04 Anotonia Hoogewerf.pmd - scienceandculture

ARTICLE
CALCUTTA – A CITY WITH A SOUL
ANOTONIA HOOGEWERF*
C
alcutta draws me back year after year ever since I
first discovered it. Often when I am travelling here
I wonder why I am coming but as soon as I set
foot in the city, I know, I remember. As I arrive, the usual
blast of heat hits me in the face, the blare of horns, the
pandemonium of yellow taxi-cabs vying for business, the
circling crows, all assault the senses but this is what I love,
and yes even the crazy drive at breakneck speed to the
hotel, dodging buses and rickshaws, shrines with chanting
pilgrims, cars (even now mostly the ubiquitous Ambassador,
the old Morris Oxford) and cows fills me with a strange
happiness and sense of belonging; for me it is a homecoming.
There is the obvious beauty of the wide expanse of
the Maidan and the Hooghly, the Victoria Memorial, the
Burra Bazaar, the Eden Gardens, Dalhousie Square and
the crumbling old mansions, the well-kept British Clubs,
all witness to a glorious, or perhaps inglorious, Colonial
past. The Marble Palace, Kumar Tolli, Tagore’s wonderful
house at Jorasanko, these are real Bengali icons. There is
the intellectual hub of College Street and the Indian Coffee
House where the revolution against the British was largely
hatched and is even now considered a place for
controversial conversation, in the heartland of the hundreds
of bookshops and stalls selling books on every subject one
can think of. There are the Botanical Gardens which houses
samples of thousands of plants found on the sub-continent
alongside botanical drawings of every one, a collection only
rivalled in the world by that of Kew Gardens in London. I
could go on ...
Alongside all this and integrally a part of the city,
*
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The author is a writer based in Paris, France. She frequently
visits Kolkata due to sheer love of the city. She can be reached
at e-mail : [email protected]
there is the constant reminder of life in the raw, the abject
rotting poverty, street beggars, broken pavements, the
misery and deprivation of the slums, the City of Joy, the
abuse, the unforgettable chaos of Howrah Junction, the
pollution, the general decay and corruption. But none of
these is the essence of Calcutta. Calcutta is its people. And
the people are exceptional.
The only way to understand Calcutta is to recognize
that the city is essentially Bengali. It is not a cosmopolitan
city in the way that Delhi and Bombay and Bangalore are,
and as any Bengali will be proud to tell you, Calcutta’s
strengths and weaknesses mirror those of the Bengali
character. This character has its drawbacks – sudden
temperamental passions, an innate cheerful laziness, an utter
contempt for mere commerce or work ethics, and a fiery
response to the smallest provocation. And it has the
strengths that are the other side of the same coin. Calcutta
embodies the Bengali love of culture, the triumph of
intellectualism over greed, the disdain of hypocrisy and
insincerity and above all the supremacy of warm transparent
generous emotions. Throughout India the Bengalis are
renowned for being the artists, the painters, poets, actors,
the film-makers; they are the writers, musicians and
philosophers, a beautiful and gifted people.
Calcutta is not for everyone. If you want a
sophisticated clean green city, go to Delhi. If you want a
city that is wealthy and impersonal, go to Bombay. Go to
Bangalore if you want high-tech and draught beer. And all
of these have plenty of dirt if you want to go digging. But
if you want a city with a soul, come to Calcutta.
In Calcutta one learns about true warmth and simple
human decency, love and friendship, emotions and caring,
truth and honesty. This is a city where people judge each
other on the things that really matter, where they recognize
SCIENCE AND CULTURE, MAY-JUNE, 2014
that being rich does not make you a better person – in
fact, probably the opposite. I know the mood is changing
as India leans towards America and the West. But a true
Calcuttan will still spend his last rupees on buying a
newspaper, so that he is well informed about world affairs
and ready for a few hours of “adda” which roughly
translates as discussing, arguing, gossiping and
philosophising, a favourite Bengali pastime, rather than
comfort or food. Life here is not just about money, it is
about culture, ideas, art, and passion. And culture and
religion are inextricably bound together.
Pujas Galore
Quite by chance I arrived for the first time in Calcutta
in the middle of the five day celebrations surrounding the
Hindu festival of Durga Puja. No-one can say the Indians
do not know how to enjoy themselves, and this is especially
true of the Bengalis. Of all the days of the year, 117 are
feast days in Bengal, and that’s not counting Sundays. But
this is the special one and the most lavish of all.
I had been warned by the impossibly crowded
overnight train from Lucknow, straining at the seams as
thousands of pilgrims poured into the capital for the feast.
Early morning, Howrah Station was seething with people
as it always is only more so, and it was a relief to arrive
at the Fairlawn, the quiet old-fashioned hotel on Sudder
Street, one of the relics of the British Raj run by an English
Major and his Armenian wife, where tea is taken under
the Banyan trees at four o’clock and the dining room is
run in an informal boarding house style.
Pandals, or shrines to house the goddess, are erected
all over the city and the Calcuttans go “pandal-hopping”
by day or even better by night, visiting one after another
of the shrines. More than once I got in at six in the
morning, in time for an early chai with the rickshaw
wallahs on the street outside the Hotel before collapsing
into bed.
The feast is not cheap to mount. Vast amounts of
rupees are spent building the pandals and images, setting
up the illuminations all over the city and running them –
the electricity bill for the lights alone over five days is
said to be exorbitant – and providing food and new clothes
for everyone. It is a grand opportunity for good Hindus to
give to the poor which is an essential part of their religion.
The origin of the feast is an ancient story. An evil
monster was marauding the earth so the gods got together
and created Durga as an incarnation of Parvati, the goddess
of peace, to combat the demon. They gave her a lion to
ride upon and ten arms, each god providing a weapon for
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one of her ten arms, an axe, a sword, a spear, a lathi.
Durga’s vengeance is absolute and her wrath terrible to
behold so she must be appeased by her followers for these
five days every year, but the feast is primarily a celebration
of victory, of Durga’s ultimate triumph over evil.
Compare this with today’s world events and how we
are dealing with them. No one super power is strong
enough to combat the evil of terrorism abroad in the world,
so America, Pakistan, Britain, India, Afghanistan and many
other unlikely bed-fellows, the presumed forces of good,
are forced to create an alliance, and only by working
together will they conquer the demon. ‘United we stand
…’ is more true than ever, the necessity of social
interdependence.
Throughout the festival, I had a sense of history reenacting itself since time immemorial. These ceremonies
have been celebrated virtually without a break for over
five thousand years. The men performing them are the same
men, almost unchanged by time, wearing the same clothing,
dhotis, a simple length of cloth to cover themselves, strong
wiry men, small and capable, intelligent but also primitive,
one has the curious feeling of witnessing something
timeless. Their beliefs are so strong, their spiritual life so
surely rooted in history and yet a constant part of their
daily lives.
Bengal voted for the communist party (CPM) for 33
years, from 1977 until just recently and to the outsider it
seems extraordinary that they could be so hung up on a
religious festival. One has to take on board the unique
qualities of the Bengalis to understand this phenomenon.
It is about religion, but has little to do with meaningless
rituals, sinister political activity, shouting “Jai Shri Ram!”
or pulling down a mosque. The essence of puja is that all
the passions of the Bengali people converge, emotion,
culture, love of food, (they have a famously sweet tooth
and find the festive Barfi in Puja time irresistible) love of
life, the warmth of being together, joy in celebration, pride
in artistic creation, and of course, the cult of the goddess.
It is about joining in and celebrating, whatever religion
they follow. For Muslim, Christian and Jewish feasts are
feted just the same, Christmas being widely celebrated as
well as Eid, all is tolerated, all accepted, which is a core
tenet of Hindu belief.
India is in the process of massive change, catching
up with the West in a rush, and for the moment they are
managing to reconcile these multiple religions and their
various manifestations with the modern world of
technology. One can only hope that Durga and her force
for good will continue to be honoured and commemorated
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by the Hindu people for many more centuries to come. It
would be a travesty to throw away centuries of a tradition
which brings an element of fun, laughter and joy into a
harsh unrelenting world.
In the weeks that followed the five days of Durga
Puja, I witnessed Kali Puja (one day), Chha’at Puja
another one day feast, the feast of brothers, Bhaiya’duj, or
Bhai Phonta to Bengalis, where every girl and woman visits
her brothers in turn to put tilak of sandalwood paste on
their foreheads praying that they may have a long life, and
Diwali the Festival of Lights held on the darkest blackest
night of the year. It is these great traditions that hold
families and peoples together, and family is a strong part
of the fabric of society here. Their lives may be tough and
on the edge by our standards but they certainly know how
to celebrate and possess a joie de vivre combined with a
spirituality that we in the West have all but lost.
Cricket and Cinema
The Bengalis love cricket, a game I have always
enjoyed. To me it means a pleasurable Sunday afternoon
on the village green, watching my brothers, husband, sons
and friends all dressed in crisp whites, play a reasonably
good amateur match under the gentle sky and warmth of
an English summer’s day. There is tea of course, with
home-made cakes and sandwiches, and we sit or lie around
listening to the soft thwack of leather on willow, applauding
elegantly an extra good shot, taking turns chalking up the
score on the board.
In India it is a whole different ball-game. To be sure
there are countless amateur games being played out on the
Maidan every week-end and in every village in the country,
boys are playing in the street with a piece of wood for a
bat and a stone for a ball. But the International games and
their players represent a whole cult, almost a religion. The
major players are akin to gods, on a level with movie stars.
In Calcutta when a match is on, the whole city takes part.
Scores are chalked up on street corners to keep everyone
informed, though now mobile phones have somewhat
overtaken this practice. Televisions screening the game are
blessed by pandits with strings of marigolds and incense.
Every man woman or child who is able will be at the Eden
Gardens. From the sun-drenched ten-rupee stands to the
expensive first class shaded comfortable seats, the expert
knowledge displayed by pretty much the entire populace
is astonishing.
I remember one day-night match at the Eden Gardens,
India versus Pakistan. This was the big one. There were
120,000 people in attendance and as the match started, the
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gangways filled to the brim with every worker, policeman,
security guard and pani-wallah, and as the first ball was
bowled an incredible roar rose up from the crowd. I
imagined this was because it was the opening ball but no
– it continued throughout the match, an extraordinary neverto-be-forgotten day. The Bengalis particularly take the game
to heart and it is an integral part of their life, as much as
Durga Puja or the cinema.
For Cinema is also a perennial love of the people.
Bollywood, and here in Bengal Tollywood, the more
intellectual side of Indian film-making, dominate the lives
of Indians and I can understand why. The original
Hollywood was born in the 20’s and 30’s in America during
the Great Depression. Films, long extravagant films, were
an escape from the drear reality of people’s everyday lives.
Here in India, ten rupees will buy three hours of escapist
entertainment, where one can live in another world,
romantic, adventurous, exciting, glamorous. When a new
film comes out, the queues on a week-day morning outside
the picture-houses are huge and the Box-office numbers
astronomical.
Cricket and film stars are worshipped everywhere like
gods and are readily accessible. They seem to recognise
that their fame is only dependent on their popularity with
the people. I have shaken many famous hands from Sachin
Tendulkhar to Sourav Ganguly, son of the city, to Shashi
Kapoor and many Indian film directors and actors; I have
met Hritik Roshan in Roxy, and even danced with Abishek
Bacchaan! to name-drop but a few.
Once I happened to be flying first class from Calcutta
to Bombay and found myself sitting next to a well-known
film star, though I didn’t know it. Maybe I should have
guessed from the white shirt open almost to his navel and
gold chain and medallion, but it became ever more obvious
as the flight progressed and people from Economy Class
kept coming forward for an autograph, to shake his hand
or just say a few words of admiration. Apparently he was
a Kapoor, one of the great acting families of India and
always plays the bad guy. He stood up for every single
person that came to see him, he spoke to them with a smile
and was more than happy to chat to me. I was really
impressed at the time he took over every fan. Imagine Tom
Cruise or Russell Crowe! One would get very short shrift
and anyway they would be totally protected from the
“masses”.
And there is also music, concerts from classical Indian
to jazz to rock, theatre, poetry readings, debates, opera
even, whenever I come I am amazed by how much is going
on. It is one of the many things I love about the city.
SCIENCE AND CULTURE, MAY-JUNE, 2014
Do not imagine, gentle reader, that I do not see the
other side of Calcutta. Perhaps you think I over-romanticise
life here, presenting too idealistic a portrait. It is indeed
all too easy to wallow in the filth and the poverty. Life is
raw here. But in a way it is this very rawness that gives
Calcutta its vitality.
This is a city where you have to look up and let its
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spirit suffuse your being, invade your bloodstream and steal
your soul. I am always overcome by its magic and
generosity, it is a feeling that will never leave me. Feel the
force of the warmth that uplifts the misery and makes it
possible, even a joy, to survive. Once you do that, you
will love Calcutta forever and wherever you go, a bit of
Calcutta will go with you. I know, because it happened to
me.
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