapot steps in behind me. He is delivering the afternoon “fix” to the neighborhood shopkeepers. The graying bookseller switches on the fan and asks me if I’d like chai. I say yes and the boy hands me a tiny clay cup of steaming liquid. I slowly browse through the books, admiring worn editions of Indian poetry and classic British novels.

Back on the street with a new book in hand, the acrid, polluted air hits me as the traffic rumbles by. Horns blare. Pop music emanates from a street stand. Rickshaws rip past. Bus attendants lean from doorframes and shout out destinations. The cacophony surrounds me.

I look ahead and a group of men are staring at me. It’s disconcerting. I look down. But then I look up because looking down makes me feel dominated. I look past them, making sure not to catch their eyes. A female traveler once told me that in India acknowledging a man’s lascivious gaze might be interpreted as a come on. And with the prevailing belief among uneducated men that western women are unusually promiscuous, I try not to contribute to the fallacy. “Hello, gorgeous” one says laughingly as I walk past.

I came here because I’m annoyed so many women are violated and enslaved. I didn’t realize that the complex societal fabric that fosters female sexual exploitation would, to a certain extent, turn on me. It’s not like anything horribly traumatic has happened, but it's the sensation of having a group of men look you up and down, saying comments to each other, leaving you feeling undressed and dirty. It’s sitting on a bus and having the man three seats ahead of you turn around to leer at you. It’s walking along the sidewalk and having a man approach you from behind to say something lewd. It’s wanting to yell at them for being so barbaric, but knowing it would probably only humor them. And unfortunately my experience isn’t uncommon; I have talked to a number of other western females who have been hassled far worse.

I’m lost in my anger, trying to remind myself that most men here are respectful, when a child clad only in underwear pulls on my shirt. Telling myself that some adult probably forces him to beg, I ignore him as he clings to me for a few steps. But then I realize he is just reaching for my water bottle. So I hand it over and he gulps it down.

I keep walking, attempting to absorb this contradiction that is Kolkata. Not only is it beyond understanding, it’s the kind of place that throws you off balance and makes you question your assumptions about life. But that is not exactly a bad thing. In fact, if the heat were not so mind numbing, I’d say it’s a fresh breeze freeing my thoughts of the monotony I let myself become trapped in when at home.

I turn and walk up the steps of Barista. Inside I might as well be in Starbucks. It’s the same corporate furniture, omnipresent logo, sterile environment, completely devoid of character and yet disarmingly comforting. Listening to the familiar harmony of espresso being made and milk being steamed, I sit in an armchair and peer out of the large glass window. It occurs to me that the majority of people in view will never sit where I am sitting or taste the luxury of a blended iced coffee like the one I’m sipping on.

India is too difficult for generalizations, and for every observation I make, I know it is true for other cultures, but somehow life here seems intensified, the contrasts more dramatic. Thousands of families live on sidewalks. Some sleep in makeshift tents, others on mats exposed to the night air. Their children play with the neighborhood street kids and bathe using public water taps. They cook on open fires, wash dishes on curb edges, and might collect garbage to earn a few rupees. When the rains come and it floods, they grab their meager possessions and wait until the water recedes. Then they “rebuild.” Behind the walls that line the sidewalks, people live in tall, guarded apartment buildings, have drivers and servants, buy designer clothing and attend art openings.

I’m struck by the proximity of it all. At home we have disparity, but it’s displayed differently. So who is handling it best? Are they…for accepting the inequality and forcing themselves to witness and live amid the diverse paths life takes us? Or are we… for gentrifying and sequestering our poor off in projects?

Hmm…well, I come into this with my own perspective, and as a result will leave with my own opinions. Probably wrong, but at least obtained through the experience.

-------------------

As for photos, here are some random ones around town, mostly of the colonial architecture.








Victoria Memorial


The following are photos my husband took when he came to visit: